The Island of Doctor Mingle

[OOC] This thread is the sequel to "A sharp eared werewolf in Tarant". It is not, however, about werewolves. The plot to this is briefly hinted at in the werewolf thread, however. This story is about Lilya's racial identity. It is also about Joseph's struggle for freedom, Dr. Mingle's plans to take over Arcanum, and Chanti's being a demon and loving a mortal woman (and not being able to be true to both at once). See the discussion thread for more details. [OOC]

 

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto. Mata ah-oo Hima de

Dr. Munch burst into Dr. Mingle's office.
"Eureka!"
Dr. Mingle's face lit up "You found the were-elf?"
Dr. Munch frowned, looked away, then looked back. "No."
Dr. Mingle let out a frustrated breath. "What is it, then?"
His smile returning, Dr. Munch replied: "I have found a working growth serum! The sheep-brained batch is ready to fight and die for the cause!"
"Hmm.... Good. They will make a fine infantry. Train them not to make any verbal sounds, however! I'll not be laughed at!"
"Yes sir!"
"In the meantime, while they're being trained to not speak, even under torture, and to fight, keep working on fixing the breeding process."
"We think we've found a solution to that too, sir."
Dr. Mingle laughed, slapping his knee. "What is it?"
"We've found a female for Joshua living in Tarant. It's only a matter of time before we capture her and bring her to the island."
"Hmm.... Perhaps there is a better way?"
"What's that, sir?"
"We'll lead her here. If that doesn't work, we'll impregnate her unknowingly and kidnap the offspring."
"But, sir! What of the time tables?"
"Joshua is not quite ready yet. Begin training him to woo women at once."
"Yes, sir! Shall I use one of the elvish nurses?"
"Yes, that will do nicely"
Dr. Munch turned around.
"Wait."
"Was there something else?"
"What is the girl's name?"
"Lilya. Lilya Roshni Aryenish-Marduk."
Dr. Mingle smiled. "You may go now."
When Dr. Munch had left Dr. Mingle's office, he began writing a letter. He wrote many drafts. When he had perfected it, he signed the bottom.
"Joshua"

 

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto, Himitsu wo Shiri tai

The man in the guard's uniform couldn't help but be stunned by Lilya's body. And, with her hands covering her face as they were, the man was not shy about checking her out. At least, not until a man sitting on the sofa behind him cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Inspector. You can stop inspecting now."
The inspector spun around, his hands fumbling for nonexistent pockets. He could not meet the other man's eyes. The man on the sofa wore thin metal-framed glasses on his thin, hawkish nose. Had he been a thin man, his true height would be apparent even as he sat there on the couch. But Mr. Yeats was anything but thin. Neither, however, was he fat. He seemed on the verge of another chin, on the verge of losing his ankles, on the verge of having baby hands. He was almost fat. Yet he did not give the impression of being an inactive man. On the contrary, his thick neck and ruddy complexion suggested a man who had desperately tried and failed to escape the form to which his genetic code had doomed him. His eyes appeared several sizes larger than reality behind his glasses, making his head seem small. His hair was combed over a rather noticeable bald spot. All in all, Mr. Yeats resembled a hen more than a human. He even had the aura of a chicken. Not that he seemed a coward! Rather that he seemed completely devoid of masculinity. He seemed fierce, despite this, but not menacing. Perhaps a better description than hen would be an ostarich. Mr. Yeats continued: "You may leave now, Inspector. I told you I would handle the interrogation personally!"
"But!" The inspector looked around, digging for some excuse, still fumbling for nonexistent pockets. He clasped one hand in the other and looked directly at Mr. Yeats' nose. "This is police business! Professional or no, you do not have exclusive rights to see err examine err interrogate the suspect err witness err subject."
Mr. Yeats eyed the inspector with disdain. "I will suggest to the chief of police that he revokes your badge. And, if possible, your right to free speech."
The inspector looked ready to say something, but he hadn't worked out what it was he would say. Also, he knew Mr. Yeats would carry out his threat. The less he said would probably be better, especially with other officers in the room to support Yeats' story, should they decide to betray their own (which they would most likely do were the inspector to continue to speak). Defeated, he nodded to Lilya, then the inspectors, then Mr. Yeats. "Good day, then." He stepped out into the narrow street, closing the door behind him. Yeats turned his attention to Lilya.
"Good afternoon, madam--"
"--After... noon?" Lilya rubbed her temples, then crossed her arms uncomfortably.
"We have been waiting for you to rouse yourself for quite some time.... I did not wish to cause you any more discomfort than was necessary."
Yeats smiled, his tea-stained teeth completely exposed. The man had no canines to speak of whatsoever. Lilya looked back at the good doctor, then at Yeats.
Yeats continued, "We'll get to him in a moment. Would you have a seat?" His question sounded more like an order than a suggestion. Lilya sat on a stool, crossing her legs and noticing, unpleasantly, she hadn't put on any undergarnments. She tried to hide the fact that she found looking at Yeats unpleasant by biting a nail. Yeats pointed to a table before him.
"I hope you don't mind. We brewed some tea while we were waiting. Would you care for some?" He smiled again, his thin lips forming a smoothe-cornered rectangle around his teeth. He pushed his glasses up his nose. They slid immediately down again. Lilya poured herself some tea. It was black tea, but she was thankful to have something to look into other than the floor or Yeats' face. She sipped the bitter substance, without sugar, its vapours stinging her nose and eyes. Yeats pulled out a file.
"I'll get right to the point. We understand that you have agreed to sign a statement about a certain number of werewolf murders allegedly taking place on various dates. We have here the statement as recorded by Dr. Powlowski last night... presumably at the hospital. *ehem* If you would be so kind as to sign here...." Yeats pointed to a line below Powlowski's signature. Lilya read the statement, then signed. When she did this, Yeats smiled again, much to the discomfort of Lilya.
"Good, good. Now, do you have anything to add? Any unrecorded mishaps or inconsistencies?"
Lilya thought for a moment, then shook her head, saying, "I don't recall anything relevant at this time." She coughed. The tea irritated her throat greatly. What could be in it?
Yeats smiled again, pushing up his glasses habitually. He continued, "Not even your race?"
Lilya dropped her cup. She looked up at Yeats uncomfortably. "Race?"
Yeats licked his lips and held his hands. His tongue was akin to a lizard's, though not unhumanly so. His smile became strained as he continued: "Your ethnicity. Your ancestry. Your subspecies."
Lilya frowned at the man. She regretted this at first, then realised she could use this expression to get out of her confrontation. She spoke in bitter tones: "Begging your pardon, Mister--"
"Yeats"
"I am of pure elven ancestry. And, quite frankly, I find your insinuation of deception on my part most insulting."
The men on the sofa beside Yeats shifted uncomfortably. The ruse had gotten to them. Yeats, however, was not yet shaken: "I do no such thing. Would you, perchance, permit me to remove all doubt with a simple test?"
Lilya thought. This could be a trick. However, the longer she hesitated, the more suspect her story would seem. Arching an eyebrow at him, Lilya replied, "Very well, so long as it does not offend my elvish sensibilities." Lilya began to feel very out of place. The tea's taste was still in her mouth. "How can you humans consume such a vile substance?" Yeats withdrew a strange, glowing device. Suddenly, Lilya excused herself: "Pardon me, but the tea--" She ran to the kitchen, which screeched and roared under her magical influence, and retched in the sink. Dizzy, she fell onto the synthetic floor. Yeats looked very distressed. He shut off his device and pressed a fist into his knee.
"Dash it, she is an elf after all! How will I explain...." Yeats pulled off his glasses. "Please, carry her back and revive her with smelling salts--wait! Better make that magical smelling salts. You'll find them in the smaller compartment of Dr. Powlowski's bag, the one with magic insolation."
The two guardsmen carried Lilya back to the chair, then waved a vial under her nose. She awoke calmly. "What? What? What on Arcanum do you people put in that vile 'tea'?!" Yeats looked at her remorsefully. Only a true elf could be so uncompromisingly opposed to synthetic tea.

 

You're wondering who I am -- Machine or mannequin

Lilya scowled at the hawkish Yeats. When he cleared his throat and relaxed his expression, she let it go. Her ruse had worked. She looked at the ostarichesque man and asked, "What was that liquid you gave me? It certainly wasn't tea. It was hot and strong. The similarities ended after that."
Yeats pushed his glasses up his nose. "It's Earl Gray, boiled down. I like to call it Earl Black." He smiled, then frowned. His tea-stained teeth were still visible as he did so, but his eyebrows shifted.
"It's rat poison."
Yeats frowned grumpily. Now she was just being insulting. Back to business.
"There is one other item I wish to discuss with you: Ehem."
"Ehem?"
"I have an easily irritated throat."
"Probably from the 'tea'"
Yeats pushed his glasses up his nose, rolling his eyes invisibly as he did so.
He continued: "Why did you sleep with Mr. Powlowski?"
Lilya's mouth dropped open. "I BEG your pardon?!"
Yeats looked ready to rephrase his question. Lilya continued, "He and I enjoyed a drink last night. Our mutual wits were no doubt impaired by this and he did not think to sleep on the couch."
Yeats loosened his tie. Was this question really necessary? Yes. Yes, it was. "Then why is Mr. Powlowski naked?"
"He must remove his clothes routinely before slipping into bed at night, and probably without as much alchohol in his system as he had last night."
"And smiling?"
"He no doubt had a very good dream."
"I can see that."
Lilya's hand formed a fist. Should she slap him or merely break his nose? Yeats continued.
"Do not play with me, Madam. Alchohol or no, we both know what transpired last night."
"What business is it of yours, you sexless, hawknosed, Peeping Tom?!"
Yeats clenched his teeth. She'd called him hawknose. He HATED being called Hawknose. That was his nickname in school. But he'd shown them. They were all in prison. A vein evidenced itself in his forehead. His temples pulsated. His breathing became irregular. He pushed up his glasses, and they stayed up. Lilya began to shake. Yeats' eyes drifted down toward the floor as he ran his fist over his sparse hair... and stopped. Lilya had not recrossed her legs. Lilya followed his gaze, then shreiked. Standing up she said, "Please leave."
Yeats looked to his company. The two officers had left, but when exactly Yeats was not sure. Just then, Dr. Powlowski could be heard waking up. He slid his legs over the bed, stretched, and stood up. He then walked through the door, his eyes not fully open. Yeats saw the good doctor's well-developed thighs, his washboard stomach, his... "GAH!" Yeats put a kerchief over his mouth and nose, turned, and ran out. His tiny comb of hair blew over in the windy street. Lilya grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and cried. "He wanted me dead! All the blood rushed to his face and his eyes became like fire and he wanted to kill me!"
"What? Why?"
Lilya bit her lip. "I called him a pervert. I think he must get that a lot, being so tall and creepy looking."
Dr. Powlowski rubbed the back of his neck. His sight trailed down. "Ooh! Tea!"
Lilya caught his hip as he moved toward the tea. "Don't you care that I was almost killed? Right here? By a government official?"
The doctor blinked sleepily. "Tea?"
Lilya just stared at him. "No, thank you. It tastes like... ashes in water."
The doctor sipped on the tea, frowning. "You're right!" He took another sip, then downed the cup. He sat down and suddenly noticed he wasn't properly adorned-- or adorned at all, really. He covered himself with the blanket on the back of his sofa. "I'm sorry, darling, but I'm little more than a zombie before I've had my first cup of tea."
"Z...zombie?!" Lilya covered her mouth, her eyes wide. The doctor burst out laughing, then hacking, then wishing he hadn't tried that Earl Black after all.
"It's just an expression. Now, what were you saying?"
Lilya explained to him, slowly, that a perverted inspector had come over and harassed her, become enraged, then run off.
"He seemed to be uncomfortably attracted to you," she finished.
Dr. Powlowski chuckled, nibbling on a biscuit. "Will you stay a while, Lilya?"
Lilya opened a cupboard of the cabinet, extracting an apple and slowly walking back through the kitchen. It growled at her passage. She sat down beside the doctor on the sofa and bit into the apple, moaning as she did. The doctor dropped his biscuit. The kitchen howled. He swallowed, hard. Lilya looked up at him, wiping the juice of the fruit from her lower lip with one finger. "Do you have a first name, or shall I just keep calling you 'Doctor'?"
The doctor leapt at her. She stood up, allowing him to fall face-first into a cushion. He grabbed her wrist gently, which she pulled away from him, taking another bite of her apple. "Goodbye, Doctor" she started to walk away.
"It's... Bernard"
"No it isn't."
"Alright.... Lyon. Lyon Powlowski."
She walked out of the door... and into the inquisitive stare of Chanti.
"Good morning, Mistress."
Lilya closed the doctor's door behind her. She was breathing heavily. Chanti put a furry paw on her waist, lifted her up, and kissed her. She kissed back, dropping the apple. Chanti spread his wings, cast an invisibility spell on the pair, stepping off of the street and into the air.
"Chanti."
"Yes."
"Where did you go?"
"Everywhere." He smiled.
Lilya laid her head on his furry chest, holding onto it with her fists. "You have no idea where I've been."
Chanti exhaled audibly through his nostrils. "I can smell him on you."
Lilya frowned. "I did what I had to do."
"You're just like your mother."
The frown became more hurt, transforming nearly into a scowl. "I did what I had to do."
Chanti said nothing as he carried her through the air. "I heard everything."
Lilya looked at his face. "Then you must know he was asking about my teeth. I couldn't let--"
"Don't lie to me! Don't you know I can tell if you lie? If you cheat? If you steal? Your every misdeed is as clear to me as the rising sun!"
"I.... I thought he loved me.... "
"I thought I was the one you loved."
"You are! It's just..."
"You think he saved you?! Had that guard been allowed his way with you, you'd have lost much less."
"HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?"
"You are your mother's daughter."
"And you're a demon! You're supposed to be an instrument and originator of evil and I love you!"
"Is that what you think I am? Evil?"
"That's what demons do!"
"NO. That's what people do. That's what your mother did. Evil is that guard that touched you as you lay there. Evil is seducing a lusty man and making him believe you loved one another. Evil is flaying a living thing alive and eating it, torturing it until its soul at last escapes into what lies beyond. What did I do beyond what I was forced to do by your mother? Whom did I slay? Whom did I lead astray?"
"What about all these stories of demons breaking loose from their plane and wreaking havoc? Those can't be all lies."
"They aren't lies. Neither are they the whole truth. If you knew a fraction of what our plane was like, you'd understand why they did what they did."
"Why?!"
"You've studied necromancy. You no doubt have some idea as to the difference between life and death. You've seen the tortured returned souls, heard their pleas for release."
"What does this have to do with demons?"
"It is we that pay for men's sins."
"What? Why?"
"WHY? What does that question mean to you when every demon in the underworld has heard it screamed, then moaned, then grumbled, then merely thought, and, finally, buried deep within the heart? The gods know 'why'. Eventually, a demon will realise why. It's a realisation that comes with the pain. It's transcending the why, and seeing the truth, plain as day: free will."
"That doesn't make any sense! Why would you be punished for our wrongdoing?"
"Because, Lilya. You have free will. We, on the other hand do not."
Chanti landed the pair on a cliff, at the mouth of a cave. The cliff overlooked a desert scattered with bones, old bones, large, twisted bones of unrecognizable creatures. Chanti continued: "A creature with free will is a relatively new thing. It was certainly new when we saw it coming. Something strange and wonderful the gods had created, part of a great contest or game between the lot of them, all for entertainment."
Chanti cancelled the invisibility spell and walked into the mouth of the cave. Down, down, into a torchlit chamber with a table, a stool, and a straw-filled matress and little else. Chanti motioned for Lilya to sit on the stool. He laid down on the matress, face up, keeping his wings completely outstretched beneathe him. He stared at the ceiling as he continued.
"Before we became what we are, our species, demons, were only servants of the gods, requiring nothing but our unyeilding, blind faith in our masters to keep us working 'round the clock. The gods, at the time they had made us, were not fond of doing anything routine, choosing only to manifest their godly powers when doing so was diverting. So we were the real force behind their respective patronships: music, the weather, animals mating. We hadn't a care in the world. As long as Arcanum was a pictogram of faith, as long as law encompassed the whole of existence, as long as free will did not exist. When you came along, we demons faltered in our work. An example: one of us involved in animal mating would happen upon a man and a sheep. And he'd... just... stare. He didn't know what to do. Would he create a hybrid? Law could not abide such a thing! After a while of just freezing like this, we developed understanding. We did not have a word for what was occurring. Perhaps madness. In the animal kingdom, a mad animal soon threw itself off of a cliff or was put to rest by another animal. But what could be done? The sheep was confused, a little uncomfortable. But no force of nature would put the human at rest. Until, finally, one of us allowed ourselves to appear to the human. He scowled at the human, saying, 'Incorrect! Incorrect! Not sane!' The man screamed, pulled up his trousers, and ran back toward his village. The clouds rumbled, rolling over one another in anger."
Chanti closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"The gods do not take a great deal of time deciding things. It's not that they're so incredibly intelligent that they decide at once--intelligence is irrelevant when it comes to debate. It's just that they have no higher authority to answer to. As such, they react hastily, and usually with a bolt of lightning. They struck the man dead before he could relate what had been said. But similar things were happening all over Arcanum. And some of the demons were getting upset with the deaths, some even losing their faith. The forces of nature, long maintained by demons, began to shift wildly, casting reality one way, and illusion another. Black and white. Truth and untruth. Good and evil. There had always been correct and incorrect, but never in such an unsettling scale. Mans sins became worse and worse until, finally, a demon struck a man, killing him. The people cried out against the demon. They demanded punishment. They demanded retribution. They demanded the other plane for demons. And that's just what they got. Faith turned to hatred. Some of the demons began to sin, began to demand free will, began to curse their masters. All the demons, good or evil, faithful or unfaithful, correct or incorrect, all of them were swept into the other plane. People continued to demand retribution for evil in the world. They gave it its name: evil. Something they never would have done if demons hadn't interfered. It was the gods' game, and they made the rules. And part of the rules was that man got whatever it wanted."
Lilya's head was racing. "So demons lash out against mankind because they're angry?"
Chanti laughed. It was a black, but not heartless, laugh. It dripped of darkness and despair, but none of evil. When he finished, he was crying. He said, "Man continued to breed. It invented new goods and new evils, new religions to paint over the old, new fashions, new magics, and new ways to live longer and longer, to have more and more people living in the same space. The demons were overwhelmed! They couldn't be tortured near enough to pay for all of man's sin, for which the demons were continually blamed. Demons began to be born. When the gods saw how they could make the demons much more efficient, to maximize pain and minimize materials, the oldest among us died, one by one, thankful for their release. We, their ignorant children, continued to be born, continued to scream 'why?!', to misunderstand. The first to strike a man did not die. Neither did the first to reprove mankind. The two of them were kept alive as a lesson in history and 'justice'. And it was they that were the first to escape. 'Our suffering must end,' they told us, and they returned to the mortal realm, killing men left and right, some before they had the chance to sin, some after. They gods watched. They were amused. Before the two demons were finally killed, they taught mankind how to summon us. Those who were summoned were almost invariably used for evil, but at least they, themselves, did not feel pain. When their pacts were broken, they'd do as much as they could to ease the suffering below, including but not entirely limited to killing mortals. Then they'd die, unable to survive in the atmosphere without a host."
"Will that happen to you, Chanti?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. I've changed somehow. I'm no longer a demon."
"What are you, then?" Lilya rose from her stool and kneeled down beside Chanti, clutching his hand with both of hers.
Chanti looked into her eyes and smiled. But there was pain in his voice. "The next best thing since free will."

 

With parts made in Japan, I am the Modren Man.

Dr. Mingle sat behind his desk, his feet propped up, looking through pictures of Lilya his spies had taken. "She's a pretty one," he said to himself. When Dr. Munch knocked on his door, Jojo Mingle groaned and put away the photos. He was delighted when Dr. Munch threw an entirely new file of them on his desk. But it was thinner than usual. Jojo asked, "What news?"
"Joseph is excelling at his wooing classes, except in one respect."
"What is it?"
"The elf women do not excite him. He says that they aren't rugged enough. Then we tried an orc, which returned even worse results. Finally, we brought in an El Fork of the sheep batch, stripped down. He was immediately turned on."
"Why sound so defeated? This is exactly what we've hoped for."
"Are you aware, sir, that all the El Forks we've been able to breed so far are male?"
Dr. Mingle looked down. "Damn. Obviously, his childhood isolation, coupled with his being the only of his kind, and complicated by his intelligence have left him feeling exclusively homosexual."
"Could it have been his genes? Or perhaps a product of the process?"
"Of course not, you fool. What do I do? Sit around all day waiting for reports? I tell you, this thing is psychological, at least in his case."
"What are we to do? If we can't get him to mate--"
"Don't get your panties in a bunch. We don't have to resort to plan B just yet. He's not yet fully matured. Give him serum number... 317. Yes. 317 will work. Just take care not to give him too much. Use the smallest dose over time as possible, allowing him to experiment. Eventually, he'll desire women, and then we'll imprint the girl's image into his mind with these photos" Dr. Mingle patted the folder of dirty pictures he'd been sifting through earlier.
"But, sir, whom will he sleep with in the meantime? None of the sheep batch swing that way, and 317 requires--"
"What are they going to do? Baaa at him? ...No, no. You're absolutely right. He's not a sadist. It would never work."
"You know, the sheep batch aren't the only males on this island."
"I know what you're thinking, you dirty bastard, and the answer is no. He is an experiment, you are a scientist. Besides, he'd grow attatched to you, and then we'd never be able to straighten him out.... I know. Use 316 on all the sheep batch. They'll fight better anyway if they're in love with one another."
"Couldn't we just use it on half?"
"Absolutely not! I want uniformity in my infantry! They would suspect and despise one another, becoming jealous. Just use a hefty dose of 317 on any of those on whom 316 fails."
"I hope you know what you're doing."
"Shut up, Munch. You're just upset because you can't be Joseph's girlfriend."
"I'll say this once, Mingle, and slowly so you'll understand: keep insulting me like you've been doing, and YOU will be part of an experiment."
"That's very amusing, but you're forgetting that I'm the only one who really understands genetic experimentation. You're a behavior trainer. You couldn't possibly continue research without me."
"And you're forgetting I'm in it for the fame, not the war."
"The sheep batch will war whether we like it or not. They have a genetic sequence that makes them walking, talking bottles of rage. Which reminds me: make sure they're sterile. We don't want sheep-brained hotheads to rule the world when we're gone."
"Right away."
"Hold on, hold on. What's with the folder? Why is it so thin?"
"She got away."
"What?! How?!"
"Invisibility, then some kind of transportation spell, possibly teleportation, possibly flight."
"Deploy three planes with magic spectroanalyzers onboard. Tell them to find a trail from the point of disappearance to wherever she's hiding. But make certain they're not seen in broad daylight by anyone who will be believed. That means send the planes immediately as they should arrive by nightfall. Have you got all this, or do you need to write it down?"
"You'd better send the memo to the mercenaries and the mechanics yourself. I've got enough to do as it is, with all the drug doses and such."
"I'll tell the nurses the changes in drugs. You go see to the mercenaries. I don't like performing menial tasks. The drugs will require some thinking."
"Right away, Jojo."
"Call me Dr. Mingle, you wanker!"
"Absolutely, Dr. Mangle."
Dr. Munch left, smiling to himself on account of his unnoticeable pun. Dr. Mingle opened the file on Lilya. He grinned from ear to ear, a long distance considering his cranium was larger than average. "I like this Yeats fellow," he said to himself. "He's so contradictory, like an El Fork. I think I'll take a look at his D.N.A. and see what hand nature had in his creation." Mingle turned the page. He squinted, then took out a magnifying glass. The image did not become clearer. "What is that? A monkey with wings and two heads?" Dr. Mingle made his way into the nurses' breakroom. They were gossiping. He could tell it was about Joseph. Ah, the wooing had worked, but, o', the contradiction of not being attracted to the wooed. Actually quite amusing, thought Jojo.

 

I've got a secret I've been hiding under my skin

Yeats pushed open the heavy wooden door of his dwelling and slowly stepped through, his polished leather dress shoes causing the dust-free wooden floor to creak under his weight. He cringed. He hated the sound of wear as much as the sight of it. Why couldn't the cheap housing have been built from stone or brick? Wood came from nature. If Yeats ever had a choice between something natural and something synthetic, he always chose the latter. Nature, after all, had created him the way he was. But he'd found comfort in the artificial, the pleasantries of technology, the advancements of man. They'd given him his career and kept him isolated from people as much as possible. People were the worst. Still, they sometimes came up with useful inventions.
Yeats closed the wooden door behind him and removed his trenchcoat, tie, and gloves. He did not, however, remove his shoes until he was well over the polymer rug which covered the greater portion of his studio apartment. He sat down in his mechanical metal rocking chair, locked it into a working position, and pulled out the metal flowing pen he'd used since his days at the University of Tarant, his departed father's pen. Pulling out Lilya's file and a cover sheet, he began to write in an inexpressive, angular print, made almost exclusively from straight lines.
"Doctor's analysis consistant with observation. Affidavit satisfactory. Recommend case closure. Norwood Jakob Yeats, prosecutor."
With this, he sprinkled dust over the ink, capped the pen, put the pile of papers in a carrying case, and sealed it with wax. He stamped the seal with his registration insignia, a pair of open scissors overlapping a cog. He opened the government mail box beside his door with his key, placed the case inside, and locked it behind him. Walking to a row of file cabinets to the side of his room, he opened the top two drawers, causing two rows of cabinets to seem to fall forward, slowed by pneumatic hydrolics, revealing a bed. Yeats pulled out another drawer near the bed, revealing a nightstand with a lamp and nightgown. He slipped into the nightgown, folding his clothes and placing them in yet another drawer, which was actually his dirty linen chute. Finally, he lay down on the bed and pulled back the neatly folded blanket. He was about to remove his glasses. He stopped. Reaching beneath his matress, he removed a photograph of two boys in school uniforms. One had his arm about the other's waist, kissing him on the temple.
The other had a hawklike nose. Yeats turned over the photograph. The back read:
"My dearest Norwood,
I think on you daily, you and nothing else. When I lay down at night, you're in my dreams, and your face may well as be the morning sun, your name the birds' sweet song. You know I love and have always loved no man save you. You know you feel the same way.
Although I know it is a terrible sin, I pray nightly your father's ship will be waylaid by pirates, it's captain captured or killed. Why do you permit him to control your actions? Were he a good father, I might understand. I love my own father dearly, and though he knows nothing of my love for you, I know he would never come between us, much less strike me for confessing my love. A good father does not strike his son out of shame. A good father does not leave for several days, only to return drunk and with new excuses for chastising his son. I've told Father about his inclinations, and he has agreed to take you with us on our yearly holiday off the coast of Cattan. He has even suggested making you a member of our family, a second son. Can't you see how much he cares for my happiness? Surely he would grow to love you as well, love you like his own flesh and blood.
If you truly love me, you will forsake your father and live your life with me in freedom and love, far away from your father's opressive domination. It's just as Dean Martin said in his farewell speech: 'From this moment forward, the world is in your grasp. You have only but to seize it!' Now's your chance, Norwood! Our future in the world is here, within your grasp.
I will wait for you at the docks. If you ever wish to leave home, if you ever wish to escape your tyrranical father, you'll meet me there. If you choose to stay, please see me off at least. I can't leave you for an entire summer without saying goodbye!
Whatever choice you make, my love, remember that I will hold you always in my heart before I go to sleep.
Verily Yours in Love and Friendship Eternally,
Hans Munch, ESQ"
Norwood held the photograph to his chest, then looked at it one last time through tear-blurred eyes before replacing it beneath his matress. He removed his glasses, covered his head with his pillow, and sobbed silently into sleep.

 

My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain I.B.M.

Six great wings spanned the poisoned skies of Tarant, echoing the vibration of nine engines. Three by three, the engines coughed and quit, two by two, the wings slowed and began to sink. One by one, the pilots turned on their magic spectroanalyzers and drifted in separate directions. Meanwhile, in Munch's office, Doctor Hans Munch lifted an intercom to his lips. "All check in"
"Bobcat is purring"
"Rooster is crowing"
"Ladel is souping"
"Ladel is... what?! What kind of name is Ladel for an airplane?"
"You guys are rich. You're lecturing me when you named yours after a four legged animal."
"At least mine is a bird."
"A flightless bird."
"Ehem. This is... Falcon, telling the saucer of chicken soup to shut up."
"Kerlin's teeth!"
"Moorindal's toenail!"
"Geshtianna's thong!"
"Hohoho. That was a pretty good one."
"What are you, one of Santa's little helpers?"
"EHEM! This is Falcon, reminding Campbells kitty feed to SHUT UP and get back to flying."
"You take that back, elf! Come to think of it--"
"--DON'T YOU DARE! Elves are NOT Santa's 'Little Helpers'. Only a gnome could have invented the holiday."
"EHEM! THIS IS FALCON! SHUT UP OR ELSE!"
"Or else what?"
"Or else you don't get paid."
"Oh, big deal! Supposing we keep the planes?"
"Who would keep them up? Where would you find fuel?"
"Okay, okay. Let's just get back to finding the girl."
"Shh! You're not supposed to mention that kind of thing! That's why we're talking in code!"
"Err.... Rooster is right. Dr. Munch said absolutely no mention of the mission or...."
"...."
"You imbecile...."
"OR NAMES! Who knows who could be listening right now?"
Yeats stirred in his sleep. One of his gadgets was making noise. He tried to ignore it, covering his ears with his pillow. Then he heard the name "Munch". But Dr. Munch? Hans always had a fondness for gloves. They both did. Yeats creeped out of bed, picked up the gadget that was making all the noise, brought it just below his nose, and pressed the button.
"H...Hans? Hans Munch, is that you?"
"Who is this?"
"You fool, he has a radio. He's obviously some tinkerer or collector."
"What does he want with Hans?"
"Uh. Maybe I am Hans Munch. Maybe I'm not.... Your voice sounds so familiar. Who are you?"
Yeats' eyes were clouded with fresh tears.
"Hans! Darling! It's me, Norwood! Norwood Yeats!"
Dr. Munch gasped, then rasped, then clasped the communicator tightly with both hands.
"It's been...."
"23 years... four months... six days and three hours since we last held one another. And twelve fewer hours since I received your letter."
"You mean... all this time.... I've thought."
"You've thought I'd refused to see you off? Thought I had spurned your love? Thought I had decided never to see you again?"
"Well.... Yes!"
"Not a night has gone by that I haven't kept a similar promise to you that you made to me: to think of you just before I go to sleep. There were nights when I thought it would have been better to forget you, to move on. But then I'd read your letter and see the picture of us as boys and...."
"You've loved me... all this time?"
"Yes! In pain and in anguish, YES."
"I don't know what to tell you."
"Tell me? Tell me why you never came back! In the Gods' names, why didn't you try to contact me? Didn't you receive my letters?"
"Letters?"
"I sent you letters every day and then less and less. Finally, I stopped sending them."
"I never received any letters."
"Could they have been lost?"
"No way! Not in such large numbers!"
"Then how... ?" Yeats' jaw clenched and his face turned red. "FATHER! Father must have intercepted them somehow! Oh, if he were not already dead! I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM!"
"He's died? How?"
"He was captured by pirates. When they discovered he had no means to pay a ransom, they made him the ship sex slave. They must have found one of my letters on him and assumed he was me. His first mate survived his imprisonment by becoming a pirate himself. He wrote to me what had transpired. I doubt he knew my father's residence: father was always as ashamed of his home as he was of his son. The first mate must have had one of my letters with the return address written on it."
"It was an appropriate end for your father, don't you think?"
The three pilots burst out laughing.
"Who's laughing? Hans? Who's there with you?"
"Those are the pilots I've been talking to. We're looking for a missing woman. She disappeared yesterday."
"A woman? What was her name?"
"Lilya. Why do you ask?"
"Because I was in charge of her prosecution. Why, she must have left right after my examination."
"You.... You're the Yeats of the photographs?"
"You took pictures of me?"
"Not me personally. An agent. But... you've aged so much in the last 23 years."
"No doubt, so have you."
"You have the same manly nose and build."
"My build? I can't stop eating unhealthy foods. Twinkies, synthetic beverages, wafers...."
"You? I remember a Norwood Yeats who sneered at anything factory made."
"I've grown bitter toward nature and the forces of the universe over the years. After all, they made me fall in love with you, and they also made me my father's son."
"Your father's dead now, Norwood. At last, our prayer's fulfilled."
"I never prayed for his capture. Except once. It must have been when he was captured. He must have been carrying the last letter I ever sent."
"Well, the gods do have a sense of humor" said Rooster.
"And, if you fight fate long enough, it will reward you" said Bobcat.
"With the happiness you've always dreamed about," said Ladel.
"Why are you completing eachother's sentences?" asked Hans.
Rooster replied, "Because that's what love will make you do."
That was the last of the radio transmission from the three pilots. The planes, it seems, had vanished. And, with them, the communications link between Munch and Yeats.
"The world is in our grasp," said Munch.
"I have only but to seize it!" said Yeats.

 

So if you see me acting strangely, don't be surprised.

"What do you mean, 'The next best thing since free will'?" Lilya asked. "And what's with this condescending attitude all of a sudden? Who made you king of the universe?"
"Prince, actually."
"What?!" Lilya fell backwards.
"The next best thing since free will," Chanti continued, "is self determination."
"That's the same thing!"
Chanti laughed at her. "Nhohoho. No it's not. Let me lay it out for you..."
Chanti looked around his cave and found a stone. "Do you have a coin?"
Lilya raised a brow. She searched her garnments, but she found no coin. She was still wearing a hospital robe.
"Sorry, no coins."
"It doesn't matter," replied Chanti. Chanting, he produced a grey stone and placed it beside his cave's red stone on the floor.
"Now, Lilya, we're going to play a game. It's a game of self determination. You're going to do some prediction of your own actions. Look at both stones, admiring their uniqueness, and tell me: what stone do you touch first?"
Lilya looked at the red stone. In this cave, it seemed dull, ordinary, uninteresting, and probably dirty. The other stone, however, seemed exotic, special, extraordinary. She reached out and touched the grey stone. "This one."
"Very good. You've just proven that you have free will. You have also, as I knew you would, proven that you have no self determination."
"What? How?"
Chanti looked up at the cave, extending his arms. "You touched the stone of this cave first! You had a choice, of course, but, in the context of this cave, it was meaningless."
"How did you know I would pick the grey stone?"
"I know how your minds work. Besides, if you hadn't, I would have just pushed the other stone toward you to prove you wrong."
Lilya crossed her arms. "Alright, smarty pants. Suppose you can see into the future. And suppose I ask you to predict which of these two stones I will touch. Now suppose I decide to choose the opposite of whatever you've told me. Who has self determination now?"
"You think I don't know the answer to this problem?"
She nodded. "There is no answer. Either the future doesn't exist until it's the present or no one has free will or determination."
"You're thinking of time as a straight line."
"More like a ray."
"Your mother used to teach you about famous art. Tell me, Lilya, why was Kerghan and Persephone such a valuable painting?"
"It was a unique piece by a unique painter."
"What was different about him?"
"He was one of the pioneers of perspective in art. Where is this leading?"
"When a painting is out of perspective, everything is drawn the same size no matter how far away it is, yes?"
"And?"
"So how can you tell the distance from looking at a painting in perspective?"
"Relative size?"
"Is there not a point, a focal point, toward which everything shrinks?"
"So you're saying time has more than one dimension?"
"That and it's relative, and has a focal point. If one focuses on the focus, everything one sees will be small. And focal points have another name in art."
"Vanishing points."
"Precisely. Because of an infinite number of moments in the timeline and a finite amount of perception, no one can absolutely predict the future, especially a critical decision such as a meager attempt to produce a paradox, by looking straight at it."
"What does this have to do with you?"
"You're the one that brought it up."
"I can't help but think that your so-called 'self determination' is somehow linked to prescience."
"You're very clever, Lilya. I'll let you know this much: the rest of the universe suggests the thing you cannot see. Gravity keeps us on the planet. Why? We haven't observed why, but we have seen gravity in action in the stars and all around us."
"So everyone else suggests what you can do?"
"You've got it."
"How can you tell if you've got free will or self determination?"
"Prescience."
"But why you? Why now?"
"Because I'm close to the who, the when, and, right now, the where."
"The what now?"
"Yes, the what as well. You saw the bones out on the desert, did you not?"
Lilya turned toward the entrance of the cave. "War is coming. I can feel it. It's as if... as if I'm teetering on the point of this mountain. On one side there's greenery and life; on the other side, there's the desert and death. But to fall too quickly on either side would be fatal, even though to survive a fall in the desert would surely mean a prolonged death."
"A prolonged death is a prolonged life."
"A life of suffering."
"Life is suffering. That's the point."
"The point of what?"
Chanti laughed. "You'll get what I mean sooner or later."
"I guess."
"Would you like to see what's on the other side of this mountain?"
"In a way, I think I already have."
"You have indeed. But looks can be deceiving. Remember that."
"Chanti! It's me! You can quit this whole omniscience act right now. It's starting to get on my nerves."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Call me Lilya, you silly demon."
"Kiss me."
Lilya climbed into his arms and kissed him. When she pulled back, he said, "Just like when you were a little girl. So small...."
"Almost like it," replied Lilya, wrapping her arms around his neck, "but with a lot more tongue."

 

I'm just a man who needed someone, and somewhere to hide.

Dr. Munch spun around and looked at his office door. He looked down. Good. He could never be sure if Dr. Mingle was standing right behind him. Where on earth were those planes? Suddenly, his radio spoke.

"This is Chuck. The dog is digging in the garden."
"This is Sal. My wife left me."
"This is John. The milkman has just delivered."

Dr. Munch fumbled with a book of codes. What was going on? Where did the other three planes go.

"Where's the mail?" said Munch.

"Above the inn"
"At the blacksmith's"
"The boil"

"Have you seen any... girlscouts up there?" said Munch.

"What?" said Chuck. "The only girlscouts are with us."
"Are we looking to buy some cookies?" asked Sal.

Dr. Munch just held the megaphone. Was it just a dream? Had he been sleeping? Or, worse, was he going mad?

"You didn't see three girlscouts at the front door?"

"No" replied the trio.

"Continue looking for the, err, wifey."

The three planes soared off in three directions. But, this time, they cracked no jokes, they transmitted no signals below, and they did not disappear.

Munch tracked their positions on a map with dashes of a pencil. Before long, they had a distinct direction, and began to fly toward it. They engaged their engines and gained altitude.

"The wife sure went far" said Sal.

"Indeed" said Munch. Setting down the radio, he went to the typewriter.

"Dearest Norwood"

 

To keep me alive--Just keep me alive

Lilya leaned forward to kiss the demon, and, suddenly, reality split in two. She pulled back sharply, falling to the floor, writhing. Chanti gasped, trying to catch her. "Are you all right?!"
Lilya held hands to her ears, pulling down on her face.: "NnnoOOO! Stay AWAY from ME!"
Chanti took a step back. Something, some thing in her voice evoked actual *fear* from the demon. Fear?! "You're hurting yourself!"
Chanti leaned down to pick Lilya up. When he touched her, she became stiff, back arched, fists and jaw clenched, eyes in the back of her head. When he withdrew his hand, she went limp, unconscious.
Chanti could not breathe. No, he could breath. He just didn't think to. He stared down at her prostrate form.
Lilya fell two ways down a cave in her mind. She landed on two barren plains. She took two looks around herselves, with two very different reactions. Was this a dream?
"A vision?"
"A nightmare?"
Lilya felt her other self. She experienced them both. As she did so, she felt quite like she did in the physical cave, teetering on the top of a very steep mountain.
"A choice?"
"A choice?"
Both Lilyas felt they were being shown two possible choices. They both seemed the same, but the reactions were very different. What had changed? Lilya felt the change was out there, but she could not see it. It was too far away. What both of her saw now was a potential lover. One Lilya beside Joseph, and the other near Joseph. One Joseph near and kind, the other violent and insatiable. One a prince charming, the other....
Lilya could not help but think Chanti had something to do with this. Who was Joseph? Where did she know him from? She'd never met him, yet she could feel the two possible feelings toward him. And, something else, something clawing at the depths of her mind, fighting for attention. But she suddenly felt drawn toward the identical mouths of the cave in her mind, up toward the light of consciousness. Chanti was standing over her, wiping her forehead with a wet towel.
"Chanti?"
"Yes, beloved?"
"I think the desert heat is getting to me. Could you perhaps take me home?"
"And where is home? With the doctor?"
"No. The old house."
"It's been burned down."
"What? Why?"
Chanti looked down. "Some theives were living there. They were living there, wearing your mother's jewelry, trying on your clothes, sleeping in your bed. I... I couldn't take it."
"So you scared them off?"
"No. I...."
Lilya's eyes went wide. Chanti stood up, walked toward the mouth of the cave, and flew out.
Lilya tried to turn her head. She could not. "Oh... my...."
She was strapped down to a bed.
"Not again!"
"Calm down, Lilya" said a voice in her head, "he left to get a hospital bed. You were shaking violently. He was trying to protect you from yourself."
Lilya looked up at her forehead, as if to say, "Shut up, brain! You're making that up!"
Then she saw bruises. Oww. Those definitely came from a seizure. Lilya had experienced them before....
She closed her eyes, wincing in the new experience of pain. She chanted a healing spell and the buckles on the bed screamed, loosening.
Then Lilya remembered the dream. Or was it a nightmare?