#novel draft

Still hazy with sleep, Kip retrieves her phone from beneath her pillow and clicks the power button.

[ 2 MESSAGES  →  JAG. ] [ 1 VOICEMAIL  →  JAG. ]

The memory of the previous night hits her like a truck, heart beginning to race as she recalls his clumsy stagger and his hazy eyes, the image of him driving turning into a wreckage that she can’t fully visualise--  because she isn’t brave enough to.   Even now, she can’t quite believe she’s seen him in any other state than perfect.   It feels similarly to seeing a teacher outside of school.  Eerie, if only because the concept of them having a life outside of their job has never hit you in the way that it does in that moment.  They’re a complex person, with their own thoughts and feelings, and you never stopped to realise it because you were too busy stressing about trigonometry.  In that same vein, she’s never viewed Jagger as somebody that exists outside of his debaucherous career.  He's always well-dressed, well-groomed and ruthlessly articulate.  Sharp, like a knife, and with the temperament to match.  What she'd seen last night had been nothing short of sloppy--  a glimpse behind the curtain that she’d never asked to see beyond.

Hurriedly, she beats her thumb against the notification, cursing the lag of her old model as they load at a snail’s pace.

[ TEXT  →  JAG. ] I made it hpme. [ TEXT  →  JAG. ] Don't piss your pwnts.  Assignment tomorrowq.

Kip stares at the messages with a look of begrudging awe.  Even in the throes of inebriation, he retains his snippy tone, and she can’t quite figure out whether to be impressed, annoyed or relieved.  Most likely some cryptic amalgamation of the three.

He got assignment right but not pants?

With a quiet snort of laughter, she throws her legs over the side of her bed and drags herself from beneath her covers.  If he’s indeed going to follow through on the whole assignment shtick, she at least wants a slice of toast in her.  Trying to do Jagger’s bidding is made even more insufferable by hunger.

A generous helping of butter is drawn across her toast before she hops up onto the counter and nibbles at one corner as she scrolls through her social media feed.  Fourteen new likes.  One new comment.  It doesn’t take long for her mind to drift from the pictures of cute animals and crass jokes flooding her timeline, brain steadily filling with visions of what Jagger’s going to want from her this time.  One day, she fears she’s going to fall too far down the rabbit hole;  find herself neck-deep in dirty darkness that she no longer wants to escape from.  Holding a wrapped shipment of spice had almost been too much for her to handle.  How the hell is she going to manage anything more incriminating?  Even if Jagger can keep her clean in the eyes of the police, she’s still been exposed to things she can never forget.  Doors she can never fully close.  People she can never fully wipe from her memory.  Some things run deeper than the law.  In fact, they tunnel beneath it and emerge on the other, darker side, nails dull and muddy, teeth sharp and spiteful.  Kip knows that.  She’s been one of them  -  and at the rate she’s going, she will be again.

Her mind drifts uneasily to the voicemail.  She’s never been nervous to open one before–  not even when she and her brother have had fights–  yet she can’t help but worry.  She may be playing a glorified maid at the moment, but when things get real and Jagger requires an extra set of hands, she can only imagine the horrible things he’ll make her do.

With evident apprehension, she forces what’s left of her breakfast down before belligerently clicking on the notification.

                                          YOU HAVE…  ONE, NEW MESSAGE!

“Kip, listen…  that song you played at the bar, was that yours?  I’ve never heard anythin’ like it before.  I searched some of the lyrics but nothin’ turned up,”  Jagger slurs, his voice low and thick before the sound of shuffling consumes the line. At first, it’s nondescript and quiet, but she quickly identifies it as bed sheets rustling.  It relieves her to know that he hadn’t been drinking when he sent this;  he’d already been drunk behind the wheel, the last thing he needed to be doing was trying to talk on the phone too.  “Can’t stop playin’ it over and over in my head.  Think I took that bassline home with me.  I’m thinkin’ of you;  you-- singing, I mean.”

Clumsy.

Her brow furrows as she listens to him toss and turn, mumbling incoherently as he does.  His message brings with it an indescribable warmth.  It settles in her cheeks, the same way it does when she receives praise from someone she hopes to impress, and it stays there in a way she’s not felt before.  Jagger is a hard man to please.  She’s barely seen him crack a smile since their unfortunate meeting, nevermind lavish somebody with genuine wonderment.  A pleased little smirk forms on her face;  smug, upturned like she really is some sort of posh snoot.

Jagger clears his throat on the recording, and it makes her straighten up.  As if he’s right next to her to smother her ego. 

“Bring me a copy of that song on a disc.  I want to play it in my van.”

Abruptly, the message ends, and she listens to the automated voice ask her what she wants to do with the voicemail as she struggles to close her mouth.  From beginning to end, his words were a mess…  but they were undoubtedly honest, and that’s what matters to her.  People like to blame their loosened filters on being drunk, but Kip knows better.  She knows that intoxication makes people brave, not liars, and not even someone as supposedly flawless as Jagger is exempt from this shameful truth.  The things he’d said…  she knows he’d never say them without some sort of failsafe.  It’s not like I knew I was complimenting you, dipshit.  I was shit-faced.  She hears it so clearly in her head that she scoffs outwardly, her smile large and audacious.

Now her only question is whether she really should burn him a CD containing her song or not.  Sober, she doubts Jagger will appreciate her smarmy attitude.  He may very well snap it in two right in front of her, and that will hurt her more than she cares to admit.

After considering her options, she types out an impish set of texts and hits send before she can think better of it.

[ TXT  →  KIP. ]  Still thinking of me, bossman? =P [ TXT  →  KIP. ]  Were you serious about the disc by the way?  I can totally burn you one.

“Yer right,”   Kuro agrees, pinching the space between his eyes as he wills a forming headache away. There’s no use in trying to reason with Cthugha when he’s this irate.  Something must have happened while he was busy looking for Deko’s next of kin, though he hesitates to ask about it.   “... I think we’re gonna have to take their bag off.”

The suggestion hangs limply in the air for a moment, and his resignation is plain as day.

“I hate t’ask,”   the sheriff starts slowly, reaching into his pocket to put on his gloves.  They’re thick and black, and regardless of how often he washes them, they always carry the slightest hint of decay.   “But they seem t’have taken a shine t’you;  would y’mind keepin’ ‘em still?”

Connor glances at the sleeping child, then back at Kuro.   “Sure I can.  But what’s the whole bag business about anyway?  I thought it was just Cthugha bein’ cruel.”

“Hey!  I’m not that terrible!”

“Deko seems t’be extremely shy,”   Kuro explains, watching as they shuffle.  Stay asleep.  It’ll make everythin’ so much easier if y’just stay asleep.   “When they first got here, they charged into the precinct like a wild animal, then hid under Cthugha’s desk.  They refused to come out until they had somethin’ t’hide ‘emselves with.”   He lowers his voice then, as if admitting to a dirty secret.   “We ain’t even sure whether they’re a girl or a boy.  It’s kinda hard t’narrow the search down when y’don’t even have basic details like that.”

“Hm…”

Subconsciously, Connor shifts the weight in his arms.  It may have been a long time since he’d held Mia in the same way, but a father never forgets what it feels like to hold his little girl.  Deko feels different–  perhaps because they’re not his, perhaps because they’re a boy after all–  but he can’t place exactly how.  Their weight is present but ethereal all at once, as if he’s cradling a shadow.

Would Mia’s ghost feel the same?

He has to fight to keep the thoughts at bay;  has to devote conscious effort to closing the door on such evocative memories.  He may have developed some mental fortitude during his time in Merriway Hospital, but he'll never really be over her death.  That much goes without saying.

"I can do it,"   he says firmly, aligning his focus once more.   "They seem harmless."

"I dunno, they have one helluva bite on 'em…"   Kuro admits as he closes the distance between them.  His hands manoeuvre until they're able to ease Deko's head out from under his collar.  To his dismay, they stir, a soft crooning noise made low in their throat.

"Hey, sleepyhead…"   he coos, trying his best to come off non-threatening.  This really is the last thing he wants to do, but it doesn't feel as if he has much choice.   "Who's this?"

Deko scuttles over Connor's shoulder, arranging themselves in the opening of his coat.  Snug as a bug.

"Maybe they like the dark?"   Cthugha offers, glancing over Connor's choice in apparel.  He recalls that the first thing Deko had done ( after scaling him with their improbable speed ) was bury their head beneath whatever fabric they could access.  The sun seems to cause them some discomfort, even if mild.

"Listen…"   How does he even go about doing this?   "... we need a little look under yer baggie.  Is that okay?"

They immediately rear back and shake their head, though Connor keeps them locked in place with a firm grip around their waist.

"It's alright,"   he says, attempting to soothe them.   "Sheriff Braav is a good man.  He won't hurt you."

But they're already wriggling and writhing with such ferocity that both men, grown and built, struggle to maintain their grip.  Before he can think about it, Kuro curls his fingers around the edge of the bag and pulls upwards, attempting to make the motion quick and smooth.  It comes off with an obnoxious FWOSHHH, though Deko darts beneath Connor’s coat with a sharp, shrill cry, a squirming lump travelling along the length of his body before they spill onto the floor in a heap.  Their breathing is erratic, their face buried into the floor.

“It’s okay!”   Kuro attempts to reach for them, but they kick off of their hands and knees and break into a frenzied run.

“They’re gonna hurt themselves!”   Connor exclaims as they narrowly miss the blunt corner of Kuro’s desk.

Just before they can crash into the wall, Cthugha appears in front of them and cushions them–  somewhat.  They wind up sprawled on the floor, and he gains a firm grip in the scruff of their cape, hoisting them up with a squint.

“Alright, blondie.  Enough fuss.”

“Wait.  Hold on.”   Kuro waves a hand, and the chaos seems to dissipate all at once.  Cthugha looks at him curiously.  Deko continues to shield their face with their arms, completely at the rifter’s mercy as he holds them aloft.   “Wha’d’y’mean blondie?”

Cthugha frowns deeply, as if he’s been asked a ridiculous question.   “Obviously that they’re blonde?”

“... they’ve got brown hair,”   the sheriff states slowly, his brow furrowed.

Cthugha looks at them, then back at him.  He repeats this several times before blurting out:   “Are you BLIND?  I know your years are stacking up, cowboy, but come on!”

Connor huffs, shakes his head.   “Are you two screwin’ around fer fun?  It’s black.”

The disagreement hovers in the air between them, all but palpable as each man begrudgingly lays down his sword.  It’s one thing for two of them to clash, but for all three of them to have conflicting ideas about the colour of the child’s hair?  It doesn’t seem plausible.  Something greater is at play here.

“... somethin’s wrong,”   Kuro says quietly, turning to look at Cthugha.   “There’s somethin’ weird about ‘em.”

Cthugha scoffs.   “You’re scared of children now?  First it was trees, now it’s kids–”

“Shut up!”   There’s more bite in the phrase than either of them are used to, and Cthugha is torn between shrinking down and puffing up with indignation.  In silence, he lowers Deko to the ground and watches them wobble into a corner, facing it like the world’s most shameful dunce.   “I’m tellin’ y’,”   he utters, powerless to keep the pain in his head from spreading further.  It was a dull throb between his eyes at first.  Now it’s an inferno.  It’s consuming the forefront of his mind like it’s made of firewood.   “Somethin’s not right.  They’re…  they said they’re from the dark.  They hide from the light.  I ain’t have nightmares;  the one time they stay in my house?  A terror like y’wouldn’t believe.  ‘n’ I saw them–”

“We’ve been over this,”   Cthugha interrupts carefully, his hands on his hips.   “Ya must have dreamed it.”

“They were in my room.”

“They didn’t leave the living room!  They were there when ya came in, you saw that.”   It’s Cthugha’s turn to pinch the bridge of his nose.  If it isn’t already evident to those that surround him, he’s terrible at keeping his temper in check.  Only when he’s certain that his voice won’t raise:   “It was a dream, Kuro.  It wasn’t real.”

They’re at an impasse, and it shows.  Kuro is so sure, but so is Cthugha, and tension fills the space between them as they stare at one another.

Connor suddenly clears his throat, redirecting attention to himself.

“If I may,”   he starts, and only then do they realise he’s holding something.  It’s brown and neatly folded, and as he approaches Deko and slides it over their head, it becomes obvious that it’s another bag.  Brown, this time;  cartoonishly nondescript.  “It seems neither of y’have answers.  Y’can’t agree.”

“Because it’s dumb,”   Cthugha retorts, annoyed.

“Won’t y’concede that Sheriff Braav knows what he saw?  He’s got a keen eye.  Has to as a detective.”

Cthugha falls silent, his foot beginning to tap.

“And Kuro–  can’t y’trust that Cthugha did what y’asked ‘n’ kept his eye on ‘em?  He’s proven himself reliable, no?”

The sheriff hums low in his throat, glancing away from the object of his frustration.   “... then wha’d’y’propose?  We can’t both be right.”

“Course y’can.  In part,”   Connor replies, his hand settling on Deko’s shoulder as he spins them around to face them both.   “Or y’can both be wrong.”

“In part?”

“Just wrong.”

They watch with a muted sense of fascination as Deko shuffles behind his legs, peeking out at them as if they’re suddenly the ones that scare them.  Guilt washes over the pair in waves, and they both look away, one scratching at his jaw while the other scuffs the floor with his boot.

“... I’m at a loss as t’what t’do with the kid,”   Kuro confesses, his voice a sheepish and culpable hybrid.   “I was just tryna help, but I guess I got it wrong.  I’m sorry.”

Cthugha scratches his neck, teeters between saying something and saying nothing at all.   “... maybe I was…  a little too harsh.”   Apologising is a monumental task to somebody who’s seldom had to do it before.  He may have been in Huron for close to a year at this point, but his reclusive habits still linger.  If ever he doesn’t have to speak to people, he won’t.  It saves him a lot of commiseration.   “Maybe you’re onto something.  Things aren’t exactly adding up.”

“Either way…”   The sheriff pauses to heave out a sigh before moving to his desk, reluctantly retrieving a file from the draw.   “I s’ppose our only option now is t’contact an orphanage over in Vide.”

Connor straightens up, then shakes his head furiously.   “Whoa–  no.  Don’t do that.”

“What else can I do?  I can’t leave a child without a roof over their head.”

“Just—  let me do it!”

Kuro falls still, then turns to face him with a furrowed brow.   “I can’t ask y’to do that.  Y’must know that.”

“Yer not askin’.  I’m volunteering.”

“This ain’t a community project, Mr. Vanton, this is a person.  It’s different.”

Connor circles the desk quickly, leaving Deko behind.  His hands meet the surface, his face pleading.   “Don’t y’think I know that?  That’s exactly why I’m askin’.”

He’s never been to Vide  -  not for leisure, anyway - but he recalls the things his daughter told him about the state of affairs over there.  The overt poverty;  the ruthless unrest;  the messy streets and the disadvantaged youths.  It was precisely why she’d wanted a career in working with children, and exactly the reason that Dawson had been perfect for her, too.

I want t’teach kids that’re strugglin’, daddy.  There’re so many in Vide. Can’t y’work closer t’home?  I’ll miss y’too much. They need me more than the kids here do.  I’ll visit often, I promise.

“Y’don’t know what yer doin’.  Kids in there, they don’t leave.”

“How d’y’know that?  Are y’an expert on Viddish systems all of a sudden?”

“Mia told him,”   Cthugha says, and the penny drops with such a sickening clink that Kuro feels nauseating guilt for the second time that day.   “Right?  Mia wanted to be a teacher, she was studying in Vide.”

“Yeah.  How did you…  y’know what, nevermind.”   He knows better than to question Cthugha at this point.  He has no idea how his time travel powers work–  and has barely come to accept that they even exist in the real world in the first place–  but he’s willing to guess that they have something to do with his uncanny knowledge.   “Yer gonna send them away anyway, aren’t you?  What’s the harm in me takin’ ‘em under my wing fer the meantime?”

“Is that really the best thing fer you?”

He hates to ask, but he has to.  It would be negligible if he didn’t.  Connor had barely left a mental institution but three months ago.  Is putting a child in his life–  a child that he could grow attached to and then subsequently have to let go–  really something that should be entertained?

“Look, I know this isn’t permanent.  ‘n’ I’m not–  I’m not tryin’ t’fill Mia’s void.  Nothing can do that.  She’s gone.  I know that.  I’ve made peace with it.”   His words shake almost as much as his arms do.  Admitting such a thing takes such herculean effort that he feels dizzy in its wake.   “But this is what she’d want, to help a kid who has nothin’.  That’s what she’d do.  That’s what she’d want us all t’do.”

“What about what you want?”

Both men turn to look at the rifter.  He looks milder than before, his disposition cool and calm.

“I just…  want t’help.  That’s it.  I want t’be useful again.  I’ve spent so long just…  rotting.  I’m finally well enough t’do things again and I want t’do them.  I can be of use to you, finally.  I know I can.”

Kuro sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair.  His pen goes takka-takka-tak as he fiddles with it, the gears in his brain turning rampantly.  There are several reasons as to why this is a bad idea, one that he should promptly shut the door on, the first of them being the ever-important detail that Connor is barely back on his feet after twenty years of unhealthy grieving.

But there are also several factors that make it the best option he has.

He already knows that the paperwork to set up such an arrangement would be horrendous, and that the process wouldn’t be immediate.  Connor also has ample experience with raising a child.  He did so on his own, without the presence of his wife to anchor him, and the reason that Mia is no longer with them has nothing to do with the quality of his parenting.  She’d been a gentle, sweet girl, whose only goal in life seemed to be making their districts all the more peaceful.  A girl with good values, with high morale and a positive attitude, and whose loss is felt by some to this day.

“I say let him,”   Cthugha says belatedly, looking quelled.

“Why d’y’say that?”

“Because.”   He looks at Connor, and he feels as if he’s being read like a book.   “He needs some purpose.  People are miserable without that.”   His gaze shifts to the sheriff, locks on unabashedly.   “You know all about that.”

Kuro flinches slightly, unprepared for such a statement.   “What does–”

“You’re going to send the kid away anyway, aren’t ya?  What’s the harm in Connor watching over them while we figure out where they actually belong?”

Kuro watches feebly as Deko sidles over, tottering until they’re beneath the flaps of Mr. Vanton’s coat.  They take shelter there much like a bird does, nuzzling their face into the denim of his pants like baby birds do their mother’s breast.

“We’ll figure it out,”   Cthugha assures with a sober nod.  He’s already convinced that he can crack the mystery, even if they’ve had very little luck so far.   “Connor can be instrumental to us.  He can earn their trust.  They might want to tell him something useful of their own volition.”

“We’re gonna leave it in a child’s hands?”   Kuro quizzes uncertainly.

“Think of it this way, big guy,”   Cthugha starts with a shrug.   “Wherever they came from, it couldn’t hold them.  Ya really think an orphanage in a negligent district is gonna be the secure safe haven ya think it is?  No way.  You mark my words, they’re gonna be back out there before ya know it, and then you’ll have a bigger problem on your hands.”

He thinks about that–  really thinks about it, until the sense in Cthugha’s words begins to seep into his own brain.  He doesn’t know what constitutes as “the dark”, but he’s certain that with enough investigation, he’ll find out  -  and when he does, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’ll be surprised that they escaped at all.

His heart beats dully in his temples, the beginnings of a migraine forming.  This is so far from protocol that he should be disgusted  by the notion of going through with it, but all he can think about is this young child stumbling blindly through districts they don’t know.  They’re incredibly lucky that the people they found were them and not more unsavoury characters.  Only Raku knows what might have become of them if they’d run east and wound up on Vide’s doorstep.

Traffickin’s rife there, I hear.

“... okay,”   he murmurs, rubbing his forehead gently.   “Yer right.  Yer right.  There’s no use shruggin’ ‘em off t’a place like Vide.  They’ll be screwed no matter what.  We’re outta options that don’t damn ‘em.”   The report he was on the cusp of filling out is tucked back into its appropriate draw, and he’s slightly ashamed to admit that he does so with some relief.  Vide may be improving, but not at a rate that he’s happy with;  not at a pace that makes him think it can safely accommodate a baby.   “But this is temporary.  Just until we find the information we’re lookin’ fer.”

“Thank you.”   It’s almost wheezed, Connor’s head bowing as if he’s been granted a million quers and not the burden of a dependent five year old.   “I understand.  I swear I’ll do it right.  ‘n’ anythin’ relevant t’yer investigation, I’ll give it t’you.”

Kuro groans softly as he massages his temples.