Chapter 42: (She's) Something Special

There was something religious about meal time. Jongdae recalled a grand march. Step, inject, step, inject, chess: psychological warfare with a schizophrenic followed White Coat-administered nutrient supplements. The routine left something to be desired. Jongdae often cracked, kings and queens flying from a flipped battleground, before the enemy started patting. Head, shoulders, knees, toes—still there. Still there. The Haven promises the something it steals. 

“Explain for we lowly, fictional characters,” Nefaria demanded closure. 

John didn’t know where to start, so he began with the word: “K’s something is ‘home.’ Disillusionment struggled against a sweet-tooth’s attraction to artificial affection. Look—his smile’s still there. Something’s changed. The Haven doesn’t do change; he’s invincible.”

“Good for him,” she nodded. Emergency lights powered on, staining blown pupils red. Tears rushed to put out the searing wildfire. Nefaria Farland’s manmade brand of violence rendered his romantic gesture to a stutter. 

“Let’s run away together,” he proposed. Knees weak—epidermis continued its slow crawl across exposed nerves. The Blue’s anesthetic deep sleep preferred dreamy delusions of closeness. Hands reached out to catch red, but he missed. She dodged. 

“That’s the story's present arc.”  

A prosthetic leg squeaked to a stop, stomping out the moment’s spark. “Dr. Huang’s  spiraling,” Argos, Christian, spoke. Visible alarm caused lip spasms. “It’s unnerving”—obviously. “Feeling better?” Christian was.

June took medical liberties affixing rubber to right stump. Basements are meant to keep mad science experiments under wraps. Speaking of mad, Dr. Huang spiraled in a well-greased chair. “Three; feasibly recoverable. Ruptured spine. Requirin’ elasticity. Duct tape? Dr. Kim—yur thoughts?” Unnerving proved an accurate description. Something was off. 

“Security logs report a Cù Sìth, Sirius, and Fenrir picked up at Cusp’s End. The Underground-wide Stray recovery effort is preceding as planned,” Minseok announced behind suspended tubing, empty flasks, crumpled paper: scattered scraps of a brilliant mind. “T-minus two hours until power returns to every floor. We move in 10—lock Him out, K.”  

K clicked away at the mad scientist’s terminal, looking positively rebellious. Transporting the good doctor and Christian to the Tower required a little finagling. Manipulating a White Coat directive in Johnny’s register proved a daunting task. He accomplished both with ease, and his head of sprawling, golden locks was full to bursting. 

“Any noticeable withdrawal symptoms surfacing yet?” June shone a flashlight into Jongdae’s eyes, reasoning, “A common side effect of ADS is hypersensitivity to bright light.”

“How apropos,” Jongdae laughed, teary-eyed.

White Coats strove to maintain law and order in the cafeteria. Dog whistles screeched in spurts; construction sapped telecommunication between floors. Hun led the charge against Johnny’s efforts to temporarily contain straying Black Coats during blackouts. Angels who dropped to cackling stun batons were reinforced by endless fair-feathered brethren. Raphael formed friendships to contend with the society’s promises—a master of symbiotic partnerships.

Discontent fermented over decades of institutionalized apathy spilled out by the gallons. Milk, ketchup, gravy; Han landed face first into the sloshy mixture coating white tile. Sticky wings unfolded, landing a resounding smack to riot gear. 

“Evolution’s never tasted sweeter!” Han bellowed. Chest puffed. Claws tearing through faltering front lines—he fought to destress.

Starving, separated from his twin in a freak hog carriage accident, Hun accepted “Raphael’s” mantle to survive. Shisa are genetically encoded with a fatal dependency on others. The Haven exists for dog-kind. “Raphael, Uriel—I don’t know those people,” Han gave Jongdae a lecture on, “Time. Give me some, Hun.” 

But Jongdae knew that flighty women thought bigger in an instant. Nefaria held her own, dishing out plates, trays, and silverware to any who dared to cut in line. Pincer formation halted by flung ceramic, the White Coats soon fell back. Jongdae pilfered an access card, and the small rebellion visited the residential, industrial, and secretarial floors of the Tower.

Raphael and Uriel enlisted every able-bodied Black Coat searching for something special to fight for. 

Black Coats crowded the 12th floor; 200 pairs of eager ears awaited Michael’s iconic inflection. “The Elysian Address:” later generations of homo homo sapiens would label the momentous speech for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. While few could define the former two, Minseok’s something was a never-ending chase for the latter.

“166 years ago, the Haven birthed a new species. It spoke intelligibly, reasoned consciously, and developed the morality of the congregate: what’s good for all is good for one.

“Now we, its brothers and sisters, are forced to question if this Society’s moral foundations act in our interests—or its own. We were crafted by necessity to explore the world our creators destroyed. We have caged ourselves, limited ourselves, to this penultimate directive. Hundreds gave their lives to accomplish this ‘commendable’ mission.

“But hundreds more lost something—some piece—some portion—some chunk—of themselves. These men and women have names and numbers aplenty. They left their names and numbers to future men and women: walking tombstones due to bolster a foundation centuries old. It is time for us, the living, to choose our legacies. In here or out there; pick your poison and swallow it whole. We act in extremes because good is never good enough.” 

Jongdae woke up to the sound of bottles crashing to the ground. 

Not all too unpleasant; sleep sat stranded on a sea of ever-present noise. Gentle waves had gently rocked its hull. At a distance, Fay spoke in tongue. Softness begetting softness. Doubles—entendre—for each head. 

“Let me be mad for you:” her single, coherent rambling.

Minseok’s head bobbed up to meet her—lips: pink softness layering softness. Floundering for air to breath beneath the madness, Jongdae turned three other cheeks. Gabriel, carried to his side by necessity and 100 dozing—drifting—new strays into 1 room on the 12th floor, said nothing. Some things never change.