Final Chapter: Grasping At Strays

“We’re wild dogs. We adapt to survive,” Jongdae hypothesized, succinctly summing up the past two and a half years.

Sand buffed his cheeks, tearing away dried flakes of flesh. His tongue remained relatively wet thanks to the ripped cloth bits wrapped beneath his nose—courtesy of Deo’s jacket hem. Supplies ran low by the time they returned to the Tower; Scylla’s funeral service delayed their departure south. 19.4194° N, 155.2885° W.

Acheron: Lay wanted to see what she died for. But the Hortum doesn’t take kindly to barbarians of yore. Humans manufactured heaven inside a dome because they’d never survive the trials of the promise land.

Dr. June asked for patience, “and I’ll help you get there someday.” And this. And that. And Jongdae knew it was too good to be true.

“Always complicating simple questions with muddy metaphors,” Deo grumbled under the harsh sun. “I asked if you wanted to take a break—not save the world. Well, to each his own.” All soft and smooth to Minseok right after, “What do you think, Shoe?”

A great many decisions hindered on what Minseok thought. Dr. Zitao Huang evaded Orthrus’s wrath, redeemed by his mind’s grace. Magdalene signed her body over to science, arguing, “He’s the sanest madman I’ve met—and I know you.” The Underground could thrive without the Haven for a hundred more years: plenty of time to devise a work around the pathetic excuse for homo sapien genetic code.

“Hun, scout ahead for an oasis. Take K with you,” Minseok directed, leadership qualities inherent to a cattle herder. The two disappeared behind rolling, yellow dunes. It would be a least four more days until they spotted the lush canopies bordering the Screen Sea.

“It’s tier out here than I imagined,” Han commented. Starry-eyed at Beck’s side. Not yet acquiesced to his twin’s get-up-and-scout attitude. “You’d expect at least one hedge maze and two marble, pissing cherubs in a garden.”

“Those some fancy stories ya’ve thought up.” Beck bounced atop a huge, heaving hog, pondering, “They’ve got picture books at St. Theresa’s hole for the Orphan’d an’ Insane?” An inside joke his second hog snorted gleefully at. Beck later swore the latter typically preceded the former.

Insults a welcome distraction from the long trek ahead, Han answered, “Loads and loads; how else could we keep out the draft?”

Imagine two boys disappearing into fantastical lands depicted on crumpled paper. Windows to dreamscapes jammed to fill the holes reality attempted to slip through. Shisa are predisposed to guard against evil: pragmatism. Shoo, unmarked graves! Shoo, creeping death! 0/10 for the garden without at least one hedge maze and two marble, pissing cherubs.

The Spire’s recent transformation exposed its Haven to the elements. Mimes infested every nook and cranny. Their collective buzz caused minuscule vibrations that shook the city’s foundation. Strong enough to send K tumbling over cobblestone. Clouds of insects swiped at his heels, preferring a meal and a show.

“Johnny, please!” he called for help.

Similar tactless lapses marked K’s speech the past two weeks. Han, Yeol, Minseok—who he prayed to remained unclear. But Minseok’s disdain for the misnomer couldn’t be more obvious. Third party to the rebellion’s father complex, Yeol snatched up the floundering wretch first.

“Usra Major, Minor, Aquila, C Something!” Han doted their course, good at following the stars.

Shoes stampeded, stones poking through thin soles. Shoulders smeared peeling yellow, orange, red paint in cramped alleyways. “Capricornus!” Hun’s faraway voice named what Han forgot: a mark of true brotherhood. The older twin picked up the pace, desperate for their imminent reunion.

Atop a steep staircase stood a star and his squealing steed. Ear-popping hums overpowered the approaching buzz, a symphony of brass and wind convening on their location. Tossing his newsboy cap to the ravenous swarm at their heels, hog rearing back meaty hoofs, Beck announced, “Tis only fittin' to feast at the horn o’ plenty!”

Arthropod angels appeared on the horizon. Blanketing the deep blue sky in shimmering emeralds, garnets, jades. Aspira beetles: nature’s, typically hibernating, gemstones set to high-suction. Prerequisites for their perfect meal: 1) a minimum of 500 mimes; 2) per stomach. Older Aspira beetles can develop up to 7.

“Anything else?” Jongdae filled in his journal hours later. “Come again, K?” he asked, unable to hear K’s translation over a passing aspira—the youngling sniffed out another pocket of its prey in the Blue’s linen closet.

“Peanut butter is a natural repellent,” K answered on command, typing away through screens depicting rather sticky scenes.

“That’s not your real name, is it?” Han broached the last subject left untouched. “K.” Clarification to lengthen the uncomfortable exchange. “Adlets get letters—but blokes I’ve met tell me you either stray or stay.” Han is a big-thinker; the confrontation was unavoidable. “We’re gathered here today to honor the brave, the multilingual—? C’mon! Who are you?”

“Even strays have their limitations,” Minseok posed the antithesis behind Christian’s decision to remain with Dr. June. Deo’s dependent idealism. Hun’s lost childhood. Han’s erse morality. Yeol’s voluntary silence. Beck’s skewed speech. Fay’s early death. K’s inability to let go.

Minseok the murderer. Jongdae the—“Can I get back to you on that?” K sheepishly asked Han for an extension to K’s legacy. Let the adlet stay a little while longer.

“We need to make a plan,” Jongdae insisted as he brushed sand from blank pages. Water slipped between his outstretched toes. Lapping Cannon Valley sludge from pant legs. Sunset’s salty breeze prompted hot tears. “Step one: commit to a nondisclosure agreement.”

“I, Minseok Kim, do solemnly swear to forgive and forget 25 years of wishing I wasn’t Minseok Kim,” his laughter mimicked the tune of the Underground ditty Beck sung at the campfire. Casted shadows swayed across the waves: Han and Hun’s interpretative dance. “Done—step two?”

K swore the Spire’s signal pinged Acheron’s transceiver. Turns out 19.4194° N, 155.2885° W was miles off the coast. Deo, Hun, Han, Beck, Yeol, K, Minseok, Jongdae: 4 out of the 7 thought doggy paddling a legitimate swimming technique. So they camped on a scenic beach and bet on dreams an orphan’s storybooks only strive to describe.

If their S.O.S. went unheard, then they would join the rebellion further south. If someone was listening—“Step two,” Jongdae exhaled. “Repeat step one.”

Jongdae looked at Minseok looking at him. 11 and 12: brothers bound by name made inseparable through a series of unfortunate events. Strays striving to choose right. Save the world. Find a place to call home.

“For us, there are no limitations.”

Hours into their celebration, something appeared on the horizon: a ship. Blankets of white stretched across strands of black tethered to a massive hull. At the bow, a woman was carved bare to pierce through the sea’s surface. Recent nondisclosure agreements left comparisons unsaid.

Another woman spoke in tongue over the deck rails. Long, brown locks swaying as the ship docked meters off. Leaving only a transparent surface of shallow water betwixt them. Her question humbled the insignificant insects waiting to be noticed on a sandy windowsill.

“¿Cuál es tu nombre?”