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Mr Benedict doesn’t like it.
He adjusts the tie around his neck, feeling it constrict his throat, and examines his appearance in the floor length mirror. He says mirror - it’s actually a large collection of compacts, pieces of reflective metal and some aluminum foil that Kate’s duct taped together, but it does the job nicely and it’s rather endearing. However, he can’t say the same for his reflection.
He runs his fingers over his hair, perfectly gelled into shape by Constance, and grimaces at the way it doesn’t even shift a centimeter. The suit he wears is nothing like his wardrobe at the cottage back in the inlet - all sharp edges and intended to emphasise his height. The colours are dark, completely different from the warm tones he tends to wear, and the pocket square he wears provides the only noticeable flash of colour at all, a muted shade of currant. He’s no match for someone like Milligan in regards to muscle density, but standing here, looking at himself, he has to accept that he is rather formidable when he wants to be. The whole outfit is creating a person that Benedict can’t ever say he’s ever really been.
Well. There’s a reason for that. It’s not actually intended for him.
These are his brother’s clothes. Even thinking that makes a lump rise in his throat. His brother’s clothes. God.
He’s spent years wondering where Nathaniel had gone, what distant corners of the earth he’d vanished to, hoping and praying and begging that his brother was alright. That he was happy and safe and doing something that he loved. But he’d never thought all those prayers would lead to this - dressing up in his twin’s stolen outfit, hair dyed, just so he could stop his deranged plan to mind control millions across the globe via the thoughts of children. It sounds crazy to say, or even conceive of, but here he is. And that is what he’s here to do. Stop the Whisperer from going global, no matter the personal cost.
He hums slightly and turns back to the children. All four of them are sitting on Sticky’s bed, watching him. “How do I look?”
“Uh…” Sticky blinks a few times, trying to find a polite way to say ‘exactly like your lunatic, manipulative brother’. However, Constance beats him to it.
“Exactly like your lunatic, manipulative brother,” she shrugs. Apparently there’s no nice way of putting it. She hops up from the bed. “Do you all remember the plan?”
“Yep!” Kate responds, jumping to her feet before rolling her shoulders back. “Let’s get this show on the road!” She looks at Sticky. “You are ready to get this show on the road, right?”
Sticky nods. “Yeah.” Since Milligan had washed up on shore, it had been easier to remember why Curtain wasn’t the nicest of men. He’d been on the receiving end of berations and veiled insults since Curtain’s men had found the wreckage of Milligan’s submarine, the man clearly enraged by the thought that someone was hiding on his property and doing it extremely well - Milligan having used Kate’s model of the islet as a guide on where to hide out from the patrols continually hunting for him. Mr Benedict’s sudden arrival had cemented Sticky’s loyalty back to his friends and as they all knew, there was no person on earth more loyal than him. “I lure Curtain to the Whisperer and the rest of you just act natural. That’s when Kate leads Benedict through the vents and he tries to find anything useful that can disable the Whisperer without releasing all the energy and making the island go-”
“Ka-boom!” Kate illustrates the point by quickly separating her clenched fists, flourishing them open as she does so. She hesitates at the look on everyone else’s faces. “What?”
Reynie pauses. “I mean, Kate is right. We need to disable the Whisperer and soon. There’s only so long we can stall him from launching it without him catching us. If this fails, I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“I can put chewing gum in all the server computers,” Constance suggests.
“No!” Kate shakes her head vehemently. “You are not doing that. They’d make Martina clean it all up and I wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks.” She stares at her shoes. “I already feel guilty.”
A moment passes, Reynie and Kate sharing a look. “Well, children,” Benedict intervenes, uncomfortable with the silence and thought of the emotional toll spying has had on the children, “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Okay.” Kate looks up at the vent above her. Agilely, she lifts herself up, dislodges the cover and crawls inside. She peers down at him. “Do you… need a boost?”
“Uh… maybe?” He looks to his right, where Constance stands.
“I’m not helping you,” she responds instantaneously, “you’ll crush me like an ant. Here.” She thrusts one of the chairs hidden under the desk at him. “Use this.”
The wheels squeak somewhat as she moves it and he wonders if it can hold the weight of an adult. Kate seems to notice his hesitation and beams at him. “Don’t worry! I stood on that thing and it really just wobbled a little bit, and only because I had to catch someone.” She glares at Constance who looks utterly unaffected. “Right. You ready?”
“I suppose.” He scrambles onto the chair. It seems like he’s about to hoist himself up, before he looks at the other children once more. “Thank you. For all the work you’ve done and for adapting so wonderfully to everything I’ve put you through. I realise I’ve said it prior but I am truly honoured to have met you all. I hope you can forgive me at some point and if you can’t, I completely understand. You are all astounding children and you are exactly our world needs. So. Thank you.”
“This sounds like a goodbye,” Sticky states uncomfortably.
“Ah. Yes, that was the mood I was trying to avoid.”
“You are a bad speech giver.”
“Constance!”
“What? He always makes it feel like we might die!”
Reynie coughs. “Let’s just try to get through this mission.” He looks up at Benedict. “Good luck, sir.”
“I wish you all luck too.” He smiles. “See you later.” They nod back at him. He looks back into the vent as Kate shuffles back to give him space and clambers inside. It’s oddly spacious, almost as if his brother fashioned it to be a crawl space area, albeit not for an extended period of time. He casts one last look at the children as Sticky replaces the cover, looking at them through the linear grilles. And then, it’s time to follow Kate through the vents, to his brother’s office.
*
He really doesn’t like it.
He had gracelessly dropped down into the corridor once Kate had given him the all clear, having seen Sticky encouraging his brother away from his office with a surprisingly well delivered lie about another possible boat sighting near the inlet. He’d landed on his face and paused in terror that the sound of him colliding with the hard floor might alert someone. However, no one had come, so he’d gotten up, adjusting his tie and pocket square that had gone askew after the fall and offered Kate a thumbs up. She’d repaid the signal with a wide grin, put back the vent cover and then slid away, leaving him alone in front of the door to his brother’s office. Finally, he checked to make sure that nobody was approaching, before pushing the doors open, being faced with his brother’s choice in interior design.
And it is nothing short of hideous. A steel fireplace, not too dissimilar in shape to a CRT TV, blazes opposite to him. Flanking it are strange window seats, formed of a white marble-like substance, the sides ridged and speckled with black dots. There are various blue patterns across the room, all of them conflicting - florals, parallelograms, plain blocks - all in varying shades. Some ugly striped chairs clash violently with deep ocean-hued velvet replicates. But the worst part of the room has to be the bookshelves. An avid reader, Benedict is horrified to run his fingers along the spines of the books on the shelves only to touch flat acrylic. They’re fakes.
He can’t recall any of these touches in his room- no, their room at the orphanage. It had been polished wood, mellow tones, soft and comforting and like a home they’d made together. This is a facade, created to present an impression but wholly devoid of anything personal. The room feels nothing like the brother he used to know. He wonders if that boy even exists anymore. He blinks back the tears that threaten to fall at the thought of the answer being no.
But this isn’t the purpose of his visit. As much as he can spend hours nitpicking the flaws in his brother’s taste in decor, there are bigger matters at hand. He scans the room and then his gaze rests on a black writing desk. He notes the various implements that rest upon it - notepads, a small lamp, a pencil pot of the same colour and other mysterious items. When he moves around it and bends down, he finds that it has multiple drawers installed into it, each with an old gold burnished handle. Opening the one at the top right, he finds papers, meticulously filed and each in his brother’s signature ROT cipher.
“Ah!” he exclaims to himself, tugging out the file furthest from him. He isn’t as proficient as Sticky is in translating code mentally but he has enough skill to begin piecing together the sentences. This one seems to be of little value in disabling the Whisperer as it discusses the layout of the school, the materials utilised to build it, maintenance and upkeep measures. However, he tucks the information away in his mind before putting the file back and looking through the others.
He manages to get through a drawer and a half of papers - each on different topics like wardrobe itinerary, grade boundaries, reports on all the teachers - when he finally comes across a box that contains what he’s looking for. The documents inside are printed on azure paper and the text is white: blueprints. He folds one of the larger sheets out and senses a wide smile coming on as he ascertains that this is the blueprint to the Whisperer. His brother has annotated around it with further modifications and design tweaks but this is it. This is what the children need. This is what they all need. Carefully, he begins to rise to his feet, tucking it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket (not a poor idea on his twin’s part he must admit, very nifty) when unexpectedly, the door behind him swings open. He freezes.
“Dad?”
Dad? He’s a dad?
Wait. No, that can’t be right. He’s pretty sure he’d know if he had a child, considering how many he’s obtained by accident and still kept track of. So, not his. But why would they presume he’s their father unless-
Oh my God. He’s an uncle. The thought sends warmth through his veins and he can scarcely hold back the smile. His brother has a kid.
He turns slowly to face the child, trying to keep his expression neutral, but that proves to be extremely difficult when he takes in the sight of his own nephew. He’s tall and dark haired as well, although Benedict can't figure out if it's naturally straight or been smoothed out with a hair iron. His eyes are expressive and Benedict notes that one hand is clutching a sketchbook. An artist then.
He isn’t exactly sure how to react - on one hand, he has to play the role of a father, acute and caring but used to seeing him daily, whereas on the other, it’s hard to suppress his natural instinct that makes him just want to hug the boy and ask him all about himself. How many birthdays has his uncle missed? When did he get into drawing? Does he paint as well? He’s so caught up in the excitement and thrill of the discovery that he doesn’t notice the way the child is looking at him.
But then, he does. The boy is regarding him with uncertainty, clearly suspicious of something about his father. Benedict feels worry spark in his chest, crushing the impending narcolepsy fit that threatened to wash over him. Perhaps the disguise isn’t as effective as they all thought it was. He glances at his reflection in the wall length windows to his right. What on earth could be wrong with it, he wonders.
“Dad?”
The question makes him turn back to the child - his nephew! - and so he smiles. “Hello!”
The look of mistrust intensifies. “Why are you going through all your papers?” he asks, using his free hand to gesture towards the desk where the drawers are open and a file remains on the floor.
“I was just checking something about the Whisperer,” Benedict lies, trying to straighten his back. The children did say his brother acted formally so he endeavors to correct his language use. “I was concerned that there might be a flaw I overlooked.”
“Right.” The boy pauses. “I was thinking of going to the forest.”
“Of course, my darling boy!” Benedict beams back, growing confused at the way that the boy flinches at the nickname. Must not be in his brother’s lexicon then. The request is simple enough though. It’s a small island and there’s no way his brother could expect his son to stay confined to the limits of the school building. It has to be permitted, especially if he’s asking so politely for permission. “I hope you have a good time!”
The boy stares at the clock and furrows his brow. “Are you sure? It’s nearly 5:30 and you know it’s over an hour to walk there and back even without stopping,” he presses.
“Well, as long as you’re back before dark,” Benedict reasons. That’s something a responsible father would say, right? “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt or lost!”
Somehow, this distresses the teenager further. “I was also thinking of bringing a friend,” he hastily adds. “Reynie.”
Benedict pales. Ah. Reynie has become friends with his nephew. Considering the fact that the boy must already have friends and Reynie has no real need for any more either, it was likely a tactical decision. His stomach twists at the thought of having inadvertently manipulated his only other family member.
Strangely though, the boy seems to relax at this hesitation on his ‘father’s’ part. “So you don’t want me going with a friend.”
“What? No,” Benedict attempts to clumsily cover the break in character, “of course you can take a friend. I was just surprised that you’ve grown so close to Reynard, that’s all.”
His nephew grows stiff at this. He looks Benedict up and down, taking on an odd expression. Putting his sketchbook down on a nearby chair, he steps nearer, stopping only inches away from Benedict. “Are you alright?”
Benedict is thrown. He can’t think of any reason why his nephew would draw the conclusion that he’s unwell. He throws another glance at his reflection and is nonplussed to see that he looks the same as when he stood in Reynie and Sticky’s room - his skin has neither flushed nor paled to an extreme degree, no excessive sweating or heavy breathing and his posture is impeccable. Turning back, he studies the boy’s face. Clearly, to him, something is wrong. If it’s not the physical, it must be the emotional. But how has he been strange? Ticking off a mental checklist, he concludes that he has been convincing as a good father. Friendly, agreeable and just the right level of concern for his boy’s wellbeing. He’s smiled and kept his body language open too. In fact, if he had to sum up his behaviour, he’d call it loving. Then why does his nephew keep looking at him so apprehensively? If he didn’t know any better, he thinks to himself, he’d assume that the boy wasn’t used to such treatment. Why else would the child be so surprised at freedom, at being allowed to go out and have a fri-
Oh.
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. The realisation hits him full force in the chest. His brother has- his nephew is being- oh god. He feels close to being sick. Nathaniel, he thinks, what have you done?
A small cough. He quickly tries to suppress his rising horror, looking back up at the kid. He waits for him to speak, nearly thinking that he imagined the noise, when suddenly the boy asks a question so hushed, Benedict can barely make it out. “Can- can I hug you, Dad?”
The trepidation of the request causes Benedict’s heart to ache. He flings his arms wide. “Of course,” he softly replies, “of course, my dear.” Another second, and then-
His nephew almost crashes into him, throwing his arms around Benedict, seizing hold of him as if he’s afraid that he’ll pull away. Immediately, he returns the hug. Lifting one hand, he soothingly runs his fingers through the teenager’s hair, keeping him close with one warm arm wrapped around his torso. His nephew buries his face into the lapels of his jacket and then, to Benedict’s distress, he begins to cry quietly. However, it's what he says that truly shatters his uncle’s heart.
“You’re not my dad, are you?”
Benedict gently pulls away so he can look at his nephew. He continues to hold him, but moves the hand that was ruffling his hair down to his cheek so he can wipe away the tears that continue to flow. He smiles forlornly. “No,” he finally admits, “I’m not.”
“Then that means-,” the teenager stares at Benedict in shock. “You’re my uncle, aren’t you?”
Benedict nods. “I am. Nicholas Benedict.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” He winces at how terrible that sounds: the fact that his own nephew’s name is foreign to him is appalling.
The teenager doesn’t seem to hold it against him though. “S.Q,” he replies.
“S.Q,” Benedict repeats, “S.Q”. Then, he smiles again, a real beaming smile this time. “What a wonderful name.”
He then promptly collapses.
*
When he wakes up, S.Q is leaning over him, only to startle when his uncle opens his eyes. Benedict blinks a few times, shaking his drowsiness off. He then proceeds to lift himself back up to a sitting position.
“How long was I out?”
“Only a couple of seconds.” S.Q hesitates. “What- what was that?”
“Oh! I have narcolepsy with cataplexy,” Benedicts recites his condition with the air of a man who has had to repeat the diagnosis many times in his life. “When I experience strong emotions - for me, those that are positive - my muscles give out at the same time I fall asleep. Sorry, it can be a bit much for a person who hasn’t seen it happen previously.” Brushing off his jacket, he gets back onto his feet. With consciousness, his positive attitude is restored. “I’m perfectly fine now though, don’t worry.”
“Positive emotions?”
“Yes! Like joy, from meeting you.”
“You… you were happy to meet me?”
Benedict’s smile wavers. He moves over to take S.Q by the shoulders, gazing at him with fondness. “You can’t even imagine how happy.” He lets S.Q soak in the meaning before he speaks again.
“Now, what I really want to hear all about is you!” No longer having to put up the charade of being his brother, Benedict is free to revel in his delight at finding out he’s an uncle. “Tell me everything!”
S.Q looks taken aback at such zeal. “Um, well. I’m adopted,” he starts tentatively, “I’ve lived here most of my life, my favourite animals are birds and I like drawing and painting.”
“I thought so! I saw your sketchbook when you entered. Is it possible for me to look?”
“Oh. I- ah…”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Benedict interjects reassuringly. “It’s okay.”
“Well… I can show you. If you want.”
“Of course I do!”
At his uncle’s genuine enthusiasm, S.Q accedes. He walks over to the chair where he deposited his sketchbook to pick it up. When he pivots back around, he hears himself gasp.
His uncle has completely changed appearance. His hair has been mussed up, creating curls that spill over his forehead. His eyes have softened even further and he slouches ever so slightly, the likeness of prim and proper Curtain eroding to reveal the real man underneath. He can’t say that being around Benedict, even if it’s only been for a short while, has ever made him feel alarmed. However, it isn’t until now, when he first sees his uncle properly, that he feels genuinely safe. It’s the first time in a very long while.
Benedict’s head tilts at S.Q’s unintentional noise. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” S.Q replies, taking a couple of strides back to his uncle, “I was just surprised.”
“Why?”
“You look nothing like him, that’s all.”
It takes a while for the words to fully sink in. Then, Benedict smiles wistfully. “Ah.” He’s pleased to hear that he resembles nothing of the father that clearly has a distant relationship with S.Q, but something twinges at the idea that his brother and him have become so distant. When did he lose his grip? Or rather, when did Nathaniel let go?
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, my dear, I’m fine.” Another moment. “I’m sorry, you were going to show me your art?” He moves to S.Q’s side, standing behind him, glancing over at the sketchbook.
“Oh yeah.” S.Q clears his throat. “They’re not that good, so sorry if they’re disappointing. My dad always says that my shading needs work and I have a terrible habit of always making the lines so sloppy-”
His words are stopped when Benedict places a hand on his shoulder. S.Q is flummoxed to see that he’s smiling sadly again. “Anything you make is wonderful, S.Q. I’m sure I’ll be amazed by all of it.”
All S.Q can do is nod, flipping open the book. On instinct he shuts his eyes, not wanting to see when his uncle’s look of hope shifts into dismay, when he registers that S.Q really isn’t deserving of all this support. He waits. He waits even longer. When nothing happens, he opens his them - only to be faced with a man observing his art with an indiscernible emotion.
“This is yours?” Benedict questions. He looks at S.Q, disbelieving.
“Uh, yeah.”
“How old are you? Seventeen?”
S.Q, to his astonishment, laughs. “Seventeen? I was fifteen when I drew this.” He remembers the way his father dismissively shrugged.I was drawing like that when I was twelve, S.Q. Show me something worth my attention next time. It had been months before he had shown his dad a piece of his art, terrified that another failure would result in being shamed.
“This is…”
Embarrassing? Amateurish? Laughable?
“...phenomenal.”
His uncle gives him a look filled with awe. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He laughs. “Oh my god, you’re amazing!”
“What- why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true! Look at the blending, and oh!” Benedict flips through the pages, his astonishment growing. “Your line work is flawless, mine always used to come out so shaky…” His voice trails off when he realises that S.Q is simply staring at him. “What’s wrong?”
“He never says anything like that.” S.Q laughs bitterly. “It’s always not refined enough, too messy, ugly or… worthless.” The emphasis on the final word implies that this is now about more than art.
Anger rears its head in Benedict. Look at his nephew. A talented boy, so polite, so sweet. His work is something that adults thrice his age can only dream of creating. But his brother has broken him down, stolen the confidence that S.Q should so readily possess. He can't conceive of what someone could say to a child to bring them so low and create such a negative self image. It’s obvious from the way S.Q carries himself, from the way he hunches his shoulders and continually looks down, nervous of incurring his uncle’s wrath, that he doesn’t believe himself worthy of any form of praise. It fills Benedict with a fury that he so rarely bears and it takes all of his strength to repress it for another time, lest his nephew believe that his uncle’s rage is aimed towards him. He scans the mountains outside, taking the time to calm himself, before he looks back at S.Q. “This all must be a lot for you,” he acknowledges, placing the sketchbook down on the desk.
“Uh. Yeah, it is.” S.Q’s mouth parts, then closes again as if he’s about to let the words on his tongue slip away, his uncle watching him patiently. A few more seconds, until finally, he speaks.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry?”
“My father always said you were a terrible person. That you left him, that you abandoned him,” S.Q finds his uncle’s gaze with apprehension, “that if you were to ever show up, it would be to foil his plans. Is that- is that what you came here to do?”
Benedict pauses, letting out a low sigh. “Yes.” When S.Q’s eyes widen, fear passing through them, he hurries to clarify. “Yes, but only because I need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“S.Q… your father- my brother, his work,” he struggles, the words stumbling out in a mess. There’s no painless way to put it. But his nephew is owed the truth, something that only Benedict can provide for him. Therefore, it requires a very Contraire approach. Brutal honesty.
“He is the creator of the Emergency, which he has entirely fabricated through sending out subliminal messages to the public, executed through the use of the Whisperer and Messengers.” He winces at the memory of Constance telling him and the group of the blue beret issue back in Stonetown. “While he currently has been employing the Emergency just to spread discontent, we have a reason to believe that he is preparing to mind control the populace of Stonetown and possibly the whole world.”
A hush. Benedict pauses, shaken by how easy such a terrifying concept is to say and S.Q still trying to process it all. When he finally does, he stares open-mouthed.
“What?”
“I know I sound insane, but I would never come here to harm his plans if I didn’t believe they had nefarious intent. As much as I wish that he was planning anything else, it’s true. You deserve sincerity, S.Q, but I understand if it’s all a lot to take in.”
S.Q hesitates. Almost a thousand emotions flash over his face - confusion, regret, indignation being just a few - until it returns to a look of near neutrality. His uncle could believe that the revelation meant nothing to him, if it wasn’t for the grief in his gaze betraying him. “Are you sure?” His voice quivers, desperation creeping in. “Are you sure? ”
“Yes.” Benedict swallows harshly, his mouth tasting bitter. “Yes, I am entirely sure.”
It’s a terrible feeling watching someone realise that their life is a lie, but it is a thousand times worse when they are someone so important to you. He can see the way S.Q trembles, how he sways ever so slightly, like the weight of what he’s just discovered is too much for him to hold up. Tears start to pool in his eyes and he blinks fiercely to keep them from falling. Witnessing a child in distress triggers protectiveness to flare up in Benedict and without thinking, he pulls S.Q into another hug.
This time, the boy leans all his weight on his uncle, using the soft warmth of the embrace to shield him. As S.Q nestles into the crook of his neck, Benedict rests his head upon his nephew’s and carefully adjusts his arms to guide him closer. Muffled crying noises pang at his heart and so he lightly rocks the boy as if he was a much smaller child, giving him the affection that he has so clearly been denied. He stays silent, fighting back his own tears, concentrating entirely on keeping S.Q protected, on making sure that he recognises that Benedict is and will always be there for him.
The more attentive he grows, the more the world around him begins to fade out of focus. So when the handle to the office twists to the side, he pays it no mind. When it slowly opens and a man in identical clothing with an identical face carefully steps into the room, Benedict fails to notice. It is only when the man coughs that his head snaps up. S.Q freezes in Benedict’s arms when he too registers who stands in front of them. For a moment, there is silence, nobody daring to move. It’s the headmaster who finally speaks; his voice dripping with disdain.
“Well. What do we have here?”