Chapter Text
Another meeting with Fitzgerald. The date of his plan to destroy Yokohama with the Moby Dick was rapidly approaching, yet I hadn’t anticipated him talking about that boy as much as he did. Specifically, for him to complain about how utterly useless he was.
“I’m glad I fired him–I want you to know that–but it’s been such a pain in the ass to have my employees pick up all the shit he used to be responsible for. I hadn’t realized he did so much! For example: when I want a coffee in the morning, I have to get Louisa to stop working so she can make it for me! Doesn’t taste the same, either. But I suppose losing decent coffee is a fine sacrifice for how much I save without it on payroll.” He punctuates this with a sip from his ornate teacup, one of many.
I wasn’t paying attention to his complaints, not that he cared to begin with. Francis often speaks just to hear his own voice. He is a man who cares not for the opinions of others, something I can resonate with. What he does care about is limited to money, status, and his family- something I cannot resonate with.
To me, money is completely useless. The power it has over people is more trouble than it’s worth. The control it gives you over others is simply a byproduct of the control it has over you. It’s a social construct, just like morals or the idea of a country, but it still has agency over both of those. Money can change someone’s morals, and it can break a country down to nothing in a fraction of the time it took to be built. Abstractly, that’s what Fitzgerald is doing to Yokohama.
Status also bores me. Again, too much trouble for what it’s worth. It’s something that requires constant upkeep, a facade that only exists for narcissistic reasons. Status as a concept only matters to the person it belongs to and it’s an incredibly vague idea anyway. Again, a meaningless concept that gives someone comfort in the idea that they have control over something.
Family is different. I have little need for people who don’t serve me, and I’ve found that unconditional love from a parent is never truly unconditional. You still have to exist to please whatever idea they have of you, or you will be subject to punishment for existing as a person instead of their child. Yes, there is a difference between being someone’s child as opposed to a person they are the parent of. It’s highlighted in the word itself, you exist as an extension of the parent. I dislike that idea, thus, I dislike “family” as a concept.
“I never really needed that “Director” ability, either.” Fitzgerald continued. “It wasn’t very well-suited for the guild, really only applicable for crime and torture. I got to see it in action a few times. While it’s interesting, I can’t imagine something who willingly does that stuff would ever be sane.”
My ears did perk up slightly when Fitzgerald mentioned Director. Despite reading about all the Guild’s abilities at length, Director was the most vague, which made it the most interesting to me. The nature of the ability itself is incredibly interesting. The disconnect of the mind and body through his control fascinates me. Fitzgerald is adept at using people, it’s very out of the ordinary for him to see someone as a lost cause.
“I know he’s young and fucked in the head, but I didn’t think he’d be so insanely clingy. Louisa mentioned that it came from a school with quite a few abuse allegations. Guess that could be the reason why, but it was constantly waiting for me to validate its existence. I could never catch a break.” He groans and rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his teacup.
“He craves your validation,” I replied, finally engaging in this conversation. “I imagine that could have been of some use to you.”
“Ha! Wasn’t worth the trouble! Only issue is that we replaced him with Q, who’s gone now. What a pain.”
His boisterous laugh often fills the room. There’s no question as to how he gained the influence he does. The charisma he wields is second in power to his ability. Fitzgerald’s ability to gain the trust--or at the very least, admiration--of the common man is commendable.
“I would imagine Q is more trouble, a loose cannon. They’re similar to Rory, no?”
“Yeah, but at least Q knows they’re difficult. Rory does too, I guess, but he’s so preoccupied with his fear of people being mad at him that he can’t take any initiative. If Q’s a loose cannon, Rory takes too long to fire off. I like having people work for me because I can work with people. I can’t work with a sniveling ball of fear.”
I passively stirred the tea in front of me, the boy stuck in my mind.
He lamented about Rory in some fashion at nearly every meeting we’d had. He once even interrupted a conversation we were having to walk out into the hallway and yell at the boy for something I couldn’t hear. Yet whenever Fitzgerald complained about how he didn’t fit into what was best for the guild, I would imagine how he could be useful for the Rats, or even Decay of the Angel. Fitzgerald’s opportunistic habits seemed to have rubbed off on me, for each of his complaints would transform into a glowing review.
To everyone he has met, Rory has been treated as nothing. He has been treated this way to such an extent that he believes it. The notion has evolved to such an extent that it is now true. The only thing that could make something from nothing is the lord. I have spent my life picking up on every sign he has delivered to me so I can carry out his wishes for humanity. This too, is a sign.
“Anyway, enough about Rory. You have the new remote, right?” He extended his palm across the table, resting his elbow down, nearly knocking over the sugar bowl.
“Yes, I do.” I pull the box out of my coat pocket, placing it in his hand. “You are aware that it exists as the opposite of a dead man’s switch, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah, if someone tries to stop the impact, it activates it anyway. If I have some kind of change of heart or whatever, it’ll be too late.” He opens the box, inspecting the remote.
“I only wanted to be sure you understood.”
“So, about your payment. What do you want? Cash? A favor?” He nonchalantly placed the remote back into the box, and the box into his briefcase.
I bring the teacup to my mouth. The question itself was difficult to answer. I don’t have faith in the idea that his plan will be successfully executed. I won’t be able to receive a favor from an organization that won’t exist in a week. Money, again, is trivial to me. I have no use for it. However, there is something he knows about that I would have use for. I place the teacup on the saucer.
“Tell me about Rory. You wouldn’t want him to share any information about the Guild’s activities, so you would surely have eyes on him somewhere and know where he is.”
Fitzgerald pauses, making a confused face before laughing again.
“Rory? Really! I wouldn’t have expected that from you. I could probably have Louisa bring over his file, I think he’s sleeping under a bridge somewhere...” He chuckles before making a call on his cellphone, and a nervous young woman runs into his office just a few moments later holding a manilla folder with a photograph of a teenage boy paperclipped onto the front. He takes it from her, extending it to me.
“He’s all yours. Guess he could be more convenient for you, considering everything the rats get up to.”
I take it from him, getting a closer look at the file. The photo appears to be a school picture. The boy has skin so pale that it matches his shoulder-length white hair almost perfectly, two black braids that frame his face, and dark under-eye bags. He’s smiling, but not correctly. It’s the smile of someone who had to manually learn how to do so rather than someone whose smiling comes naturally. The name written on the thick file is “Rory O’Breene.”
I thank Fitzgerald as he makes another call to start the Moby Dick’s descent.
--
It begins to rain as I leave the airship, so the woman from earlier hands me an ink-black umbrella. The way she holds it out is inconvenient, holding the sharp top of it as she extends it in front of her, making as much space between us as possible.
“Do you want us to call a car for you?” She peeps, terrified of accidentally touching me or speaking out of turn.
“I have no need for that. Please tell Fitzgerald that I’m thankful for his hospitality.”
She fervently nods and patters off as I exit the airship, opening the umbrella and making my way off the shoreline the Moby Dick docks at, one that’s both heavily guarded and hidden behind an empty shipyard.
I’d already read through the file in its entirety by the time the Moby Dick had landed, making me privy to the boy’s location and other interesting information about him. Fitzgerald had greatly underplayed the extent of Rory’s abuse, though that was something I’d already known due to the behavior he described. There were a few mentions of violent outbursts, self-destructive behavior, and frequent intense mood swings in the record. Again, something I had already anticipated.
As it turns out, the teacher who had been responsible for that abuse was none other than his own mother. Rory had been adopted by her at eight whilst enrolled in her class at his boarding school, one that he remained at until he was fourteen. He was scouted by the guild a year ago after an unnamed incident. The abuse occurring under an authority figure who then became his legal guardian put him in a place where he had nothing to escape to. I nearly laughed at how Fitzgerald saw his fragile mental state as an inconvenience rather than an incredibly useful tool.
His need for a safe place, his compulsion to cling to any form of stability was indicative of how the bridge that he currently lived under was only half a kilometer away from where the Moby Dick would dock at. While I assume he had some money from his time at the Guild, finding somewhere to live as a foreign minor would be incredibly difficult, if not impossible. I’m sure Fitzgerald knew that, yet he threw Rory out anyway.
It was a terrible strategic choice. In the state Rory exists in, he is no more than a weapon that’s easy to use, one that comes with very descriptive instructions and little maintenance. Rory can do anything you’d ask of him if given the most basic of necessities, attention, and praise. However, Francis may have decided Rory wasn’t worth the effort needed to make him useful. I imagine many others have felt the same way.
Walking down the grassy hill where the bridge was situated, I was greeted by the boy sleeping under a blue camping tarp. Around him was all manner of trash and other litter, predominantly empty water bottles, snack wrappers, and orange peels. He was caked in mud, the white in his hair barely discernible now. Next to his head lay a canvas satchel and kitchen knife.
I tread closer, simply watching the boy sleep until a particularly loud clap of thunder woke him. When he shot up, his eyes landed on me. They were not filled with fear or anger as one would expect, but instead a resigned compliance as his body stilled and his face lay completely blank.
“Hello, Rory.”
“Who are you?” He responded groggily. Blinking asynchronously, he takes a filthy hand to rub his tired eyes.
“My name is Fyodor. I hear you’re looking for work and accommodation.” I close the umbrella and kneel to meet his gaze.
“Are you with the guild? Did Mister Francis change his mind?” He sounds somewhat excited, and I am amused by how someone like him can still feel hope so easily. He has a giddy smile on his muddy face, cheeks and nose bright red from the cold.
“No, but he is a colleague of mine, and we have similar goals.”
“Ah.” He says, so disappointed despite how his hope only lived for a few seconds.
“I’ve heard much about you from Fitzgerald, but I believe that he didn’t understand how capable you are. You carry a lot of potential that he didn’t see. I would like to invite you to work for me. I will give you somewhere to stay, I will feed you, and I will let the world know how powerful you are.”
“You think I’m strong?”
“I know as much. I’m prepared to give you a good life if you work for my organization.”
He stares at me with pensive eyes, silent. Looking me over, looking around him, refusing to make eye contact with me. He need not answer, I knew that this was an offer he couldn’t refuse. As if to reinforce my thoughts, he then begins folding up the tarp and placing it in the satchel, picking up the knife and placing it in the satchel.
Seeing him uncovered by the tarp, he is even more sordid than previously assumed; He is clad in only a large T-shirt and shorts. Peeking through the mud caked on him are splotches of purple, blue, red, and yellow that cover every open space of skin. They’re most concentrated around his forearms and shins, and the skin on his grimy knuckles is scabbed over. His upper arms are bruised differently, in the shape of bites.
“I can have food and a bed and stuff?”
“You can have more than that if you’d like. I know you had a very difficult time with the Guild, and before that.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I know a lot about you already.”
“Did Mister Francis tell you everything?”
“He did, yes.”
“Well, he’s probably wrong. I’m not nearly as bad as he says.”
He starts to fiddle with the seam of his T-shirt, one of those raglan shirts with a logo on the front reading “Swanton Berry Farm: Davenport, California.” It’s worn, the hemlines are torn in places and the red sleeves have faded to a lighter pink color.
“Do you not have proper clothes?”
“No, I don’t. Mister Francis bought all my clothes. He took them back when I was fired. This is what I had when I joined the guild.” He picks up the satchel and stands up, teetering back and forth for a few moments before regaining balance.
“Would you like proper clothes?”
I knew this would be a possibility when I took him from Fitzgerald, that I would have to raise him. It was something he hadn’t considered when hiring a child. Children are one of the only pure things that humanity has to offer, and they have to be raised well to become good adults. Rory’s usefulness was stunted because he was treated as a tool instead of a person.
I see him as a tool myself, but I can still acknowledge the truth of the matter, that Rory is a child who needs to exist in an environment where he can be both a child and of use to me. There exists an innate hope within both the concept of a child and the child itself; A hope that seeped through all the cracks within Rory, cracks that were caused by all the people who previously broke him, cracks that existed because he was forced to piece himself back together.
When repairing something once shattered, some pieces will become too small for you to replace. The fixed object can still be salvaged without it, but without those small pieces, it also becomes smaller. Rory has been shrinking for a very long time, a fact everyone but him is aware of.
“Yes, I would. I don’t care what I have to wear. Thank you very much.”
He still refuses to look directly at me, Knees rested to the ground, arms placed to his lap, and head tipped upwards slightly. It’s a similar position to how someone sits when they’re praying.
“I don’t know if I will be able to purchase clothing on short notice. However, I surely own something that could fit you. I hadn’t thought that Francis would repossess something as trivial as clothing.”
“I’m sorry you have to do this.” He mumbles quietly.
“Why are you sorry?”
His eyes open very wide at this, and his breath hitches. I can see how he’s hyperventilating. I know that he’s making his breathing as shallow as possible so I won’t notice. He cannot speak, but it doesn’t matter as I know how his mind is racing, and I can hear every thought that runs through it. More importantly, I know why. He took what I said as a command, as I knew he would. I put pressure upon his cracks, I splintered them further just to see what else could come out.
“You have no reason to be sorry.” I continue, stopping him. “I am the one who offered.”
His reaction stopped just as suddenly as he began. He simply returned his gaze to me, silently nodded, and followed me to the street where I called a taxi to my home. It was abnormal for me to keep someone so physically close to me despite how recently I’d met them, but Rory was also abnormal. Keeping him at my home meant that I could more closely observe him and put him in a situation where betrayal would cause him to lose everything. Children, by nature, are impressionable and forgiving. Even someone like Ivan cannot compare to that.
--
The taxi ride was long. Rory fell asleep mid-way, resting his head on my lap. It was strange, akin to how animals will lie on their back and bear their stomachs when they trust you. They trust you not to hurt them where they are most vulnerable. From everything I had known about him, everything I could have predicted, I hadn’t expected this. It was such a far cry from what I’d been told, that he was this intolerable and unruly beast that could snap at any moment. The truth of the matter is that he possesses a pure faith in humanity and other people. He believes that if he is kind to others, they will be kind to him. He believes that if someone is kind to him, they will never have an ulterior motive.
He trusted me immediately, just because I had offered him basic kindness and somewhere to sleep. He saw this transaction as such a rare opportunity that whatever came later would be worth it. Ironically, the condition he upholds in our agreement is unconditional trust. Something like him is refreshing and different. He exists in a world so distant and unlike my own. It’s a novelty.
The manner in which he engaged with me was distinct. He looked for a figure whom he could trust unconditionally, one who wouldn’t hurt him. In searching for this figure, he would trust anyone if there was even the smallest chance that he would eventually be right. He was content to be hurt again if there was a chance he wouldn’t be. The hope he possessed could only grow from a situation of true despair, a concept not lost on me.
He knew that he deserved love and kindness, but he hadn’t experienced either of those concepts properly. He longed for the vague idea instead. He had no idea what those concepts entailed, and when presented with something like housing, food, clothing, and employment- he saw that kindness as too much, it was something he could never deserve. This sense of Sehnsucht, the vague yearning for something he didn’t fully understand but consumed him whole nonetheless, did strike a chord with me.
Yet, here he slept. I could feel his rhythmic heartbeat as my hand rested on his back that rose and fell with every soft breath. Underneath the dirty T-shirt, he was warm. On occasion, he’d twitch or mumble and I would fear that I’d somehow wake him, but he would return to his peaceful state in time for me to perish the thought.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why exactly is that kid here?” The driver said, interrupting my thoughts. “Is he yours?”
His voice was wrought with suspicion, as if he’d call the police the moment we left his car. He glanced at Rory from the rearview mirror. The wrinkles on his aged face deepened when his eyebrows furrowed and he anxiously waited for me to respond.
“Hm? Oh, yes, he is! He ran away a week ago, he was worried that I would be angry over him failing his exams.” I fake a chuckle. “I was more worried that I would never see him again.”
“Ah, I see. You two have a strong resemblance, I should have guessed. Still, you can’t be too careful these days. With everything going on, and all.” His eyes returned to the road. “I hadn’t heard about a runaway, though.”
“Well, with all the press about the Guild, he unfortunately flew under the radar. When I’d heard about the Yokohama attack, I was so terrified that he’d been one of the casualties.”
Lying has always come naturally to me. To be frank, it is one of the few things in this world that entertains me. I enjoy playing with what we consider to be reality; What we consider to be true or false, fact or fiction. Lying for fun is much more enjoyable than lying for necessity, such as in situations like these. Currently, I needed this man to remain quiet for the rest of the ride, and to be haunted by guilt for the remainder of his pitiful life at the fact that he doubted the poor, innocent father of a missing child.
“I felt so ashamed when I found the letter he’d written, saying how he had disappointed me, how he didn’t deserve to live in my home. The police couldn’t help, due to the threats being made by the Guild. They hadn’t enough time or manpower to allocate to him and implied he may have simply committed suicide. I couldn’t sleep a minute while he was gone, I had to search for him myself.”
He remained quiet for a few moments as his chapped hands gripped the wheel tighter. When he opened his mouth to speak, I continued, interrupting him.
“Even if they were right, I couldn’t rest knowing he was out there, somehow. I’m a single father, (his mother passed away when he was young) and he’s become my whole world since. I couldn’t imagine going on without him. It was so horrific, I wouldn’t wish this pain on anybody. I’m just so thankful to have him back, I’m so overjoyed that my prayers were answered.”
The driver let out an uncomfortable sigh before reaching the rear-view mirror and turning it to look at me, my eyes, my demeanor. To analyze whatever emotion I was presenting, to confirm a theory, to soothe himself. A last-ditch attempt to perhaps prove my lie, to call my bluff. I stare into his eyes through the mirror, dejected. His hands return to the wheel.
“I’m sorry I brought this up.” He said quietly. “It’s clear how much you love your son, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful or antagonistic.”
“Oh, it’s perfectly fine. You didn’t know, you had a right to be suspicious.”
I did relish in the uncomfortable silence that lingered in the taxi for the half-hour it took to arrive at my house. A beautiful abode, one I had owned for many years due to my frequent trips to Yokohama. It’s at the foot of a mountain in the neighboring city. You can see the ocean from the backyard, where there is a single apple tree. During every autumn that I’ve spent in that house, I’ve always been busy when it comes time to pick the apples. When I do find time, it’s too late and they’ve all rotten.
The house itself is made of brick, overrun by the lush greenery surrounding it. It used to be a chapel. All manner of vines and ferns have clung to both it and the surrounding stone walls. I had chosen it also due to the seclusion, being located at the end of a street with no other properties. The interior had four bedrooms, one having been converted into a library, another being used as my bedroom, and the other two being left unused aside for the occasional guests.
The chancel and nave were somewhat intact, aside from my removal of the pews. The podium and structure of the room make it convenient for meetings, and I don’t care about interior design enough to change anything else. My main draw for this property was the large basement and the beautiful stained-glass windows, something I’d never change. They depict Christ and five saints: Saint Mary, Saint Sebastian, Saint Agnes, Saint Paul, and Saint Rita. Mornings (when I’m not working,) are spent in the nave drinking tea and enjoying how the sunrise pours through the glass, coloring the room.
The basement has been converted into an office, a mess of wires and monitors. It’s the only thing in my life that isn’t meticulously organized, at least in the general understanding of the word. Countless documents are strewn across desks, but I can pick out whatever I’m looking for in a matter of seconds. It’s unlit aside from the violet hue of screens and computer cases, akin to a cave.
Upon pulling into the driveway, the driver apologized yet again for inconveniencing me and made yet another comment about how happy he was that I had found my “son” and that I was an incredible parent. That time, I was thanking the lord, but only for the fact Rory had been asleep when he said that.
--
I gave Rory a simple tour and told him what he was meant to do now that he lived here. Simple chores, such as cleaning both the dishes and the room he’d be staying in, purchasing groceries, and making meals for himself. He eagerly nodded along at all of this, and when we arrived at the backyard, he was entranced by the apple tree.
“We had an apple tree at my house! I used to climb on it and there was a swing attached too, I think!”
He ran over to it, through the unkempt grass and weeds, and looked up at the branches. The sun had set by now, making it difficult to see. Despite this, he could distinguish the fact that apples were nearly ripe, and I could distinguish how this insignificant part of my backyard reminded him of a time when he had felt safe and loved.
“You can pick the apples when they’re ripe, I believe it will happen in the next few weeks.”
“Are you sure?” He asked, eagerly turning back to me. “Do you think we could make pie? I haven’t had it in years, I bet it would be delicious.”
The word “we” was cleverly hidden in the sentence, alluding to the idea that I would join him in this activity. I would not.
“If you’d like. I don’t enjoy pastries. You’d have to eat it yourself. Come on now, I don’t want you tracking mud in.”
He nodded at this, and ran back, wiping his feet on the doormat. I then showed him the washroom and gave him a stack of towels and a pair of pajamas I bought years ago for an old roommate that I now kept for the more frequent guests. (Such as Gogol and Ivan.)
Regardless of how much I liked him, he was entitled to basic hospitality. He would be much easier to control if simultaneously kept at arm’s length and dependent on me. I see this as an equal trade for the power he has. In giving him a place to stay, food, clothing, and attention, I receive something much more valuable in turn. Yet–and I hate to admit it–I do pity him. He exists as an almost physical manifestation of the good humanity has to offer, good that has suffered from the evil that has plagued this world for too long.
I ventured into the attic. I had brought the clothes I had worn during my childhood to this house with my other possessions. I hadn’t the time nor reason to sell them, and they were ultimately resigned to my attic to collect dust amongst the other keepsakes and valuables that I and previous residents owned. Sorting through clothes, finding things that I assumed would fit him or that he would find comfortable- it struck me as odd.
I believe my concern came from how new this concept was. Caring for another person, even in a superficial way. There are many people who are dependent on me to exist, but they depend on me because I want them to. There is a difference in choice between breaking someone down to nothing so I may build them up in such a way that their life is meaningless without me, as opposed to someone who is so infinitely helpless that if I am not there for them they very well may die. It’s quite an interesting paradox. I take a pair of dress shorts, a blazer, a button-up, and oxford shoes from the box before making my way downstairs to the guest bedroom.
--
I made pasta for dinner. I find myself too wrapped up in work to purchase groceries or properly cook, but spaghetti keeps from spoiling for months and is simple. I have no metric for the quality of food simply because I do not care, but Rory seemed to enjoy it. Whilst trying to shovel mouthfuls of food into his mouth as quickly as his hands will let him, He’s being careful to not get olive oil on his pajamas. They’re rolled up at the sleeves and far too baggy, I hadn’t considered that they wouldn’t properly fit him.
“You should work on your table manners.”
He shoots his head up at this, quickly swallowing and wiping his face with a napkin.
“Sorry, this is just super good, I like it. Thank you.”
He returns to his plate, now slowly eating his food with significantly better posture. After finishing the meal, he takes his plate to the sink, washes it, dries it, and puts it away. He turns back to me and sits down at the table. I hadn’t paid attention, but he tied the hair at the sides of his face back into two braids like in the photograph on his file. Unlike the photo, however, was that his long hair was considerably more choppy. Short around the top and sides of his head, longer at the bottom.
“Can you ride a bike?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah, I can. Haven’t in a while, though. Why do you ask?”
I take out my notebook, tear a sheet of paper from it, and hand him a pen.
“You’re going into town tomorrow. That’s your first chore. I’ll give you money for groceries and necessities, such as pajamas that fit you, other clothing, et cetera. Make a list of things you need.”
“It’s not a big deal, I can still wear these. I don’t mind.” He responds, pushing his sleeves up to take the pen and paper.
“I mind. We made a deal. Those are the guest pajamas, and it wouldn’t be fair to treat you as a guest considering you live here now.”
He looks up at me confused, as if he weren’t present for our conversation on this matter.
“You’re still a child, and it’s my responsibility to accommodate your basic needs. You are not self-sufficient, despite what Fitzgerald and others have expected of you.”
He continues staring, furrowing his eyebrows, frowning slightly, and looking to the side. He blinks twice before returning focus to the paper, scribbling a few things down, and then looking back up at me.
“So, what do you do? You mentioned being like Mister Francis, but now you say you aren’t.”
“We’re both looking for the same thing in different ways. In a sense, Fitzgerald works for me.”
“Oh, okay. But you don’t like him?”
“I don’t like how quickly he abandoned you without any regard for how useful you are or the abject cruelty of what he did.”
“Oh.” He seemed shocked at the idea someone felt he was useful, or that he was wronged by an objectively evil choice. He may have even misconstrued my words for empathy or care.
“Like I said earlier, I know you have a considerable amount of potential that he didn’t utilize, and that you are unaware of. My organization- The Rats in The House of The Dead, has other gifted members. You’ll likely meet them soon, at some point. As of right now, I think you and Director are in a separate league compared to them.”
“Mister Francis told you about Director?” His eyes lit up at this praise, and a soft smile crept up on his face.
I am ceaselessly amused by how easy it is to influence him. Rory is incredibly sensitive, able to be sent spiraling into any emotion through something as simple as a change in behavior or verbiage.
“Small pieces, yes. However, I did my own research as well. It’s very interesting, there exists many opportunities for you to use it with the resources I have.”
“Huh?” He cocks his head. “How?”
“Yokohama is covered in security cameras, I’m sure that you’re aware. They’re something I have access to. It applies to what you actively record, yes? If you were to access the program they run on, you could control someone on a security camera?”
He pauses to think, resting his face in his hand.
“I think so, yeah. I usually just used my camera when Mister Francis asked me to use Director, for like, torture and stuff. It’s not as bad as people say it is. It’s gross to watch, but it’s kinda cathartic. I didn’t like it when Mister Francis made me use it on people who didn’t do anything wrong, though.”
He answered so nonchalantly, completely unopposed to the idea of targeting civilians for whatever I wanted. Considering the added point about how he disliked watching the torture he inflicted, he knew that even if it upset him, he would do anything I asked simply because I was the person asking him to do it.
“That’s good to know. I’m happy to say you’ll only be using it on bad people.”
“Do you have a special ability, too?”
He grins, excited at the idea that I possess something he can relate to, something we could talk about, the very novel idea that we could bond over something.
“Yes, I do.”
“Really? What is it?”
“That’s not something you need to know right now.”
“Oh. okay.”
“I have work I need to do. I’ll show you to your bedroom.”
Rory stands up and follows me to the guest bedroom on the top floor, next to the bell tower. I left a few books in there to keep him entertained, however, I don’t exactly know what teenagers enjoy. I doubt popular tastes would coincide with whatever Rory enjoys, anyway. The books rest on the wooden bedside table next to his bed, twin-sized upon an old wooden bedframe that was left by the previous residents.
He picks up the book at the top of the stack. “Red Dragon?”
“It’s by Thomas Harris. It’s the first part in the Silence of The Lambs” series
Rory sits down on the bed and begins looking at the summary on the back cover.
“I never watched anything in the Hannibal quad aside from Silence of The Lambs because people say the sequels suck. Have you seen it?”
He’s turned to me excitedly, doing everything but outright begging me to say “yes” and talk about it with him. He wants to bond over something, that’s clear, but I won’t entertain that.
“No, I haven’t. I don’t spend my time watching movies.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed, placing the book back onto the stack. “Maybe we could watch it sometime. I think you would like it a lot.”
“You could read the book after you finish Red Dragon. We could talk about that.”
He looks incredibly excited at the idea- smiling and nodding, knocking his fists together. Seeing his knuckles again, I make a mental note to add antiseptic and bandages to his shopping list so his wounds don’t become infected and he can still hold a camera.
“Okay, I’ll read it, and we can talk about it together!”
I silently nod as he crawls under the duvet and quilt. I turn off the light for him when I leave the room and begin to shut the door when I hear him quietly ask something:
“Could you leave the door open a bit? I don’t like dark places.”
I don’t respond to him, but I leave the door open a crack.
“Thank you.”
When I go to my office, I make sure to leave the staircase light on for him.