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It was the dying days of August when Nielton King arrived at the Candlewood Institute. From then on he was twofold, he was simultaneously Susurro and Mr. King.
He was the eldest of what Dr. Everett, the beloved Good Doctor, referred to as the first class, at 19. He and Jane were the only ones not outright treated as science experiments. He had signed up for this, after all, no one else had. Janie, however, was the Good Doctor's daughter, not to mention Mr. and Mrs. Everett's niece; it was only natural that the girl got special treatment.
After three months of living at the Institute, in what would later become referred to as the Aviary, Animus, the boy he had been assigned to look after, found two new projects, in the same place, on the same day in early November, interns of Dr. Everett brought them in. The girl, Viscera, was 16, and soaked to the skin in blood, found to be, evidently, after a trip to the science wing, not her own. The boy, Astra, was 9, flinched at every closing door, and had a strange viscous liquid dripping from his ears. Which was, in fact, found to be his blood. The two were bonded in a way that Nielton couldn't even attempt to understand. Viscera had to be sedated before anyone could so much as look at Astra.
On New Year's Eve of 1962, he and Animus were sent out into the field for the first time, to track down the latest project that Animus had located. It was only the third time he'd ever been outside of Magnus, much less the territories. London was about as different from his own home as oil was from water.
He learned that night, why so many of Candlewood's interns went missing.
They found a girl, maybe a bit older than Mona - should he think of her as Project Lumen now? - although her short stature made her seem younger, even if the ferocity in her dark eyes derailed that train of thought quickly. Her name was Lakshmi Devnath. There were two of her.
Energy Manipulation. He's sure there was some fancy term for it that he should know after all of the Good Doctor's lectures. But the real intrigue of it was that she wasn't fucking with lights or blowing up transistors, Lakshmi, later known as Project Mortem, could call forth the energy of her stillborn twin. She was 'One destructive sonovabitch.' as Animus had so eloquently put it after he had all but put her into a coma.
He hadn't thought too much about the simple fact that the other projects had names. He knew they did, one of them was his own little sister after all. But meeting Lakshmi, nearly having his throat slashed by Lakshmi, hammered home the fact that the others were people, that they were human. Nothing is more human than desperation after all.
After that, things were different. He and Animus had sat together in the back of the private charter plane where Mr. Everett had been waiting for them. He learned that Animus's name was Redmond Bright, that he was from some backwater in Louisiana, and insisted that he call him Red. He had then told Red in turn, that his name was William Nielton King Jr. but that William was a name reserved only for his birth certificate and the nuns at the Catholic school he’d attended, and everyone else called him Nielton.
Red had smiled, with too many teeth showing, and how sharp those teeth were, and told him 'Okay. Kingsey.' with what only could be described as a shit-eating grin on his face.
When they arrived back in Magnus, the new year had begun. He and Red had sequestered themselves on to the roof of the old Grand Hall, as Candlewood became abuzz with its newest addition.
'So Kingsey.' He had said, drowsy from lack of sleep and the flat champagne they had stolen from the long-dead New Year's party in the ballroom.
Nielton had only hummed his response, looking out at the rising sun as it turned the winter morning sky dusty shades of orange and blue.
'Wha'dya think of an eye for an eye?'
Red was holding a butterfly knife out to him.
The first time he had tried to speak to Red, the boy had torn a three-inch wide chunk of skin from his wrist, with nothing but his own teeth. Dr. Everett had made sure that the wound healed well. The intention was clear, eye for an eye, cut for a cut, wound for a wound.
So, as the sun rose on the first day of 1963, blood dripped onto the ancient, cracked slate tiles of the roof of the old grand hall of the Candlewood Institute, as Nielton King sliced a three-inch wide slab out of the skin of Red Bright's inner wrist. With careful hands, he dug out his pound of flesh.
Theirs, it seemed, was a partnership steeped in blood.