or if I go with the otherworld’s calendar—my world’s calendar—then it’s May 29, 2013. Not for one day has it escaped me all the loss I’ve endured in going missing. What Jade must endure however, is far greater for she doesn’t know if I’m missing or dead. And that worry doubles for my brother. I hope Kosta makes it back home ok if that isn’t already the case. As far as I know, it’s both of us out here surviving.
It’s peculiar…I’m still sunburnt and I’ve yet to hunger for food or thirst for whiskey since I last dined with Leonid, David, Zorian, and Baba out on the picnic blanket inside the Dome of the Plebeian. I can’t sleep either. My last nap was upon the tree of mint green leaves. The why to these questions are nominal to the questions I pose today. They shift in importance every day.
Today, the main questions I ponder are what attacked me that Felix rescued me from two Octobers ago? How’s it possible I died and woke up in the past? How can Tommy fly and if Lucas and Ramze are still alive somewhere?
Then I get to thinking that the inexplicable nature of all these things might simply be answered by the fact that I’m dead. Therefore, this path I’m leading isn’t one of the living. It’s one of a zombie’s futile existence. The only other rational exit I see to understanding is to admit that I’ve lost my marbles.
I’m not quite ready to accept any of my marbles are missing. Not because I can’t face denial. I just know something’s amiss and in my acknowledgement of such, I am mentally engaging with my circumstances, working through a problem that can only elicit retrospection from a sound mind. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen when you die. You either go to heaven or hell. That’s what I was taught and what I have faith in is true. I’ve prayed for answers every day I’ve lived in this cell. I’ve yet to receive clarity. Only further questions have arisen. I’ve used bravery to overcome these questions since enlightenment isn’t a possibility in hell.
I came into this cell the same way I’m leaving it, with a will to fight and with white cat ears, jazzed up with slathers of glitter, anchored on my head. They’ve become a part of me like addictive human enhancement technology. Once you’re improved by way of tech, you’ll be afraid to let go of that improvement foreboding you’ll be less than.
To claw my way out of this ditch, I’ve been channeling my feline energy and storing it for the day I’ll need it. If my jailers thought they’d squeeze the anger out of me by keeping me imprisoned, they’re terribly mistaken. It’s only percolated into my consciousness. Every fiber of my being yearns for revenge. Make me a ketchup bottle and see how fast I sell.
The devil and angel on my shoulders keep watch over my cat ears round–the–clock. A reminder that I’m an animal and it’s only a matter of time before I bite. I’ve already bitten myself twice today. The red arched marks prominently seen across either side of my left forearm can be traced back to my initial confrontation with a wavering sense of sanity and an escalating desire for tactile sensation.
One of my cat ears is no longer as pointed as its twin. I nearly shed a tear this morning as I felt it grow flimsier than an onion skin, rubbing it in between my thumb and index finger. I sometimes flatten the tired one out so that it’s not flopping about like my Johnson.
The pitter–patter it makes while I meander gently through the four corners of this cell can get so irritating, I become lost. Into a harebrained swimming pool, I submerge.
On sunny days, I let the worn cat ear flop, counting how many times its tip taps my head. I’ll pace back and forth one hundred times from one end of my cell to the other. The number of taps varies depending on how fast I’m pacing. The record thus far is 951 taps.
Flip, Flop, Thwack!
The sounds repeat in my head like the infinite recycling of energy. Long after I’ve stopped moving, the sound of the cat ear’s tip bouncing on my head still rings with a zeal for healing. A therapeutic song that guzzles me down deeper and deeper into the stomach of the almighty. I’ve yet to dip into the harebrained pool today. I may find in doing so clarity will come out.
Fli, Flo, Thwa!
The trial was a mockery.
I find you Mr. Pitter–Patter in contempt of court.
Mr. Pitter–Patter tries to be frank with the jury. He has a family but Mr. Pitter–Patter’s pleas go unheard. They sink back into a wonted quiet. I follow each vowel into a trap.
It’s quicksand!
A third–party’s reconnaissance reveals who queues for blame. Not for fame but by guilt. That third party is my mind which I’ve misplaced time and time again in one of four corners. Mind against body knows just any quicksand won’t suffice. Why should all quicksand be blamed for the crimes of one?
Why it’s purely Mother Quicksand who’s responsible for kidnap.
The prosecutor would like to remind us all this mind I call mine no longer belongs to one.
Order in the courtroom!
As I tranquilly allow myself to sink with them all, vowels a to u begin to float, bidding their farewells like a harmonic chord progression with a descending bassline. The quintet: a, e, i, o, u whisk away higher and higher into the chromatic jazz blues of a beginner’s piano lesson.
My mind slowly becomes a naturally composed sensory deprivation tank.
The familiar sound of a pet breaks through the fourth wall by having Mr. Pitter–Patter refer to the script on his own stage show in muddled meows. The audience falls silent.
It’s a fiasco!
He’s forgotten his lines!
Mr. Pitter–Patter, you’re a cat’s soundboard. Now please take the trill away.
I hear Caligula trilling without so much as an ounce of reason. For expecting Kosta’s cat to show up and purr in this cell is as desperate as waiting for life’s punchline to drop.
The last comic on earth should be here soon. I need to know this prison game’s a project in reflections of the ego gone south. I rove ceaselessly in my cell waiting for someone to come and save me. Save me from my incessant laughter in which I find myself every now and then maniacally spouting into the void. There goes another laugh I could’ve shared with someone; gone until it hits the wall, boomerangs back into my voice box, and disgorges every few hours.
I’ve become the last comic on earth.
I exit the harebrained swimming pool, drying myself under the ventilator of reason and flicking off the last few drops of lunacy from my fingertips. Too many gibberish fish have taken occupancy in the pool for it to still be metaphorical.
David told me when I first met him that he’d a message for me and that it wouldn’t come easy. I assumed later that day it’d be an offer to join the Immortal Jaguars. I was mistaken. My enrollment into this fraternity was a given.
In accepting the pickle green leaf Baba had given me out in the Dome of the Plebeian, I purportedly accepted their bid. This I realized after recounting my meeting with the platinum blond blessed with minty fresh breath in the Lemon Room showers. He’d looked me in the eyes and what he labeled the ‘mochi leaf’ I was holding, stating, ‘I see you’ve accepted the bid,’ in his own funny way of talking.
The news David was to tell me was spilled by Zorian. Predictably so. It doesn’t take a detective to work out he’s a trumpeter. He’d acquainted his brothers with the truck episode and I starring as lead. I’m disconcert with my performance. An episode that will inevitably flop should it premiere like my left cat ear or that infamous pancake that landed right on Kapish’s face the day I unguardedly entered this cell.
I strongly believe he was on the verge of telling me why the grass out in the Dome of the Plebeian is blue. Not a particularly pressing concern of mine but nonetheless it’s odd. He got scolded by David through a single glance as soon as he voiced, ‘That’s no paint,’ in reference to the blue grass. The words seemed to die in his throat after David’s nonverbal cue. Though I’d be wrong not to think they’re still clutching onto his trachea.
He’d also mentioned his father’s inability to fight off adverse effects in his day–to–day functions. High exposure to inorganic mercury working in a factory below has left his father’s brain bedridden, leaving the door open for another malfunctioning brain to move in in its place rent free.
Unable to ask Zorian why the chemical mercury is present in the underground factory, I’ve sprung up my own theory. I believe that the peaches and cream reputation Baba’s trying to uphold is but a lie (as if his paranoia’s not the sole reason I’m here) but I also believe that the jaguars are using mercury as a catalyst poison.
Chemists use catalyst poisons to reduce the potency of chemical reactions. If so, their science is of goodwill. I’ve trouble leveling sound intentions with the need for secrecy. It’s confidential why mercury is being used by the jaguars. Otherwise, Leonid wouldn’t have been so quick to cut off Zorian unloading his worries about his dad with a remissive nugatory tale about hunting.
I was meant to earn David’s news in completing the first of four rounds the jaguars put their newcomers through before admitting them into one of their fourteen classes. All the same, Zorian couldn’t hold his tongue. The string of events that ensued after Zorian relayed David’s message to me are an explanation for…
Well, for starters this prison isn’t your run–of–the–mill prison. The Prefects who oversee every aspect of the prison system, from management to design, have a dark sense of humor. My cell is located in cellblock 13. Otherwise known as ‘The Housewife’s Corner.’
Each cell at cellblock 13 is modeled after a room from an old hat home décor magazine marketed at the quintessential 1950’s housewife. Cellblock 13 is either a picturesque flashback, a nightmare found at the base of an Irish whiskey bottle, sights reminiscent of a foregone childhood, or an unfrequented atomic test site never made use of.
My individual cell is ‘The Center of Your Life Kitchen.’ A replica of a kitchen with the reputation of the kitchen par excellence for the perfect fifties’ housewife. A highly subjective claim. I believe it to be an imperfect nook in the deepest of holes harboring fruitless creativity. Perfect only to the interior designer if the interior designer in question is downright colorblind.
It comes with a salmon pink vintage dishwasher, an aqua green state of the art stove and oven, a banana yellow retro fridge, goldenrod cabinets, periwinkle walls, red and white checkerboard vinyl flooring, orange–red curtains over a sky blue kitchen sink, and a pink frilly apron with white polka dots hung over a silver hook in the wall.
Next to the apron, a red chrome high pub table with two red chrome high–top chairs is set with polyurethane foam dinner chow. A rotisserie cooked ham, mashed potatoes, chicken and mushroom casserole, garlic parmesan roasted asparagus, fruit salad, and an angel food cake. All elegantly displayed on six pink and blue China plates.
Colorful peonies and butterflies dance around the plate rims making me seethe. Perhaps because I’m the jealous type. Fun in art is real to me. The joyful plates so fiercely contradict my emotions that I can feel them stomping out my last hopes for freedom with football cleats, gleefully relishing in something I’ll never have.
I don’t know why I haven’t smashed any of them yet. Maybe that’s how I’ll kill some time today. I make a one–eighty pivot from a corner of my cell, ceasing poking the synthetic squishy ham, to the body of a woman lying dead on the floor.
...the dead body of the woman I’ve been coexisting with for one year and almost four days now. A body with a mutilated face, lying partway on its side with one hand laid flat over a blade and the other outstretched toward me on the cold checkered floor. Her legs, bent in a downward bending frog pose, are as wry as her neck—bowed unduly over her right shoulder. So bloodied, even to this day, that I’ve become immune to the presence of blood.
Her body’s as fresh as the day she died. A deep brunette with wisps of auburn hair stuck to her bloody neck. Her gray long–sleeved shirt dress, black footless tights, and green single strap thong sandals might as well be fitted on a mannequin. Although two months into my imprisonment I could’ve sworn I saw a toe wiggle. Excessive staring born of boredom will make you see movement where there never was.
One year ago, Felix led me from Church Apple, past the crown room, through the gray halls, and back into the theater. The show was in intermission when we arrived. Burgundy stage curtains concealed the ending scene of Act One. The music playing had an austere art rock sound from the 80s. All jaguars were back to standing now, mingling cheerily amongst one another. This time around, the theater was lit by soft white ambient lighting so that not one jaguar was stowed away in a dark toy box.
My eyes immediately fell upon the large yellow block head in the center of the room. His mask was the largest of them all, floating plainly across the theater. He wasn’t the tallest jaguar but his consistent bobbing to the beat of bells and whistles, mastered within the 80s drum sounds, allowed for enough breaks in the crowd to target him. I felt I should introduce him to the thick coconut in my hand. A slick whack across his yellow block head should teach him a lesson or two.
Somehow, Felix sensed my rage and held my arm back. He snatched the coconut from me after stuffing one of two he already had into his shirt. He pulled his magenta berry tee over it and tucked the shirt tail deep into his green carpenter pants so that the coconut lay snug against his belly. After a minute of searching, he located David and passed me on to his watch, winding down and offering a huge exhalation of pent–up breath as if he’d rid himself of a thorn on his side.
David was still chewing Swamidoss’ ear off but excused himself to attend to me. Before the question escaped me, I asked Swamidoss, beginning to stammer, “B–by chance, have y–you ever created a warthog costume or something resembling the likes of for one of the brothers?”
Swamidoss looked disinterested in my eagerness to know. “Why no, I don’t believe I have.” He crinkled his eyes as if conceding to himself I was up to something.
Felix and David grabbed a hand each. I was led away from Swamidoss into a quieter section of the theater. We happened upon a black baby grand piano occupied by a werewolf, a ninja, and a zombified gingerbread man at the keys. We lingered across the keys, adjacent to the propped open lid. Felix gave David a quick run through of what’d occurred in hushed tones. I leaned in, resting an elbow upon the piano’s widest curve. I doze off, harking back on the warthog I’d seen. It just vanished.
How did it just vanish?
David seemed just as confused as I once Felix concluded his version of the tale, having described the shadow creature that attacked me as a herd of sea urchins. David gave me an unnerved look and decided we needed more privacy. He grabbed my wrist with a rocklike grip and led me out of the theater, into the gray hall. Felix trotted along behind us. I got in a question before I was briefly reprimanded by David for leaving the theater.
“Do you know if the missing head above the window in the Wolf’s Den belongs to the body of a warthog?”
“A warthog? It belonged to a black bear,” he answered irate, thrown off by my sudden interest in warthogs. A topic he’d thought ended with Swamidoss. “Now you listen to me Kamikaze, I may not be able to exercise punishments, but others will…” I began getting forewarned of nameless punishments should I choose not to listen to him again, which I was fortuitously doing again.
Who was under that warthog mask?
“Oh, I listened. I just didn’t obey,” I admitted snippily as I noticed David pause, staring at me beady–eyed, awaiting from me an admission of guilt.
David crossed his arms. His nostrils flared like he’d wanted to sock me right then and there. His better self persevered. He drifted back into the theater to finish off his conversation with Swamidoss, mentioning to Felix whilst acting immaturely derisive towards me, turning his back on me, “There’re whispers for what round one might entail. I must find out what I can if I’ve any hope of helping this rebel here.” He turned his head over his shoulder and shot me a vilifying look, making no mystery of who he tagged rebel.
His scorn didn’t sting in the slightest.
Who is he for me to care? My herald. Big whoop.
“That Minwoo something huh?” Felix said beaming toothily at the sea of costumed jaguars inside. “Minwoo Swamidoss. Prosthetic Makeup Technician. My old age makeup thanks to him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as I recalled countless behind–the–scenes featurettes of actors getting made up to look older for movie roles and comprehension set in on me. “You’re not really young, are you?!”
“I kid, I kid,” Felix said with a tinkling laugh. “Talent, talent though. He need use that skill on me. Make Felix young and pretty again.”
“Felix, what’s up with you and coconuts?” I asked kindly, trying to make conversation.
He held up the two coconuts on either side of his head and whispered ominously, “They live in the coconuts.”
From behind Felix, Zorian strode over to us in his white wrestling singlet with great urgency in his pep. At the same time, a voice shouted from inside the theater with clear–cut aggression, “Hey kitty, you have a problem with us?!”
I turned to face a mime. The mime that’d been seated on the right–hand side of the caveman, two seats to the right of the seaman—the only one I intended to wet. I could see the redness swelling behind his white base makeup with a painted black teardrop under each of his eyes. He had a red paisley bandana tied around his neck, a black and white horizontal striped shirt, red elastic suspenders, black poplin pants, and a skewed black wool beret.
He pulled forth his suspenders and let them snap back onto his chest. “What’s all the hubbub with ghost?” Felix asked, surveying the mime’s livid body language: chin forward, lips compressed, and fists on his hips.
“That’s a mime,” I enlightened Felix as Zorian and the mime coincidentally reached us at the same time.
Zorian tugged on a side of my moist red tank top. His mannerisms alerted me he’d a scoop of garden–fresh news. He was tugging on his bottom lip and his eyes were twitching from side to side. Any attention I had was hereupon drained from the mime and sprinkled over Zorian. Scanning the scene, he drew his lips inward and out he blurted, “Ramze’s alive!”
I barely had time to register the news when a white gloved fist came flying at me. A rigid forearm with a coconut at its end materialized in front of my nose. It halted the blow and the mime braced himself for impact. Another hand with a coconut swooped into him from the right, bashing his ribs. I heard a crack and the loud moans of pain that sparked from the mime told me Felix had shattered his ribs.
The animated boom explosion on Zorian’s wrestling singlet might as well have been auditory because Felix’s jab made full use of the word ‘POW!’ He deserved a follow–up background chime roaring ‘K.O.!’ The mime fell to the ground, onto his side, trying to save face by pulling his black wool beret over his eyes. Surely his black tears had become genuine under the beret. He clutched at the shirt over his ribs, not needing one to escape and be made into a woman.
“Fuck, Felix! I’m going to have to punish you now,” Zorian said looking crestfallen.
“And?” Felix breathed nonchalantly.
“We’ll discuss your punishment later. I may be as humorous as my coequals tend to get called out for when handing out punishments but trust, I’m not as tough on those who use their strengths to defend others.” Zorian dabbed Felix’s nose and rumpled his face, smiling coquettishly.
Felix turned sour.
“I must borrow Koa for a bit. Tell his herald we’re with the Celers on Baba’s orders,” Zorian said, shunting me forward away from them. “And do me a favor will you? Take the pleb down to the Elysian Springs. He can recover there in peace.”
Zorian and I walked side by side down the gray hall. Felix raised the mime behind us, over his shoulders like a log that wept increasing louder as we advanced from the scene.
“Zorian, before we get into what you just told me about Ramze, assuming you’re not an evil twat who raptures in grim humor, what’s a pleb?”
“You needn’t worry about them but since you’re asking, a pleb or Plebeian is the second to worst class in the hierarchy of classes here. Just a notch above Servus in importance. They get dealt the worst hand of bullying. Plebs have the stigma of laziness unfairly thrust upon them and no one likes a bum,” Zorian said dogmatically. “That mime should be used to it by now. It’s common, picking on the slothful, but that doesn’t mean they don’t fight back sometimes.”
“You recognize him, even behind all that makeup?” I asked disbelievingly.
“He’s a mime every year. The only one I might add. Poor kid. I’ve seen him around, working hard down in the factory when it’s my turn to patrol that sector. Never getting the recognition for a job well done because of his class.” Zorian sympathy was transitory, to the point that it came off as phony.
“Now back to business. David was the one who was supposed to tell you about Ramze. We’ve known of his whereabouts since before you arrived here but, keeping up with his duties as herald, any news of the otherworld he gives you need be wheedled out of him in proving yourself. I expect he wants you to pass round one—the greatest sign you’re equipped with what it takes to be a jaguar—before he tells you what I’ve just told you.”
“You’re a kid just like that mime and why’re you telling me this?” I chided him.
“I may be on the outside, but my mind is by far older than the mime’s. And I’m telling you this because I’ve compassion…aaand because I need intel. We stopped near a mischievous–looking grinning gargoyle protruding from the gray wall. He turned to face me, grasping the sides of my arms, and manhandling me, making me trip back a step against one of the gargoyle’s jutting bat wings. “Tell me how you know Tommy. You don’t have to tell me where he’s hiding. I just need to know the link between you two.”
“Ay, lay off!” I pushed Zorian off me. “There is no link! He flew when I first saw him, I panicked, and ran the truck off a cliff. I saw him again briefly in the cloud forest, but he ran when I chased him.” In that very moment, I regretted the words that’d tumbled out of my mouth.
“He flew?!” Zorian boomed genially. “Do tell!”
I felt I’d just made a grave mistake in telling him that I saw Tommy fly. Of all the people to confide in, I’d let myself slip, not to a priest but to a bigmouth. Baba would know I’d defied him in no time. The news would arrive to him with expedited shipping, either from Zorian himself or myself the next time he picks my brain. Considering I can’t reverse time, I might as well use what I know, or don’t know, to my advantage. Zorian won’t know if I lie to him about Tommy. This may be my only bargaining chip to extract information from him.
Zorian noticed my hesitancy to speak, whether for the sake of protecting my image in the eyes of inculpability or to hide something far more sinister—my connection with Tommy of which there’s none.
“You know, I overheard Polka talking to some of his fellow brothers about you. I knew the minute I saw you you’d be interested in Celeres. So, I’ve set something up on my own time. No need to thank me now. Perhaps after meeting with them you’ll be more inclined to speak,” Zorian said elated.
“Perhaps not,” I countered in a gruff whisper.
“The Calling isn’t until round three, but I’ve rounded up some of the best Celers there are to give you an overview of the job description. You’ll have a head start on the other Nihils if you decide Celeres is where you belong. You’ll be getting a one on one—correction—” he cackled. “A one on twelve introduction to what Celeres is all about,” Zorian said jubilantly, separating his hands in the arch of a rainbow to emphasize the grandeur of the opportunity he was presenting me with. “Your intro to the other thirteen classes will have to wait until round three of the Gauntlet like the rest of the newcomers who’ll join in on the fun but no matter, no matter. Celeres is right up your ally and, worst comes to worst and the two of you aren’t a match, at least you’ll be able to cross out this class from the list of those you wish to fight for a position in. Come now.”
Before long, we were no longer in the gray halls of Neptune. Zorian had led the way through the autumn blended cobblestones, past a tortilla beige panel door, into a room much like a classroom setting. Soothing dark gray–blue walls had several long–running, blackened steel wall–mounted cabinets. The largest space in the room was devoted to cranberry desks lined in neat rows. There were both well–lit and dimly–lit areas due to a non–uniform, multidirectional bronze ceiling track light. Some spaces optimized shadows whereas others fell directly in the target range of the track’s white socket bulbs—blanketed in open amber glass shells. Posters were few and far between. But all had the harmony of being black with white hand–drawn rabbits in suits.
Twelve men sat atop some of the countertops of the cranberry, laminated L–shaped desks with tubular steel frames and grayish tan chairs welded to the backs of the desks. All but one man bore the shiny metal bands I’d seen before on the men in the diamond–shaped pool and in the Lemon Room showers but none were costumed. Instead, they’re unified in their casual wear. They reacted instantly to Zorian’s call for them to line up in alphabetical order at the head of the room.
I followed Zorian’s lead as all men rushed past us to line up. It was now Zorian and I who sat side by side atop two cranberry desks; waiting while the twelve men gathered to face the back of the room. Looking over us, they stood rigid, awaiting their next command with their chins held high, arms crossed behind their backs, and their feet pointed forward, shoulder width apart.
One by one they took a step forward, crossing their wrists over their chests with clenched fists as Zorian called out their names authoritatively. Barring one, their bands whistled through the air before breaking impact upon one another, precipitating a reverberant ‘shiiing’ like the clash of swords.
“Absumo!”
“Arturo!”
“Lugulo!”
“Leto!”
“Macto!”
“Conficio!”
“Caedo!”
“Effligo!”
“Ferio!”
“Neco!”
“Percutio!”
“Sopio!”
The last name came with the return of the men’s original stance—arms crossed against their backs.
“As you’re all aware I’ve summoned you here today to introduce to you…a special guest. Koa is our most recent arrival here at Neptune and a little birdy told, not me but someone else I lent an ear on, that he wants to be a Celer. Brother Leto, would you be so kind as to show Koa what the Immortal Jaguars require of a Celer?”
All men but the one without metal bands stepped back a pace, leaving him to stand alone. A lean and mean man in a green alpaca printed polo, navy blue chino shorts, and white sneakers. Starry–eyed, he swept a hand over his short, tailored golden brown hair. He’d faint whiskey brows over a prominent brow ridge, rather cunning green eyes, a bulbous nose, thin lips with a black tinge, and a square jawline.
“If I may say so myself, a Celer is the best a man can hope to be in this fraternity. That’s not to say it’s by any means easy. You must perform well above the standard in the Gauntlet to be qualified for this role. After which, it’s only the beginning of your assessment. Once in Celeres we require of you three things: ethics, grit, and gravitas.” Unlooked–for, from the other hand he’d drawn forth from around his back was an ivory egg. He cracked it open over his head letting the fall–yellow egg yolk streamline down his head from all angles, down his neck, and into the collar of his polo.
“Why is it no matter where I go things get more gaga?” I piped up.
Zorian nudged me with his left elbow and keenly whispered, “Watch.”
Unbelievably, the egg yolk was surging back into the egg on Leto’s head, flowing over his face. The egg repaired itself once all its insides were home but the cracks from its split remained an imprint on the shell. Evidence it’d been broken. It rolled off his head and landed nimbly on his left palm.
“I can’t do that nor does my name end with an O,” I said flatly. “Celeres and I must not be a match.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course you can’t. Only Leto can. He and Baba…and Tommy” he mumbled from the corner of his mouth so that only I could hear his mention of Tommy. “Are our desert spoons.”
“As you’ve just witnessed, you can attest to I being gifted. Baba and I are alike. We are who we are—desert spoons—because our gifts radiate from our core like the leaves from a desert spoon’s apex, in all directions,” Leto said in a high, clear voice.
“The desert spoon plant grows spherically and so do Baba’s and Leto’s range. Baba’s sphere is larger than Leto’s. Leto’s sphere can barely reach me,” scoffed Zorian. “He can reverse time in split–seconds within a surface area of 78.54 feet squared or 2.5 feet from where he’s standing. The volume of which is 65.45 cubic feet.”
“That trick is something I like to perform for the Nihils when introducing Celeres. Something silly that wakes them up before taxiing on from the nitty–gritty. And it goes hand in hand, rather poetically, with our motto: ethics, grits, and gravitas. E.G.G.,” Leto said pleasantly.
“So, you just carry an egg around all day waiting to do a doltish magic trick? Nitty–gritty?” My voice dropped to a harsher tone. “You haven’t even scratched the surface of what Celeres is. All you’ve said is that it’s difficult to join and you must have E.G.G.”
“I’m not much of a public speaker. Anyone feel free to butt–in at any point.” Leto looked behind himself, almost as if he was about to do a backflip, for any assistance from his fellow brothers. “Let us pretend I can use my gift to forward this moment. I’ll save myself the embarrassment, then we’ll hit the basics.” He cranked a fist forward as if he was a beginner fisherman reeling in an Atlantic Bluefin tuna, blank about causing line twists. “Where were we? Ah the basics.” He steadily stopped cranking his fist and looked behind himself again, desperate for a helping hand.
A man with curly brown hair in a gray head sweatband, white shirt with ‘HALEGIANUM’ written across his chest in navy blue university lettering, black sports shorts, light–blue calf–high socks with a pink glazed donut pattern, and white tennis shoes stepped forth. He was heavy and strong with spirited but soft blue eyes and a guileless smile that spoke, ‘The moon is made of cheese because grandpapa said it was.’ He dipped his hands into his pockets but quickly retired them against his sides when addressed by Zorian.
“Effligo, what’ve you to say?” Zorian asked pointedly.
“I merely have the suggestion that we let Koa ask the questions in a freeform setting. He can come up to any one of us in the room as others dip into plans for the coming battle. That way we don’t waste precious time on discussing tactics and Koa won’t have to listen to things he cares not,” Effligo said, all the while talking with his hands.
“That’s a fine idea. I’ll leave you to it.” Zorian assented cheerfully.
Zorian exited the room through the tortilla beige panel door. I quickly followed suit. All men disregarded me the second Zorian hopped off his desk. They began conversing in groups of three as if no one but them existed in the room.
“Zorian, I’m sorry but Polka was talking out of his ass when he said I was interested in Celeres,” I revealed as the panel door shut behind us.
“Oh my,” Zorian said with a tone of delicacy. “Well, I guess I’ll have to find some other way to persuade you to pour me a glass of more info on Tommy. I acted so fast on what Polka had said I never bothered questioning if it was true. Although, you could’ve intervened at any moment,” he said rather cross.
“I wasn’t thinking really. Mind was elsewhere,” I said honestly.
“Perhaps I can help lead it towards the light. Is there anything you wish to know? I am an open book after all,” Zorian said compellingly.
“Not really. There’s nothing more I wish to know or want apart from finding my friends. And you’ve already told me Ramze’s alive. I assume you have nothing on Lucas.”
“You’re correct in assuming I have nothing on your friend Lucas, but don’t you have an itch for knowing where Ramze is?” Zorian asked circumspect.
“I do.”
“You don’t seem too eager to find out,” Zorian stated, analyzing my inexpressive demeanor.
“I’m a mess Zorian. As you can imagine, I’m talking to a twelve–year–old who’s brighter than I and currently floundering through a world I know little about,” I told him, furling my brows.
“Ask away then. You’re only impeding learning by not.”
“Ok I’ll bite.” I clenched my teeth and smiled. “Let’s start with where Ramze is and how desert spoons have super powers,” I said falsely confident, feeling obtuse in my admission such things exist. My smile—a poster child for the know–nothing club of stupid town.