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zeydaan-isabella · 10 months

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The Maiden Menagerie

Remake of 'The Maiden Menagerie' - the story of the time in Zeydaan's life when they first awakened their draconic alter-ego and embraced their gender identity thanks to the help of their friends and new friends at the Maiden Menagerie Cafe. A magical transition with big trans euphoria. Story created by k9lupus, updated to match more in line with current canon.

Maiden Menagerie By K9Lupus 11th May 12014 The memories waited for him. Each day and night, they lurked within the dark expanse of the closet of his mind. They were dusty cobwebs smothered with regret, hushed reminders of times gone by, days and months to never be again. They were an all too real reminder of life's unerring capacity towards change. Zeydaan grew to learn the dual-faced nature of others. The majority were receptive to his kind, warm-hearted antics, and yet others too engrossed in their own needs cast him aside with a barrage of slanderish words. As much as he wished otherwise, he was not immune to the harmful effects of hearing such vulgarity repeated at him over and over again. Given enough time, even the mightiest stone in the river finds its stalwart guard worn away to be cast adrift in the sea. Now Zeydaan was thrust back into the hustle and bustle of his daily life. He managed to draw an occasionally satisfactory piece from time to time, and spent hours soaking up television and games to pull himself away from the rest of the world. His roommate Zach, the half-human, half-kobold whose converted train carriage home he now resided in was amiable enough, constantly making efforts to draw Zeydaan out of his self-loathing shell; he even went as far as to invite him into the fledgling dimensional adventuring party he was developing there in Mailor. In those moments of offered connection, Zeydaan could conjure a hundred different excuses, if only to buy time to properly consider his prospects. Even time spent with Bean, his beloved pet poodle moth, barely brought Zeydaan the same joy as the simpler times. He was unsure whether it had been a wise decision to go off of the magic medication he had taken since he was around 9. His regiment was started for good reason. He was told powerful enemies of his father had cursed Zeydaan to fall into other universes in a manner similar to the use of dimensional rifts now prevalent across the planet, as well as warp and shift his form in wild ways. This bridleless power came with the unnerving possibility of others finding their way back to the source of the broadcasted activation of his magic. Like an unsecured network connection, the risk of Zeydaan’s magic being manipulated or hijacked for nefarious purposes was deemed too great by his guardian, Isabella Townsend to continue. Zeydaan was told the medical regiment would only be temporary until he was ready to direct the magical channels himself. He had grown tired of waiting. At first he had considered weaning himself off of the stuff bit by bit. However, simply dipping his toes into the waters of his own magical autonomy left the door wide open to backing away, and so discarding the remaining contents of medicine was the only way he could guarantee he would follow through on his intention. Using it for so long, he couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was supposed to be feeling anymore. The initial excited whirlwind surrounding his reclamation of himself was now utterly exhausted. Heartfelt intentions gave way to doubt. Glimpses of the dimensional rifts –possibility pathways as they were sometimes called by long-time Mailor residents, reminded Zeydaan that despite his best efforts, what lay ahead for him was still unclear. Kindlings of magic use were returning, but what was he meant to do with this building power? Zeydaan sank into himself, feeling hollow and devoid of purpose once more. With effort, he could manage to cast pale reflections of the colors he once so willingly cultivated within him outside of his internal environment, leaving what remained murky and gray. Depression's grip latched on. Its all-encompassing aura always threatened to crater him down with a mighty swipe of its ethereal paw. Unemployed, unenthused, and barely managing daily affairs, Zeydaan trudged forward with heavy steps hoping to catch a glimpse of the light he believed lingered in the future beyond. Same as always. ******* His inspiration continued to wane, time previously allotted towards his creative pursuits gobbled up into different activities or otherwise forgotten altogether. Zeydaan's dreams ceased being landscapes of jubilant joy, and instead became elaborate portraits of frustrated fears. One night, Zeydaan stared down at the blank sketchbook page in front of him, his sleepy head propped up by his hands, wishing he could will something...anything to have it move away from its empty state, but he was unable to fill the void on the page like the one that continued to swell within himself. Throwing the cracked, wooden drawer open, he stashed the page inside and went for an evening walk. ******* The night air helped Zeydaan calm down. Now away from the stresses faced back home at Zach’s place, he walked past familiar streetlights and listened to the quiet nighttime sounds of Mailor, the typically bustling coastal city settled into a tentative, restless slumber. The physical movement distracted his thoughts away from the stagnancy of his mind and spirit. Rounding a corner, the grip of an unfamiliar sensation clung to Zeydaan – an unease somehow twisted within the braided fibers of curiosity. He followed the tingling whim inside of him, exploring down one of the longer paths he hadn’t ever taken before, eventually spotting a warm glow shining within the nearly uniform darkness. There, tucked up against a forgotten, disheveled corner of the street in the historic town district was an old, rectangular brick house. An aroma of freshly baked goods, strangely out of place juxtaposed against the dank corners of city life in these early morning hours, pervaded the area. Elaborate curved designs covered the front of the building, redirecting attention away from its comparatively drab sidings. Coated in a mix of swirling grays, whites, and lavenders, the whole place looked like a restoration project nearing the end of its construction. A neon-bright sign stretched across the top of the building flashed purples and golds reading: “Maiden Menagerie welcomes you!” Below, a propped up chalkboard bulletin listed various upcoming events along with an urging to try their specialty hand-crafted Maiden Muffins. Zeydaan sought to recall the establishment in memory, but nothing came to mind. They must have moved in recently. Patrons inside the quaint cafe were enjoying an assortment of treats catered to them by dragon maids adorned in matching, frilled and elegant black and white garments. For as large and imposing their stature might make them appear, they each carried themselves with grace and style.Those that had wings had them folded tightly at their backs while their long, muscular tails wove between the tightly-packed seats like snakes navigating the jungle canopy. The crowd inside was entranced listening to one of the dragon maids singing a song while strumming away at her guitar cradled across her lap. Zeydaan tracked his eyes from face to face gauging their reactions. They all leaned forward in their seats, enraptured by the enchanting melody filling the room. The performer finished her song, waving a large, clawed hand in the direction of her audience before blowing them an endearing kiss. The crowd clapped and cheered. The same invisible force that had compelled Zeydaan here was in full swing again. He had to know more. He opened the door and stepped inside. The scent of baked goods intensified. Now he could audibly hear the tail-end of the crowd's cheering with one piercing whistle punctuating the rest of the crowd's admiration. For Zeydaan, stepping into that maid cafe and seeing those sparkling blue eyes of the dragon performer there, he knew he had finally arrived somewhere truly special. ******* Zeydaan took a seat at one of the few unoccupied spots near a corner at the back of the cafe and waited to be served. The dragon maids flowed back and forth carrying drinks and attending to human and anthro guests alike. The vibrant, playful gestures of the dragon maids paired with their sincere, toothy smiles gave them an otherworldly allure that drew Zeydaan in all the more. “Welcome to Maiden Menagerie. Hope you've been having a great night. Thanks for sharing your time with us this evening. Would you like to hear about our specials?” a chipper pink valstrax dragon maid with beautiful scales that glinted the warm table light like polished metal asked. Zeydaan was half-expecting a gruff, commanding quality to the dragon’s tone, having only spent small periods of time around his fey-dragon mother Cynthia. Instead, this dragon's voice was tender and sweet, kind and genuine. Zeydaan couldn't recall the last time someone had acknowledged his presence without asking something of him in return. Even well-meaning, Zach’s constant bids to join his team of ‘Hawkmoths’, review documents, or inform planning was to Zach’s benefit as much as his own. Although her words were simple, he already felt a connection with this other person slowly thawing away of the ice clumped over his heart. “Actually, yeah. That would be really nice,” he answered while rubbing his thumbs on top of each other. “Tonight we are having a combo deal where you can pair one of our specialty sandwiches with a soup and salad for only £13.95. Our house-made soup tonight is Creamy Tomato: seasoned with roasted onions, carrots, garlic, basil, and just a wee touch of cream to give it that ‘mmmm’ creamy-goodness. You can get that by the cup or the bowl. And of course we always have our signature Maiden Muffins for dessert, but we can get there when we get there,” she ended with a wink of one reptilian eye. “Uh...that all sounds really good. Do you have any recommendations on which sandwich to get? It's my first time here,” Zeydaan answered, feeling more at ease the longer he stayed in this comfortable little nook of paradise. Tensions long-held within his being were finally finding the crevices needed to begin unraveling themselves, the buried potential of his magical genetics rising closer to a more readily accessed surface. “I'll never pass up one of our Croque Americaine paninis: sliced egg, freshly grown bacon, pepper jack cheese, tomato and watercress all grilled on our Lemon Pugliese Bread. Hits the spot, even at this late an hour. It’s timeless.” The pink dragon finished her statement with a shake of her head and a sweet, rumbling murmur of a laugh. “See, now you got me nearly drooling over here just thinking about it!” Zeydaan chuckled. “That sounds great. I'll have one of the combo specials then with the panini that you mentioned. Hold the salad though, and a green tea if you have that please. Oh, and one last thing....who was performing that song earlier on the stage?” “Oh her? She's actually one of the other workers here. Name's Amrin. And can do sweet'ums. Will be back with that soup and drink to get you started in just a jiffy. My name's Blaze and I'm happy to serve you tonight. If you need anything else just ring the bell and I'll be right over.” Blaze said, turning with a controlled swish of her tail between the neighboring seats. Zeydaan sank back into the backrest of his chair, eyes closed as he soaked in the pleasant muttering of the people around him. Only minutes before he had been seeking isolation from anyone and anything, but now invigorating waves of peace washed over him, taking away with them some of the corroded etchings built up by himself and the world. ******* Zeydaan spent that evening treated to the wonderful meal brought out by Blaze while serenaded by Amrin's lovely melodies from the stage. Everything was beyond perfect. Even more impressive than the culinary delights he had thoroughly engulfed were the cafe workers’ diligence in getting to know each and every one of their guests. Some would ask how a patron's kids were doing and others would chat about the weather. One golden dragon excitedly squealed over the announcement over one's hard-fought job promotion. It was clear that many of those who visited Maiden Menagerie were regulars, and as Zeydaan neared the last scrumptious morsel of a strawberry-filled Maid Muffin he could easily understand why. After the meal, Zeydaan needed to relieve himself , and was kindly directed over to the restrooms at the back by Blaze. She went to attend to the needs of another table heralded by a gently ringing bell there. Again, that feeling of curiosity seized him as he gazed down a long hallway winding back past the cafe's kitchen. Before his better sensibilities could convince him otherwise, he was walking down the hall, his fingers trailing over lacquered railings of polished wood back towards a large door at its end. No one was here. A peek and he'd be gone again. Zeydaan opened the door at the hallway's end with bated breath and what he saw inside changed him forever. In a perfectly manicured room, its upscale boutique air running incongruous to the hidden lines of bricks comprising the walls, rows of different maid outfits ran in overlapping layers to nearly touch the ceiling. Opposite the grand wardrobe was a changing area that carried the perfumed scents of a renowned French boutique. This space held all the grace granted by a premier ballerina’s presence. A peek grew to him stepping into the room entirely, and then hazarding a few steps forward to brush his knuckles across one of the dragon maid outfits at the end of one of the rows within the large room. It was soft, but slick and pliable, as if created through repurposing of a well-crafted rubber. He was so engrossed in examining the perplexing, exquisite material that he failed to notice the faint patter of boots behind him. A lengthy, teal neck curled up over his head and fixated a pair of impossibly blue eyes in front of his, rows of glistening white teeth appearing behind the creature's pulled-back lips. Zeydaan yelped in surprise, falling forward and tumbling forward to become thoroughly tangled in the dresses before him. Then the creature laughed, and in those particular breathy tones Zeydaan recognized the soothing melodies he had heard during his stay at Maiden Menagerie.” “Amrin? I um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, well, I mean I got lost and then this happened, and then well...you happened and...uhhhhh..” Zeydaan stammered. Amrin relaxed her hands at her hips and offered a scaly hand to help him back to standing. “You know my name? One of the other girls must have mentioned it. I recognize you though. You were that guy with the sweet smile way in the back. Looked like you enjoyed my performance earlier tonight huh? It's a fun gig. Comes with a ton of added perks,” she said with a practiced wink. “Do you want to give it a try on?” Amrin said with a grin creeping across her face. Her eyes were determined, any refusal to be countered in an instant. Zeydaan shuffled off the dress that had fallen on top of him, examining the hems draped over his ankles. “No…I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. That would be wrong. I’m not supposed to–” Zeydaan said as his fingers trailed across the smooth material. Amrin’s grin broadened. She knew that look. Zeydaan already had a foot poking through the door of his own identity even if he wouldn’t admit it. She pressed on. “Oh, now what makes you say something like that? You can't go around refusing a treat without at least giving it a taste to know what you’re missing. Here, I tell you what. I'm the only one still working later tonight as the other girls finish wrapping up. You stay here a little while longer and you give one of Blaze's outfits a try- you’re roughly the same size. Then you can let me know if it was worthwhile or not. How does that sound?” “Uh, I guess that would be pretty good. Thanks Amrin.” “Anytime sugar. Now go finish off your meal. I'll get to work finding something that will fit nice and proper on you.” ******* Zeydaan didn't have to wait long until the other patrons had begun leaving the store. Some of the other dragon maids began to leave then too, still wearing their monochromatic attire out the door. Blaze flashed a little wave of her hand tucked close to her side as she departed, and left Zeydaan as the only other person in the cafe besides Amrin. She stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her scaly brow with a soaked rag and tensing one of her arms in a mock bodybuilder stance. “Those metal pots sure are heavier than they look. Now that everyone's gone, let's get you sorted out so you can be on your way. I don't usually close the cafe, but I decided to make a special exception for a certain wanderer,” Amrin said, beckoning Zeydaan over with a quick toss of her long, spiny neck. Zeydaan followed her back down the hall and into the changing room. This time, a beautiful, flowing maid outfit with embroidered trim and a lace headpiece lay strewn over the back of one of the chairs. “Is that one....for me?” Zeydaan tentatively asked. Amrin voiced a satisfied hum. “If you would like. But first try it on. I haven't had to find one that accommodates a non-dragon’s physique in quite some time.” Zeydaan reached forward and picked up the garment, laying it flush in front of him as he looked in the mirror. Amrin did go through all this trouble trying to humor me by finding something. Least I can do is try it like she said. A few confused knots later and Zeydaan had managed to adorn himself in the outfit. It was a snug fit, but the material was forgiving around his sides. I look....kind of pretty. “So what do you think?” Amrin asked, eyeing Zeydaan from head to toe. “It's simple, but sleek too. I didn't think it would be so comfortable from feeling the outside; that's pretty surprising. I... can't believe I'm actually doing this. I must look so silly.” “Oh? You know, you can tell a lot about a person from what they choose to wear. That's why I make sure all of the girls have an outfit here that can suit any mood they might be feeling. They don't have to say it to any of the customers, but we'll know and we can be more mindful of each other that way. Clothes are an expression of our inner worlds, infinite and perfectly malleable. Let me stop myself before I get carried away. Take this one with you. Feel free to drop by anytime and I'll be sure to fix you up with something special when we next meet.” Zeydaan pulled the edges of the dress up in a faux curtsy. Amrin looked pleased, her vivid blue eyes sparkling within the surrounding teal of her iridescent scales. In the ripples of fabric adorned across his body, visions of a new identity and a new future he could actually realize sparked into being. “I will. Thank you.” ******* After his visit at the Maiden Menagerie, Zeydaan's inspirations came back to him in full force. Vivid images and colors returned to the canvas of his life, and from sunrise to sunset he filled his sketchbooks with various dress and outfit designs to match Amrin's standards of quality. He wore the dress as he worked, experiencing a surge of creative insight the likes of which he never knew before. And with the mental barriers to such actions waning, more and more of his magical nature unraveled in tandem with the door opening on his new sense of self. His imagination was flush with trying on more colourful of flowing outfits like Nia’s, or to shudder at the thought of having his own dress from the Menagerie. When Zach requested Zeydaan try out a new uniform for sizing for the Hawkmoths, he found himself with confusion and an uncanny dysphoria in selecting one for male versus female party members. With a shrug and a sunken expression, all Zeydaan could manage to say was, “It’s hard to pick. They both look just fine.” Over the next few days, Zeydaan noticed his typical interests and habits altering; he now favored extended periods of clothes shopping served as research for his ample sketches, he had replaced his hours of video game play studying the motions of other actresses in romantic comedies, and even found himself practicing a softer lilt to his speech to copy Blaze's sweet-sounding tones. Synapses in his brain invoked themselves, hidden latent genetic factors driving Zeydaan’s instinctual compulsion to further his journey across the spectrum of gender expression. With enough practice, the deeper baritone of his voice softened, and even his smile changed in its quality to drift closer to the feeling you get when staring at your favorite flower. Life was feeling bright once more. The tight grip of sadness within him had loosened enough to let the light shine through again. Even his physical appearance was drifting towards a more feminine stature. He found that wearing his maid outfit particularly accentuated the developing curvature of his body shape. Embracing this newfound identity with all the vigor he could muster was all so new and liberating. Before his eyes, he was growing to be whole and realized away from the past chains of expectation he and others had cast upon him. Zeydaan first noticed his nails lengthening out into longer, curled claws a few days prior. Then his attention drew itself to the sore bump at his lower back that he initially attributed to his old mattress, but which now had projected out a short distance away from the rest of his body in a stumpy approximation of a proto-tail while his lengthy furred brush had shrunk considerably in turn. Its wolven characteristics had reconfigured themselves to a much more draconic shape. The area was hard and well-muscled, but still unable to be moved of his own volition. Newest still were the pair of tiny, rough horns pressing their way up near the back of his skull, still hidden beneath his voluminous hair and fur. Zeydaan returned to Maiden Menagerie with hopes to find assistance in managing his gradual dragonification. He walked in the door, his sketchbook clutched tightly at his chest and brimming with new dress designs. Greeted with the same fresh scent of baked goods as his first visit, he even got a friendly tail flick from Blaze who recognized him before making her way to deliver a pair of Maiden Muffins to an elderly couple. He stood at the entrance, adjusting the hem of his maid dress awkwardly for a little while before finally the sight of Amrin's winding neck came into view. She voiced a pleased sound and beckoned him to the back. “It seems you've taken quite a liking to your new attire,” Amrin said once the two were in the cafe's staff room. Her interest was particularly piqued seeing the closed sketchbook in front of Zeydaan. “Yeah, you could say it's really grown on me,” Zeydaan answered, feeling the fabric of his dress brush over the top of his nubby tail. Amrin leaned in, her head snaking around Zeydaan's shoulder where he was seated. “Is that something you hope continues? It hasn't been too...inconvenient?” she said with a wry grin. “If I say yes....is that bad?” Zeydaan tentatively muttered, feeling a warm flush rush to his cheeks. Amrin laughed her sweet melodic laugh. “Certainly not you charming fledgling. I'm impressed you've taken on to it so well,” she continued before leaning back into her seat and sipping at a large cup of lukewarm tea. A question popped into Zeydaan's thoughts, and he rubbed his thumbs on top of themselves. “Can you help me....be pretty? Like....more than just the dress.” Zeydaan managed to say, the heat on his face intensifying. Amrin hummed and lowered her gaze to match his. “You're already beautiful hun. That's something that comes from the spark inside you. Remember? The inside world brought to the outside. And that's what you're doing right now in being here. You want to be pretty? I'll offer something even better than that. What do you say to coming down to join the team here? We'd greatly appreciate an extra set of claws to get ready for our big performance soon.” Zeydaan considered the offer, his eyes darting back and forth across the table. A chance at a new life... “When do I start?” Zeydaan said with hope radiating from his eyes. Amrin patted one of his shoulders with one of her large, scaled hands. “Right now if you'd like. Come on to the back and we'll get you settled in.” ******* Zeydaan promptly became a part time member of the Maiden Menagerie team, splitting his time between there and increasing duties with the Hawkmoths back at Zach’s. He learned all the nuances and skills needed to be a successful worker at a maid-cafe: diligence, insight, and a warm smile from your heart for each and every guest. Zeydaan learned how to discern the unique tone of his personal serving bell from all of the other dragon maids through use of his sharpening hearing, and by the end of a week's time he felt as if he was getting a good handle on the process. While Zeydaan's employment at the cafe continued, his gradual transformation had amplified; his body becoming increasingly reptilian in nature. It continued as a slow, and steady burning of his old, wolven identity. His fur had given away to glistening yellow scales, and he had since abandoned wearing most shoes apart from his maid outfit boots as his clawed toes ripped apart anything he would otherwise try and force on. Previously short nubs had now grown to become sloped, curved horns rising tall atop of his head. He was becoming increasingly adept at navigating the extended mass of his long, writhing tail projected free from the end of his spine. Sometimes he longed for his old self, getting a brief jolt in the mornings where he’d discover something new had come to be, but being in this way was becoming easier for him with each passing day. He had read that in some practices, people go through uneven stages of growth as they figure out who they are and what they hope to accomplish in their lives. There were points–seemingly at random–that the changes reversed, leaving him as a wolf again. Though some traces remained, his fur was shorter and more velvetty. The horns they now bore remained as small nubs, and his figure looked far more lithe and curved. He looked on his form and smiled gently. Somewhere in the course of the changes happening, he found he was beginning to like himself all the more. Maybe this uncomfortable feeling he had in his gut as he laid down at night was actually the awakening process of his abilities amplifying for him. Or it could have been the third Maiden Muffin he sneaked eating at the end of his shift at the cafe. He had been able to supply joy to others before, but nothing that had him feeling so connected. Between his time at the Menagerie and with Zach, he was finally feeling like part of a team all working towards a shared purpose. It fulfilled him more than anything else they could imagine… Though they still felt a twinge on the ‘him’ bit. ******* Amrin surprised Zeydaan one evening at the end of one of his shifts with a cup of fresh tea beside his favorite couch in the staff room. A small card was fastened to the bottom of the cup and read: You've been working hard for our guests and with our staff. I want to treat you to something special. Come find me at the usual spot. -Amrin After enjoying the tea, Zeydaan wandered over to the dressing room and found Amrin removing some of the extra makeup from her face. “Thanks for the drink. You said you wanted to talk about something?” Zeydaan said, sitting beside her. “When this all started, did you think you would like something so different?” Amrin said with an uncharacteristically wistful depth to her expression. “Honestly, I had no idea what to expect, but it's kind of weird though...I've been through a lot, but now I'm really only focused on what comes next from here. I'm actually excited about the future, and... that hasn't been the case for a long time. I have you to thank for that,” Zeydaan said with a warm giggle. “I used to be so consumed by my doubts, my body wasn’t in my control, as much from society and from myself. I was preventing my magic from flourishing and putting myself into a HORRIBLE box to confine to masculinity. New friends were patient with me when I haven't been at my best, and all of your support has given me hope that things will only keep getting better from here. We all experience our own changes, our own transformations in life. The only constant aspect of life you can really count on is change, but it's beautiful now...like me. I shouldn’t be afraid of my body, my powers, my identity. You’ve helped me realise that I can be myself, I can be ME.” Amrin nodded in acknowledgment. Zeydaan continued. “For a long time now, I've had to take care of most of these things by myself. At least, that’s what I told myself. I didn’t really let Zach in or even Bean get too close because I didn’t want to let either of them down. It’s already tough enough trying to meet expectations of this planet’s society and gender. There’s only ever been one person who helped put into words what I may be feeling- but you helped me explore this and realise this in my OWN body.” “You've always been worth it,” Amrin answered back. “Ever since I saw you lurking there in the back of the cafe, poking your head up curious like a mouse seeing a tasty scrap in front of its hole, I knew you were reaching out for something, so it makes me happy knowing that you've found that here with us. Seems like most of what you’re up to is for the sake of other people. It’s hard to make room for yourself in a life like that.” “Yeah.” “But it wasn't one sided. You were getting something in return. Whatever good feeling you gave out came back to you many times bigger right?” “I suppose that’s true. Maybe I’m finally getting closer to my potential. Finding my own voice I’ve kept silenced for way too long,” Zeydaan said, dropping their eyes with a sigh. He felt a finger tilt his chin back up, and now the impossibly blue eyes were inches away from his. “Each conversation you could think of as an exchange; maybe not equal as time went on, but life is all about exchanges even when we're giving. You can't expect someone to take care of something for you, but you sure can still appreciate a fellow or fine lady taking the time out of what they have been doing to make your day better right?” “That's true,” Zeydaan said with a nod, pulling back to his seat, uncertain where Amrin was taking this. “I want to help give back to you since you've been working so hard for us. There's something special I want to make for you, but it will take some time. The fundraiser performance will be done by then, but in the meantime how would you feel about going away somewhere for the weekend to really relax and let that inner dragoness shine?” Zeydaan blushed and smiled, a pleasant warmth coursing through his being at being called that–dragoness. He toyed with the idea in his mind, letting it settle with ease into the crook carved out for it through his new experiences here at the Maiden Menagerie. “I’d suspected as much. If it's alright Zeydaan, would you like for me to refer to you as a Dragoness–like one of us?" Amrin’s tone was genuine and sincere, lacking its usual sass and spice. "One person who raised me was called that. I think…” He paused, his eyes darting back and forth as he fought to claim words to the feelings in his heart. “The wolven form I take I still see as the name I was given–Zeydaan. But this new self I'm becoming, this new part of me…it’s a new me that I choose. So, I want to name myself…Isabella." “Isabella...” Amrin said, as if trying out the name for size. “Well Isabella, let's give it everything we've got.” Isabella felt awash with relief. Even if Amrin was the only other person that understood, somehow that could be enough for now. Still, something didn’t sit quite right about the whole thing. “Is it odd that when I thought about how I used to be called–not my other name, that part’s fine– but, actually all the off-the-cuff ‘Hey dude,’ and ‘How’s it going champ?’type-remarks from others, most of them not meaning any harm at all, it just made me a bit sick in my stomach? I don’t know if I’m even making sense to you right now. Sometimes I wonder if I’m waking up from a lie of a life I used to have, and it’s all because I just didn’t have the confidence to face what I knew was already there the whole time.” Amrin let out a lengthy sigh and nodded. “No, it isn't sugar. That’s the most normal thing I think I’ve heard you say the whole time I’ve known you. All that is is you just showing yourself that your voice has gotten loud enough to hear what it is you’ve actually been feeling inside without all the noise from anyone else causing interference.” “I don't know if I'm ever going to be anything like you are Amrin,” Isabella added with a tinge of awe. Amrin roared with laughter. “You keep doing that–comparing me to you. If it helps sort your head out at all, the trip wouldn't just be us. Blaze would be coming too. It's always nice to have a third.” “A third? For what?” Isabella asked with a perplexed quiver of the strong, moth-like wings at her back. “To help break ties when we're not sure what to do of course.” Amrin said, sticking out her tongue. Her smile was warm and inviting like the first rays of morning sunlight. “Give it a chance and see what happens. It worked out before didn't it?” Isabella leaned back in her seat and stared at the bright light above illuminating the changing room. Light where before it was only dark. “I don’t want to be a ‘him’, or a ‘he’, anymore. The more I think about it, the more I never was. If I’m to be a new me- then I’m gonna correct that.” “Preach, sister.” ******* The afternoon sun shone in glorious splendor upon the sandy beach in front of Isabella and made the ocean sparkle where crests of waves crashed down to join the sand. Amrin and Blaze were already waiting for her in the parking lot and had been open to allowing her to borrow a bikini to contain the newest developments at her chest. Isabella traveled down to a toasty corner of the beach with Blaze, enjoying the feeling of the warm sand beneath her clawed digits. Amrin was already up ahead mucking about near the surf, teasingly close to where the rolling waves lapped the heated grains of sand cool once more. Isabella sat back on her haunches, allowing her feet to immerse themselves within the pleasantly warm sand. Even as large sand fleas hopped about near the base of her tail causing an occasional itch, she relished in the scent of the ocean spray wafting up to her nose. Behind her, dry blades of grass swayed in tandem to the invisible melody of the breeze. A tan beach towel was draped across Isabella’'s hunched shoulders, propped up along the base of her formidable wings at her back. Looking around her, creatures of all sorts were here enjoying this pleasant relief from the heat. Where before she had to be mindful to not overheat from her thick, coarse fur, she now found the exposed sunshine of the beach much more palatable. Isabella had become a modified image of the reptilian creature of legend. Although she was still essentially anthropomorphic in shape, her body had continued to undergo fantastic alterations over the past few weeks. Her changes back into her wolf form on occasion has caused a ‘hybridisation’ of appearances. Her fur had reappeared, and had given way to become a vivid yellow color, lightening to a pale cream at her belly and underside. Her jaw and face had broadened and elongated into a sizable muzzle filled with rows of sharpened teeth. Through the process, her eyes had remained unchanged– still that warm, crimson color, but now ready to face the world’s myriad of challenges head-on. A part of Isabella questioned whether the extra coverings over her body were even necessary for her at this point. Her thickened hide served her well to keep her body insulated, and furthermore removed what could typically be described as a nude appearance even without any clothing on her person. However, Isabella still enjoyed at least having some kind of covering over her body. Her clothes and outfits were gateways and portals to customizing and taking control of her day, and she wasn’t ready to let go of that for the sake of practicality. Isabella’'s senses had all dramatically sharpened as well. Her eyesight was sharper than it had ever been in her former life, and her senses of smell and hearing were all as developed and acute as her vision. Even underwater, her senses all brought into being a vivid and previously unrealized realm of existence to her scaly form. With the glittering waves still rolling onto the beach, she would answer the ocean's call today. Isabella stood, the beach towel sliding off her back as she flashed a quick glance to Blaze who contentedly soaked up some of the sun's rays laying flush on her belly in the sand. She grumbled a sleepy, incoherent message for her to enjoy herself. And without a second to waste, she was off. Isabella outstretched the wings she kept neatly folded at her back to their maximum. The wind teased at her wingtips, resisted against them with a firm pressure, and buoyed her up the rest of the way as she launched off the ground with her powerful legs. Low-hanging clouds drifted by. Birds scattered with squawking cries. Isabella’s shadow weaved and flitted over the sand and onlookers below to the amazement and awe of many. Each powerful thrust of her wings drove her higher and higher still. Like fabled Icarus, she beheld the splendor of the sun, except her wings were permanent. Isabella hadn't tested her flight capabilities much, and maneuvers which required a greater deal of finesse would take more time to master. Still, time was a gift she had this weekend in ample supply. From her suspended perch nestled against a drifting cloud, Isabella peered down and spotted Amrin gazing up at her. She grinned, then tucked her wings back in against her back and pointed her nose downward. Down and down she plummeted until she pierced through the surface of the water in a near-silent crash. Immersed in this watery world was in many ways the same as flying in the sky above. As she coursed through the surf, flexing her body from side to side like a snake to propel her back closer to shore, strands of Isabella's hair began to flow about her face. Longer and longer they grew at her head and sprouted from the tip of her tail colored a bubblegum pink to match the sweetness of her spirit. When she emerged drenched from her ocean foray, her trim, tidy fur glittered like the ocean waves behind her, and her long, flowing hair danced about her shoulders with every step. Isabella’s joy was radiant. Seeing her so happily engrossed in the thrills of life, Amrin couldn’t help but brighten further herself, holding close that only more good memories together would be made from here. ******* After the fun weekend together, Isabella and Amrin continued to grow closer. Amrin often came to her for advice on various happenings at the cafe. Isabella was beloved by both patrons and staff, and soon Maiden Menagerie had grown to become a second home. However, tensions were high with the cafe's fundraiser performance looming only days away. Both were at a loss on what to try to make this event stick out until Isabella had an idea come to her. “A new item? We've kept the same menu since we've opened. Our customers know what they can expect from us. At this point we'd be risking more than I think we could possibly gain by that. What were you hoping we would make anyway?” “Well I was thinking we could try making a chilled lemon and lavender pie to go with the Maiden Muffins. They're kind of my specialty, and I thought they could really round out the flavors from the sweet tartness of the muffins.” Amrin caught an intensity in Isabella’s eyes that she hadn't seen before. “I tell you what. If you can cook up one of these pies yourself at home and bring it in tomorrow I'll have the customers sample it as part of a survey. We'll go from there.” “Thank you, thank you!” Isabella shouted in delight. She ran all the way home that evening after work. There wasn't a minute to waste if this was going to be perfect. Zach greeted an exhausted Isabella at the door, Bean close at her heels with a curious expression on her face as she tossed herself against Isabella’s legs. Isabella bent down to give Bean a cursory scritch across the poodle moth’s fuzzy carapace. “Sorry, no time to talk. Need to work. Leave dinner by the door, and oh, I was thinking over what you had said before, Zach, and I think you should go purple for the uniforms. We can put it to a vote or something when we have more time, ok bye!!!” Isabella said as she disappeared into the hall, leaving the other two standing there bewildered. Isabella spent the remainder of the night slaving over the oven, and by the end of her time in the kitchen, had amassed a staggering wreckage of used bowls that were piled up in the sink, but at last her creation was completed. ******** Isabella kept tugging at the hem of her maid outfit as the inquisitive, calculating eyes of one of the cafe patrons glazed over her dish. Peeking through the small viewport leading into the kitchen, she saw the man inhale, long and drawn-out before furrowing his brows. His gaze lingered over the plate in front of him, gauging its texture with a twist of his fork. A good sign. This customer was a picky one. The man grabbed his fork, twisted off a sizable portion and planted it into his mouth. The fork dropped onto the side of the plate with a shrill clang. Oh no. He hates it. “Bring me another fork, and another plate of this masterpiece. There is no way I could possibly experience this once.” Isabella's pie became a sensational hit, and helped to drive further interest in the cafe up just in time for the fundraiser. The staff could hardly keep ingredients in stock, and all applauded her efforts. The stage had been set. Now would come the hard part. ******* It was time for the big performance at the cafe. Isabella hadn’t slept much the night before. This event would be pivotal in securing additional funding to allow the cafe to continue operating and finish its repairs. Tonight was Isabella’s chance to help repay the place that had encouraged her life-changing transformation. Peeking past the on-stage curtain, Isabella could make out the distinct faces of Zach, and beside him on either side, the newest members of the Hawkmoths: Ashley the omni-elemental dragon, and Lilith the half anthro-wolf, half-orc, all together to celebrate and support her efforts. Backstage, nervous jitters ran along her spine. Amrin placed a hand at her shoulder. The confidence radiating from her face could melt back any fears. “Time to shine Isabella.” The spotlight was hot against her skin and fur, much different from the comforting rays of laying sprawled out on the beach. She knew this feeling well. A calm before the storm. Isabella took a deep breath, silently sent a wish for the best, and then stepped out onto the stage at Amrin's side. Hours upon countless hours of hard work between her shifts had finally paid off and Isabella moved across the floor with grace. From the tip of her snout to each twirling curl of her tail, Isabella was an object of beauty and captivated the entire audience into stunned silence. Amrin's gorgeous vocals reached their peak, her guitar strumming with a fierce intensity as Isabella's steps grew more precise and punctuated. Isabella prepared herself for her big maneuver, tensing one arm planted to the ground before arching her tail high up over her body in a twisting C, framing Amrin for her solo. She strummed away like unencumbered lightning, and by the end of it, Isabella finally loosed the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. Then came the roar of applause, recognition, validation, and confirmation that there would be a continued place for her to continue inspiring joy in others. ******* The next day, Isabella and the other girls counted their earnings from the show. They were amazed to see that they had not only met their goal, but vastly shot above the total they had needed. A great clamoring of cheerful wails and woops sounded out. Amrin held Isabella's hand, and squeezed it with a firm pressure. “Good job partner,” Amrin said with a wide grin. “You too,” Isabella answered back with the wink she had practiced. “Here...let's sneak back. Now's a good time for me to show you something,” Amrin said in between her still-cheering co-workers. The two made their way back to the changing room, crouching behind one of the back rows of dresses. Amrin produced a large chest hidden among the array of other belongings stashed there. “Open it.” Isabella knelt down, flicking open the latches and held her mouth agape at what was before her. A stunningly gorgeous maid outfit complete with boots and matching headpiece was stashed inside. The material shined with its rubbery texture and delicately ornate trim. “This is the one that...but how did you make this? I… It’s for me??” Isabella asked, sitting back stunned. “You put the most heart into it. Anyone could see that. Now don't keep me waiting. Try it on already!” Isabella quickly changed into the new outfit, and felt its cling over her short fur, fitting almost like a second skin. Her wings flexed uncontrollably, and she wiggled from side to side in sheer excitement. “You're one of us now, so it's the least I can do to say thank you.” Isabella turned to hug her friend tight, and felt an equal pressure back. Sitting there with her, the world had once more come into its full cycle: loss, joy, loss, hope renewed once more. Such peaks and valleys constituted the fabric of a life well-lived, and for Isabella seated nestled beside one who had become so dear to her, she wished with all her might that for at least a little while – long enough to savor the moment, life's inherent capacity for change could leave things be just as they were this one time.

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thelastswallow · 7 years

Text

What Tears Us Apart, Ties Us Together

Chapter 9

John - Legwork

In which there is home made spaghetti - Alan Tracy learns the origin of a nickname - Lieutenant Cooper Waverly pines after an imaginary woman - Virgil Tracy has an assignation with a real one - a young man crosses the border into Turkey and it is a long way to Illinois

There’s something about deserts that has always appealed to John.

Something about the horizon. The towers of empty space and the flat, lunar surface. It makes him feel calm and clean.

Like a moth to a bug zapper, Grandma used to say, as she attacked him with the tube of sunscreen when he was a kid, or painted the tip of his nose with aloe Vera when he came home pink and peeling. He’s not built for the desert. Only Gordon’s sallow skinned and quick to tan, buy of the five of them John burns the quickest, roasts the colour of poached salmon in the time it takes to boil an egg; some unfortunate throwback to the Scotch-Irish roots of the Tracy clan. But Man wasn’t made for space either, yet his Dad stood on the face of Mars. So maybe it’s natural that John wants to explore the places he doesn’t belong.

When he was 11, the six of them had spent one February Fourth in a specially built capsule in the Mojave Desert that mimicked the lunar simulation modules the SETI Institute had used in the early 2000s, when NASA had been prepping to go back to the moon. John doesn’t remember a time when he’d been happier than he was staring out the porthole of that cramped little module, imagining himself among the company of the great men and women who had walked on the moon.

Sometimes, when he needs to gather himself, John imagines himself curled up in the porthole window, watching the lunar landscape of the Mojave.

Yet But when he imagines the desert, this isn’t what he pictures. It looks all wrong as it hurtles past the window, in blocks of olive and grey under a forget-me-not sky. This desert doesn’t make him feel calm, just sweaty and anxious and itchy all at once. It looks yellow and scrubby and full of rattlesnakes; scar tissue on the landscape. It hurtles past and he wishes he were somewhere else.

A good first test.

There’s a chime above his head that signals the magnet train is slowing down and he breaks his fixed gaze on the winding landscape. His tablet has gone unattended for long enough that it’s gone dark. He’s too easily distracted all of a sudden.

He gathers his bag and tablet and rises. A few people make note of his movement, but nobody else in the carriage makes a move to disembark.

The magtrain glides to a halt and there’s a whoosh of hot, dry air as the door unseals itself. He steps out onto the raised platform. Along the train’s length passengers, most in uniform, diffuse in and out of the train. No one pays him any attention as they hurry towards the stairs and the exit, swiping their passes through the scanner. He follows.

There are convoy trucks waiting to pick up officers in the parking lot, and a dusty town taxi idling out in front of the red brick building, looking for business. He ignores it and makes the short walk into town.

By the time he gets there, there are dark patches of sweat beneath his armpits. He wipes his brow and stops at a dispenser to by a soda.

Avalon is a small, neat little place that mainly serves to support Rainshadow Airbase. There’s a county hospital and a couple of mom and pop stores, though most of the business has drained out of the centre of town. School kids wander around in packs. An elderly woman walking a tiny poodle smiles at him as he sips his pop. He finds McGruck’s, a sports’ bar, in a big lot off the main street.

The bartender is quick to ID him, but only shows real interest in his birthdate and not the person attached and after he’s been satisfied, leaves him nursing his beer and his tablet at the bar. Off duty airmen come in in dribs and drabs, and he earns a couple of curious looks, but nobody bothers him.

A little before seven there’s a tap on his shoulder, “Tracy?”

A rangy man in captain’s stripes has come up behind him. There’s a stir from the peanut gallery. This is not, John guesses, habitually a bar where officers come to drink. “John Tracy, right? I’m Skip Guerra.”

They’ve met before, though Skip probably doesn’t remember and John doesn’t remind him. Skip and Scott had been at school together and though Skip had been some years older, they had made friends running varsity track together. Scott had dragged John round to the dressing room to meet Skip the night he led the school football team to state. He had been gracious as he accepted John’s congratulations, though obviously wired to the moon and unlikely to remember. Skip had left for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs the same year Scott had gone off to Yale. Now they serve in the same unit.

Skip is big in every dimension, has inches even on Scott. A small moustache makes him look older than his 26 years, and he is, John can tell, despite his bluff handshake, nervous.

“Thanks for coming.”

A tight nod. “I’ve got a car outside.”

They drive out of town, talking around the subject in question. Skip talks about the weather, their old school, Williams’ Prep and the differences between the GDF and the space programme. They reach Skip’s house, which is off base, where Skip’s wife Lisa and home-cooked spaghetti are waiting to ambush them.

John’s impatient to get on with the task at hand, but it’s rude to say no, particularly when he’s asking such a big favour, so he accepts as graciously as he can manage.

Skp and Lisa have got an 18-month-old son, Jake, and from the size of Lisa’s belly, another one on the way. Jake is fascinated by John’s red hair, and John – for whom babies have always been a separate country he is not planning on visiting – puts up with his interest. Lisa asks interested if routine questions about WWSA and Skip tells anecdotes about air force life. If it’s all designed to make John feel guilty, he thinks, as he passes around the basket of garlic bread, it’s working.

But when dinner is over and the plates are cleared Skip rises. “Time for John to be going,” he says. “I’ll be back later.” He kisses Lisa’s cheek.

As John closes the car door he says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure, I do.” Skip starts the engine and puts the car into gear.

They drive. Within minutes they’re approaching Rainshadow Base and John feels his throat constrict.

Dad is Dad so of course he heard through channels first.

Scott is AWOL.

Or, to be precise, he is only guilty of Failure to Repair; but at 0900 hours yesterday Lieutenant Scott Tracy did not report to base after leave, and by 1700 hours he still has not reported to his commanding officer.

He’s not the only officer ever to fail to report in after leave. Maybe he missed his flight. Maybe he got the dates wrong. Maybe his mates, in high spirits, duct taped him to a pole and have forgotten where they left him. This sort of thing happens all the time.

Just not to Scott.

From the expression on Skip’s face he thinks so too.

Dad had called just as John was out for his morning run, having spent most of the night bailing Gordon out of a premature court marshalling at the WASP gala. “I’m telling you this,” Dad had said once he had broken the news, “Only because there’s a reasonable chance where you’re working that you might hear through other channels.”

John had never thought of himself as someone to be gossiped about or at. Maybe it was different with Scott. There was enough cross-over between the WWSA and the GDF that there was a possibility he would hear from some other source.

“You haven’t told the others?” he had asked.

“I don’t think there will be a need to.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“The morning he left the island he called me a selfish, conceited son of a bitch. So at least we know he wasn’t acting out of character.” The attempt at a joke had fallen flat.

“He’s been missing a week?” He had been bundled up against the arctic cold. Suddenly his brain had felt as numb and clumsy as his hands.

“Absent. Not missing. Your brother’s always been good at letting me know he’s upset. Torching his career is certainly a potent signal fire.”

“Dad…”

“Kyrano’s already on his trail. And we’ll find him. I want you to stay where you are. Attend to your studies. If he contacts you, of course, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll update you periodically.”

“Dad, can I…”

“This is a good first test for you.”

A good first test. A test that he’s failing.

John Tracy is hacker like no other. John Tracy writes code the way Paul McCartney wrote pop hits. John Tracy has never met a digital door he did not want to open.

John Tracy cannot find his stupid, ignorant luddite of an older brother.

It should have been easy. Scott’s financial records, his flight history, his passage in and out of the security net that encircles the globe, it should have led John to him like a luminous contrail.

But Scott had landed in Algeria, withdrawn 2,000 dollars’ cash at the airport foreign exchange, disappeared into the city and…

Nothing.

No Scott. No trail. Nothing but white noise. Not even a starting point.

John spent half his time in MIT thinking and writing about search heuristics; for search and rescue; for stars; for prime numbers. Even the most basic search needs a node to start from.

And so now, here, with Skip, smiling politely in the passenger seat as they were waved through gate at Rainshadow Airbase, looking for somewhere to begin.

Scott had been the one to ruin their trip to the Mojave, hadn’t he? For three days all six of them had lived in close quarters, in the lunar simulation module, mimicking the lives of the first settlers on the moon, and how Dad had lived with Captains Taylor and Tsang when they had been building Shadow Alpha One. But on the morning of the fourth day, Scott had stumbled out of bed, and out the airlock, to relieve himself against the side of the capsule, decompressing the pod and killing his father and four brothers in the process.

Scott had been apologetic but unconcerned. Said it was an accident and that he had forgotten where they were. He had been nearly 14, unhappy about Dad’s decision to leapfrog him two years ahead into ninth grade, and ready for a little kickback. John, on the other hand, had been distraught, not ready for the adventure to end. He had begged Dad that they be allowed a do over, but Dad had said no. There were no second chances in space.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that now.

Scott lives in unaccompanied officers’ quarters. Skip pulls up to the squat block of condos and parks. “This is it.”

“Thank you, Skip.”

Skip shrugs, nods. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Not really. Some clue or hint. Some trace of where Scott’s going or where he might be going, or what he might be thinking. An impression. A scent. “I’ll know it when I see it,” he says.

“John, I hope you find what you’re looking for, but you should know, I don’t think you’re going to find your brother in there.”

What a strange thing to say.

“You and Scott fly together, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re friends?” He’s got a sudden overwhelming feeling that this was a bad idea.

But Skip gives him a cryptic smile. “I’m not doing this because you asked politely. He does talk about you.”

“He does?”

“And I get the distinct impression that if anyone can find that squirrelly motherfucker and get him back where he belongs then it’s you. Yeah, we’re friends, John.”

A good first test.

“Okay.”

They get out of the car. Skip’s swipe key gets them into the building and up the stairs to Scott’s condo.

The first thing he notices is how clean it is. It’s at odds with the Scott he knows, who leaves dirty dishes in the sink and a breadcrumb trail of his clothes from the bathroom to his bed every night when getting undressed. Any habit can be learned, he supposes and somewhere along the way, someone has beaten neatness into Scott.

The kitchen-living room is sparse, impersonal. He rifles through the kitchen, but the cupboards are bare of anything more exciting than protein powder and cereal. The fridge holds nothing but ketchup and mustard.

He tries the bedroom. Skip follows.

In here too is neat and orderly, the corners of the bed are squared off. There’s a Light Type interface built into the desk that would have connected to Scott’s personal drive. When Skip isn’t looking, John takes a HUB from his pocket and sets it down, activating pre-set commands to clone everything that the interface has processed over the last two months.

He doesn’t linger by the desk and crosses to the other side of the room. The closet contains only neatly pressed uniforms, a couple of casual shirts in blue and cream, and rows of folded white t-shirts. There’s a small safe in the bottom of the closet, but it hangs open and any valuables have been cleared out.

There’s a digital picture frame on the windowsill that clicks to life when it detects motion, but the photos it cycles through are curiously blank of personality. A group picture of Scott’s squadron, a formal photograph of him smiling starkly at the camera at the receipt of his bronze star and a family portrait, the same one that goes out to the press when they’re looking to write about “Billionaire industrialist Jeff Tracy and his five fine boys”.

John feels a creep up his spine, like razor scraping bone. None of this feels genuine. It’s like he’s walked into an exhibition showcasing the life of one, ‘Lieutenant Scott Tracy’ rather into a place where anyone actually lives.

Angry again suddenly, he yanks open the drawer of the nightstand.

Inside the drawer are a flotsam of personal effects; a string of condoms; a blue inhaler, 11 months out of date, because Scott always forgets to resupply his prescription unless he’s having one of his infrequent asthma attacks; a Rubik’s cube, half-solved and then forgotten; a slim book.

He takes the book out of the drawer, turns it over, recognising it. It’s a copy of Slaughterhouse Five. The red and yellow dust jacket and leaves are real precious paper and the publisher’s seal says the volume was published in 1972. John had sourced it himself, from a small antique book dealer in San Francisco. It had been a rather pointed Christmas gift to Dad and he remembers noting now, how it hadn’t been on Dad’s book shelf the last time he was in his office.

It looks well-thumbed. There are greasy finger marks along its spine and its pages are dog-eared, like it’s been read and read again. He doesn’t remember it ever being a favourite of Scott’s

He’s about to open his mouth to ask Skip if he knows anything about it when Skip puts a finger to his lips. Outside there comes the murmur of soft voices and the bleepclick of the latch unhooking.

John puts the book back and slides the drawer closed. Skip quickly crosses the room and switches off the light. He motions for both of them to step into the bathroom. There are footsteps in the outer room, the jangle of keys and then nothing.

Through the crack in bathroom the door John peers out into the bedroom. The light in the outer room comes on, throwing a slim rectangle of white light against the bedroom wall.

He glances at his watch. It’s 9:45. There’s no reason for anyone else to be here.

“Are they looking for us?”

Skip gives the slightest shake of his head.

If I’m caught, he thinks, I’ll just step out. No one needs to know Skip was here. His pulse is hammering in his ears.

A rhomboid of white light slides across the floor as the door swings open. Whoever is outside, they are coming in.

“This is it. Be quick, okay?” says a woman’s voice in a whisper. “I’m deep in the shit if they find you here.”

“Okay.”

John’s still trying to figure out what’s going on when Skip surges forward. “Goddamn it to hell, Stubbs, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The electric light comes on and the light box vanishes from the floor. He hears the woman falter at the sudden appearance of Skip. “Captain!”

“Airman, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Sneaking civilians onto the base? Breaking and entering. Do you know how many charges you’re risking?”

“Please, it wasn’t her fault. I asked her to,” says a voice, a familiar voice, a very familiar voice.

“Virgil?”

“John?”

He steps out of the shelter of the bathroom and sees Virgil standing in the doorway. His younger brother practically looms over the young Airwoman with dark hair standing in front of him. Skip looms over them both, but flinches when John sticks his head around the door.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil gapes at him.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“I…uh…”

“Well, isn’t this a clusterfuck?” says Skip, placing his hands on his hips. “Stubbs, I oughta write you up.”

The airwoman fidgets. She’s tiny, with black hair looped in a tight braid and anxious sloe black eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Cap. Really I am. But they’ve been talking shit about… There’s been inappropriate talk about Lieutenant Tracy in the mess, Captain and why he hasn’t reported to duty. And he,” She taps Virgil on the shoulder “Was so determined to find him. I wanted to help him, you know?” She gives John the side eye and the flash of a smile. “I guess you do know. Which one do you got?”

“The astronaut. Who’s that?” Skip glares at Virgil. “The Olympian?”

“The artist. Except he says he’s a pilot now.”

He says he’s a what?

But Skip just rolls his eyes. “Go figure.”

“We have names, you know,” says Virgil, peevishly. “We’re not a collectable set of breakfast cereal toys.”

“Of course not, kid,” says Skip, placating but patronising. “What’s your youngest brother again? The congressman?”

“He’s in middle school!” both John and Virgil snap, simultaneously.

Joh scowls and Virgil digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“What are you doing here, Virgil?” John asks.

“Same as you. Looking for Scott.”

“You’re supposed to be at school.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve got better places to be too, right?” Virgil raises his chin so he’s looking at John and not the floor. There’s a stubborn jut to it, at once familiar and out of place on Virgil. Something seems different about him and for a moment John can’t place just what it is. Then he realises. Virgil’s always run to stocky, ungenerously even to chubby. At thirteen it had made him self-conscious enough to start to camouflage his weight with layers of shirts and t-shirts. Somewhere in the last week he’s shed those extraneous layers. In just a pair of faded jeans and a v-neck grey t-shirt it’s immediately clear what should have been obvious last week. The puppy fat is gone. Virgil’s tanned and fit and for the first time in his life, probably in better shape than John.

He’s still got that stupid moustache though.

“Hey, Stubbs,” Skip says, a little louder than is necessary. “Come out here for a sec, I got something real important to show you in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Captain.” Stubbs winks at Virgil and they both step out of the room, pull the door shut behind her.

John eases himself away from the bathroom door and Virgil pushes off from the wall. They shuffle a little closer to each other.

“I didn’t think you knew he was missing.” John says. “Did Dad tell you?”

“Sort of.” Virgil’s fingers brush the tucked in corner of the bed. “I was with him when he got the news.”

“He came to see you in Chicago?”

“Something like that,” Virgil murmurs. “I’m surprised he told you.”

“There’s a lot of air force personnel with the space agency. I suppose he was afraid the news would get to me anyway.”

“And did it?”

“No. Why would it?”

“I dunno. It seems like Stubbs was saying there’s a lot of talk about him.”

“Maybe I just don’t’ pay attention to that sort of stuff.”

Virgil looks around. “Does he really live here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Virgil jostles past him, as if he doesn’t trust John to look, or as if maybe Scott’s hiding in the bathroom too. He looks inside, brushes the shower curtain back, and then pulls the wardrobe door open. His fingers grope right to the back of the empty safe.

John lets him at it, goes to retrieve his hard-drive where a one-two-three blink tells him it has finished its work. He pockets it and picks up the digital photo-frame. It cycles to the family portrait, the five of them smiling blandly on the balcony of the New York penthouse. Teeth immaculately white, hair immaculately brushed, each of them arranged so that John’s red hair won’t clash with Alan’s blonde and Scott’s height wouldn’t look comical among his smaller brothers. Dad’s wearing a black bomber jacket, like he’s just leapt off the gantry of Artemis 5. Heroic astronaut and family man. They look perfect.

The reality was that they had been miserable. None of them had wanted to give the first day of school holidays over to the dreary photoshoot. Virgil had crashed through arpeggios on the baby grand piano between set ups and Alan, who had been only seven, had thrown a DEFCON One tantrum because he was jet-lagged and out of sync with the time zone and it was way past his bedtime. Every time John found a quiet place to read he was disturbed by a stylist trying to stick yet more safety pins into his hated grey and green sweater vest.

Scott had turned up at quarter to six, fresh from his first year at college and with Miss Rhode Island in tow. He’d showered, thrown on the white shirt and slate grey trousers selected for him, thoroughly charmed the stylists and posed for the photos without ever alerting anyone from the press that he and Dad weren’t even speaking to each other.

That had been the same article in which Dad had said, “the future of space exploration is the property of the capitalist” John remembers, with a wince.

He wonders what it is about that photo that makes Scott want to keep it around, want to display it here people can see it. Why he wants this reminder of their wax figure selves, so artificial that if you tapped them hard enough they might shatter. John can never believe just how dreamy and dim he himself looks in those photos, or how Gordon looks butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth angelic.

And the louche Scott in the picture looks nothing like the immaculate model soldier who fades up as the balcony photo fades out. The buttons on his uniform and the medal pinned to his chest sparkle. He gleams.

Virgil is peering over his shoulder now, his brows knotted together. “Hey, Scott,” he says to the photograph and then to John, “There’s nothing here,” Virgil says.

“No.”

“I thought there’d be something.” He sounds disappointed.

“What are you doing here, Virgil? Were you expecting to find him hiding out in the bathtub?” It comes out more harshly than he mean.

But Virgil just seems amused. “You’re going to give me grief about being here? What are you doing here? Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not. Why would I have a guilty conscience?”

Virgil gives him a look. “Gee, I don’t know, Johnny. Maybe something to do with the shouting match you had just outside my door last week.”

“You heard that.”

“Grandpa Grant heard that.” Virgil pulls one of Scott’s hoodies over his head and puts his hands into the pockets. “And I’m here because I thought this would be as good a place as any to start. Figure out where he’s been, so I know where he’s going. Talk to his friends. I’m going to find Scott,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Drag him home kicking and screaming if I have to. You can help. Since you’re here.”

“Gosh. Thanks.” But suddenly he does feel guilty. Not about Scott, but for Virgil. Poor Virgil. Of course, he wants to help. Of course, he wants to be seen to be doing something useful for once. It seems petty to point out if Kyrano can’t find Scott, if not a single digital rock John’s turned over has offered up one lead there’s precious little Virgil’s going to be able to do in the situation.

“It’s not like he just disappeared. People don’t just van – ” Virgil breaks off, colours suddenly. “I didn’t mean. Sorry, John.”

“What? Oh. That.”

When he was nine years old John had been kidnapped. He had been walking home from school one day when Scott had stayed late for basketball practice. An arm had gone around his waist and another over his nose and he had been picked up and tossed into the back of a van. One of his kidnappers had brandished a knife at him in the van, told him that good little boys were well treated but bad little boys had their fingers cut off one by one.

After that they had been civil to him, fed him cold spaghetti hoops and given him a gamegle to play with.

He wishes he could say he had been brave or plucky or clever, that he had outwitted his captors and escaped on his own, but the reality is that he had spent a long weekend playing Tetris Masters in a cramped duplex in downtown Portland. At the end of the third day there had been terrifying sounds outside and he had buried his head beneath his blanket. But when the door creaked open it had been Kyrano who had been outside, ready to scoop him up and take him home.

When he looks back on it now it seems like something that happened to someone else. The worst part had been when, firmly held in Dad’s arms, he had had to wade through the sea of flashing cameras and shouting reporters from the steps of the hospital to the car.

In the aftermath, Dad had insisted on subcutaneous GPS transmitters for each of them. Before leaving Algiers, Scott had cut his out and flushed it. John’s seen the records It had transmitted for three days from the bottom of a reservoir outside Algeria before blinking out.

John feels a sudden creep along his spine. Had it been flushed? Had Dad sent divers to retrieve it? Had they checked the rest of Scott wasn’t down there with it? And why hadn’t that occurred to John before now? He’d just assumed that Scott had taken himself off to sulk, to lick his wounds in private, to throw his disapproval in Dad’s face by torpedoing his career. Before now he’d never considered other possibilities. He had thought Scott understandable, quantifiable, a problem he had already solved.

But who is this Scott who can make himself vanish without leaving a digital trace? And who is this person living a carefully studied half-life in place of his dreams?

John’s legs give out from under him and he sits down on the bed.

“John.” Virgil’s hand grips his shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I’m fine.”

A good first test.

But Dad hadn’t meant that finding Scott was his first test. He had meant:

When you’re 200,000 miles above the Earth’s surface, dropping everything and coming home is not going to be an option available to you.

He had meant: You’re going to have to learn what it costs to be able to do nothing when people you care about are in trouble.

He had meant: I need someone cool, collected, dispassionate. Someone who can be rational even when people they care about are in danger; especially when people they care about are in danger.

So, John’s already failed this test, because he’s here, chasing his tail in the desert, imagining worst case scenarios and achieving nothing as the possibility of finding Scott gets more and more remote.

Fuck you, Scott.

Because even in his absence Scott’s deconstructing him, making him doubt himself, pointing out he’s not the man he thought he was.

“Come on, John.” Virgil takes him by the arm. “We should go. He’s not here, okay.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He’s quiet as Virgil says goodbye to Stubbs and as Skip drives them back off the base. They pull in in the parking lot of a 7eleven. Beneath a no loitering sign a beat-up jalopy stands parked. “This is me,” says Virgil.

The car looks like it runs on rust and prayer. Skip raises an eyebrow as he pulls in. “Is this what the Tracy boys are driving nowadays?”

Virgil scratches his head, embarrassed. “It belongs to Dave, my neighbour. He loaned it to me in exchange for a painting and my bike. I don’t think he ever thought I could get it to run.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Wait a second.” John allows this to sink in for a moment. “Your neighbour? In Chicago?! You didn’t drive clean across the country in that?”

Virgil nods, shrugs. “Had to. Dad grounded me.”

“Virgil, you’re nearly nineteen. He can’t ground you.”

Virgil shrugs. “Froze my assets then. Revoked my clearance to my bank accounts, even the ones he wasn’t supposed to know about.” John doesn’t miss the way Skip’s eyebrows go up. “Gave me sixty dollars a day to live on and five days to clear out my apartment and hand my notice in at my job.”

“Why?”

Virgil shrugs, sanguine. “Maybe he was afraid I’d take off to New Mexico to look for Scott.” He opens the door of Skip’s car to let himself out. “Thank you very much, Captain Guerra.”

“Nice to meet you, Virgil. And nice moustache.”

John jumps out of the car after him. “You’re not going to drive back in that death trap?”

“Sure. Wanna ride? Where you going?”

“I’ve got a 7am flight,” he says stiffly. To LAX with no connecting flight. It had seemed a good international hub to start from. He had figured by then he would know where he was going. “I’m booked into an airport hotel in Albuquerque.”

“Yeah. That’s on my way. I can take you.” He reads John’s expression. “Or I can drop you back to town and you can get the train.”

“Come back with me.” John rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay for your flight.”

“I don’t need your money, John.”

“No, you need a miracle to keep that thing running.”

“Anyway, I promised Dave I’d have the car back.”

Dave, John decides at once, is clearly a frustrated serial killer.

“Virgil, I… I’m pulling rank. I can’t let you drive that thing across the country.”

This is the part where Virgil folds. It’s where he always folds. If it were Gordon or Alan it might be different, but Virgil can be relied upon to be sensible and obedient. Except this Virgil is grinning a most un-Virgil like grin, and folding his arms on the roof of the car. “Then I guess you have until Albuquerque to convince me not to.”

There was a time, when gasoline was cheaper and more readily available, that freeways were the arteries of America, but that was before economies of scale in fusion tech made public transport the faster, cheaper option. Nowadays, automobiles are mainly used for short distances. Driving is a dying art. The freeways are half-empty and poorly maintained, populated mainly by the huge 26 and 48-wheeler transport wagons, itinerant nu-gypsies and the occasional motoring hobbyist.

They speed along in silence that stops just short of companionable. The night is squid ink black and full of stars. The head beams of the transport wagons dazzle him as they harrumph out of the darkness and rattle past. There’s music playing softly over the speakers. It’s neither unpleasant nor identifiable. Virgil’s always been an early adopter when it comes to new music.

The jalopy doesn’t even have an autodrive function so Virgil has to steer, but they’re making good time. John can’t shake the sensation that he should be saying something, but he’s just not sure as to what it is. Every time he tries it gets turned into a clearing of his throat or a groan.

But a sign tells him that Albuqueque is only a hundred miles away so he clears his throat once more and asks, “Did you know about any of this? Did he confide in you?”

Virgil keeps his eyes on the road as he says, “Johnny, Scott doesn’t really talk to me at all, except to say, ‘Uh, how’s the art thing going, Virg?’ like I’m seven.”

“Oh… uh, how is the art thing going?”

“I quit.” Virgil’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m going to Stanford in the fall, on Dad’s dime. Engineering.”

“Oh.”

He wants to ask more but something in Virgil’s manner strongly discourages it and a minute later he pulls into one of the roadside gas stations and stops. “I’m starving. Getcha anything?”

John shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“I’ll get two of everything then.”

A second later John remembers the danger. “No granola bars, Virgil.” He calls at his brother’s retreating back. “And I don’t want a kale smoothie!” John’s got an astronaut’s general outlook on health but a computer programmer’s compulsive need for E numbers.

“Sure thing, John. Just caffeine, cocaine and gin.” He waves a hand and keeps walking.

He gets out of the car to stretch his legs and goes for a short prowl around the tiny outdoor seating area. Just as he’s stretching out his quads, his phone rings.

“Hey there, polar bear.”

Rest, and a day of forced routine attending lectures, have obviously done Gordon some good. He’s evened out a little, lost that manic gleam. Last night – or rather in the early hours of this morning – it had been all John had been able to do to coninvce him to get some sleep. He had spent most of the evening stuck between gears, trapped between being furious at this Lady Penelope and being utterly besotted. One minute John had been talking him down from turning her and himself in to the Admiralty, and the next he seemed about ready to start carving “GCT hearts PCW” into bulkhead walls. He had paced back and forth, bouncing up onto his hammock and back down again, peeling off one item of clothing at a time until he was down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, repeating things that had been said to him or about him, collapsing with a sigh in his chair and then leaping up to say, “And another thing!”

This evening at least he seems calmer, though the first words out of his mouth are still, “I’ve been thinking about that Lady Penelope chick.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” says Gordon, who is maybe not as oblivious to sarcasm on the subject as John had thought. He’s tipped back precariously on his chair, slurping kelp noodles with a pair of ceramic chop sticks. “Do you think you could track her down?”

In fact, there’s already a burgeoning file about the Lady Penelope Creighton Ward in John’s personal vault, locked behind every digital protection John can come up with, but he’s not going to tell Gordon that. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, Johnnycakes. You can find anybody.”

John winces. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel tonight’s session. Something’s come up.”

“No prob. Everything okay? John?” Gordon’s looking hard at him now and the edges of his smile are starting to droop. He looks unsettled.

“Everything’s fine,” John says and to change the subject he says, “What would you say if I told you Virgil wanted to go to Stanford to study engineering.”

Gordon nods. “Makes sense. Good school.”

“It is a good school. Don’t you think it might be too good a school? Virgil’s always been more focused on the arts then academics.”

“That’s… true.”

“Some of the guys I work with studied engineering at Stanford. They said that was excellent but intense. Might it not be too much for Virgil? He barely scraped through high school math.”

Suddenly Gordon cracks a broad smile. “Oh no. Are we about to have the birds and the bees talk? We are! Oh, no. Johnny!” He throws back his head and laughs.

“Gor… Cooper!”

“Sorry. Sorry. So. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much and the mommy and the daddy both have IQs pushing 160…”

“Cooper, be serious.”

Gordon slurps a kelp noodle back into his skull. “What I mean is… John, you know Virgil’s good at math, right?”

“Of course, he’s fine, sure. But there are standards–”

“John, you know that Virgil is smart, right?”

“Of course, but multiple intelligences are -”

“No. Not multiple intelligences. Not everyone is special in their own special way. Not everyone get out your crayons and form a circlejerk because we are all about to be blowtorched by the fiery intellect by John Glenn Tracy… I’m losing the run of this metaphor. To rephrase: You know Virgil is smart, like smart smart. Like, you smart.”

There is a moment’s silence, then Gordon groans. “Oh man, you didn’t. Oh, no. I was counting on you to tell Scott. Does this mean I’m going to have to tell Scott? I’m not telling Scott. Why do you think his ‘math tutor’ was an emeritus professor of mathematics instead of the usual broke post-grad?”

“I thought… I thought that was just Dad being Dad.”

“Well, yeah, sure, little bit. Also, no! C’mon, Dude, he got 1007 on his SAT scores the year the mean score was 1006. He nearly failed basic trig yet somehow managed to get by in all those AP calc courses. John, he actually read your dissertation.”

For just a moment John goggles. “Oh, shit.”

Gordon’s noodles nearly come back down his nose. “Johnny, you said a bad word!”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Don’t forget to keep up with your reading.”

“Yes, teach. Say hi to Virgil for me.”

By the time Virgil returns with supplies John’s already got their route to Chicago planned out along with appropriate rest stops and gas stations for re-supplies. “It’s a 26.2-hour drive to Chicago traveling at 60 miles per hour. We’ll each take two six hour shifts, with fifteen minute breaks every two hours. Why don’t you take first shift, while I work out our rest stops.”

“Okay, Johnny.”

Virgil takes the first six hours and John the second. By the time he finishes his shift he’s been awake for 39 hours, so while Virgil drives he dozes in the back seat.

When he wakes up, they’re already in Kansas.

#bbt #john tracy #scott tracy #virgil tracy #thunderbirds are go

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