Chapter 8

A thin oily man with sallow features, sunken green eyes and lank shoulder length black hair clung to the cavern ceiling and watched the intruders like a spider watching a fly. The big fat one moved slowly but probably was still dangerous. The skinny boy could be dealt with quickly and easily. Together they proved more of a challenge. Separate, much easier.
Snyder knew he would not be seen. There was no possibility that the lights would work down here in the sea cavern. He’d personally seen to that yesterday. This was the direction of their journey. No doubt they were stuck, prisoners here, tied to an easy food source, just as Snyder was, though he felt not empathy. They were victims. He was master of these tunnels. This was his home. Pulling one of his pets from his satchel strung over his shoulder, Snyder inched alone the surface towards a spot directly above where the two would soon be. He could almost understand their slurred speech of elongated vowels and rolling r’s. It might have been some corrupt form of English for all he knew. His father didn’t have the education to leave him in any position of discernment, he only got the gist of it: this was the place. We can get out here. His little friend curled tightly around his arm, licking the air. Snyder was almost in position. Suddenly as if it occurred to the fat one that they were not alone, he placed a governing hand unto the child’s shoulder and drew him back. Looking around warily, the fat one edged backward away from Snyder’s target drop zone and headed back towards the door. The boy mewled something in questioning but the fat one made a chopping signal with his hand and the boy silenced quickly. Perhaps his quarry was more intelligent than he had first assumed. He would have to be more careful. The others had been fools and walked in circles. These two could navigate the corridors and levels with ease.
Hissing between his teeth at the loss of a good meal, Snyder slipped his pet back into his satchel and waited for the retreating footsteps to fade. They would not return to their camp to direct the others to the exit. None would leave. There were enough of them to feed Snyder for a long time. Smiling, he edged back down the ceiling towards the wall, his jaw working in anticipation.

The hypnotist strode confidently into the large interrogation room. All the chairs were filled and askew. Cyrus Hedrick stood to greet the newest addition to the investigation. Charles Fahey sat off to the side watching the exchange. The short bald man who came in was not what he had expected. In his mind, a hypnotist was a man in a dark cloak like one of the Makros Order with spinning black and white pinwheel eyes and a pointed waxed goatee. This man seemed ultra normal, non threatening and, Charles guessed, ineffective. Clean-shaven with dark, deeply inset eyes, he was strange but not mysterious. All those interrogated so far had little to no information on Square One itself. Hypnotism was the last option.
Shane Dex was the best. He had hypnotized his father when he was six into thinking he was thirteen and let him watch PG-13 movies. He’d hypnotized his teachers into giving him A’s through his entire academic career. Bullies would forget their loathing of him and instead become his greatest defender. He built an empire out his art, and now, people paid him out the nose for it. People learned early on only to discuss payment on paper correspondences, never in person. Listening intently to Councilman Hedrick’s break down of previous attempts with previous specimens, Shane nodded sagely, but with a quick wave of his hand interrupted him, a very brave thing to do judging by Cyrus’ recent erratic behavior and level of stress.
Unperturbed by Hedrick’s look of insult, Shane spoke in a deep sonorous voice that penetrated every ear in the room easily, “I will prepare the man and then leave. What you have done previously was done and failed or I wouldn’t be here. The less I know, the less I worry you, and I am here to end your worries not to add to them. I will open his mind for questioning and then I will leave. I have no wish to know anymore.” Blinking in surprise, Cyrus shook his head in disbelief.
Charles could hear Cyrus mutter under his breath, “Okay. Do your thing,” and was surprised at the lack of bitterness in his voice. He was disarmed by the man’s candor, or simply taken in by his presence. Charles dismissed either thought. Best not to try to understand Hedrick too deeply. Understanding always led to trouble. And judging by the two Aryan looking gentlemen in suits across the room staring at him challengingly, he’d better not think, just look attentive and watch his mouth.
Waddling towards the bound man, Shane Dex introduced himself to the man who’s name on file was Benjamin Herald though he did not readily respond to it when initially called. He said he had no intention of harming him and that if anything he was there to help, saying, “You will wake from this as if you’d had the greatest rest of your life. You’ll be rejuvenated and replenished and ready to handle any task..”
“Get on with it, Dex,” said Hedrick in a clipped, annoyed tone. Charles could not help but shake his head. It was obvious the man was going through a speech. This was a regular part of the show, if not already part of the hypnosis.
Shane continued on unhurriedly as if Hedrick had not spoken at all. He said in the same deep, even calming tone, “I want you to concentrate on my voice my voice and no other. I want you to listen and relax. I am going to count back from the number five and each step will take you deeper into your mind, each step more relaxed. I am going to start counting now. Five. You will feel every finger and every toe relax. Every muscle in your hands and feet, relax. Four. You feel yourself go deeper and deeper into depths of your mind,” the man’s eyes blinked as if he was having trouble following what was being said and he opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped with his mouth hanging open and stared dumbfounded at the man through dirty dreadlocks. Shane’s voice droned on. One of Charles Fahey’s watchdogs, fell asleep half way through the litany between three and two. His surrounding fellows chuckled quietly but no one spoke. It was obvious the hypnotist was working his magic. Hedrick watched with a feverish intensity that worried Charles. His predecessor had been a feverish man, and he’d lost his life for it.
Shane said one and then spoke the man’s full name, “Benjamin Carey Herald. Is that your real name?”
The sleeping man’s head shook back and forth, and he slowly said no.
“Will you tell me your real name?” Shane little form was erect and he seemed to bend the prisoner to his will.
“Caylin Gareth Delphine,” murmured the man. Men furiously jumped into action behind Cyrus Hedrick’s desk, entering the name into the computers. One leaned in to report to Cyrus in a whisper, “Dead fiver years now.” His face brightened momentarily but quickly darkened and he returned his attention back to Shane and Caylin.
“Caylin I want you to answer some questions for me. Can you do that?”
The limp man nodded slowly, “Yes.”
“I want you to answer them no matter whose voice you hear asking them. There will be different voices and it may be hard, but I want you to try answering them all. Can you do that?” Shane’s head cocked to the side as if listening to a separate dialogue on a different wavelength.
“Yesss,” came the hissed whisper of a reply.
Turning dramatically, Shane faced Hedrick and nodded gravely, “I will return when you are done.” He then left as stately as he had come.
Cyrus Hedrick licked his lips where an afternoon shadow had begun to develop. He had very little time these days for sleep. His men had uncovered precious little and federal attention from the Stephens-Greenspan investigation was tying him in a knot. This was the last straw and it was now or never.
Clearing his throat Cyrus said loudly, “What do you do for Square One?”
“I am a Runner.”
“What do you carry?”
“Packages”
“What do these packages contain?”
“I don’t know. Bombs sometimes.”
“You don’t know? Or you won’t tell me?”
“Yes. I don’t know.”
Blinking in confusion, “What do you mean?”
“I am a Runner. We are never told what we carry. Just sometimes people check. They all die. Explode,”
“How did you join Square One?”
“A. spoke to me in a bar. Seemed crazy at first, but I liked him. Funny guy. He fellowshipped me and then I became a Runner,”
“Are all Runners a letter from the alphabet?”
“Yes,”
 “What letter are you?”
“D.”
“No repeats”
Caylin’s brow creased for a moment, “I don’t know.”
Sighing in frustration, Cyrus finally asked, “Tell me everything you know you know about Square One.”
“Square One is an organization created with one purpose: The creation of a sustainable environment without sunshine or clean water under the city in the ruins and the trash. Our leader is Terra, a young woman born homeless and raised in the sewers. She was educated by a mad scientist who raised her and taught her everything she knows about plant life and molds. She invented the aerosol adhesive that holds the tunnels together. She is the head of the inner Square One community. Runners cannot go inside Square One. Guards can, but cannot leave the tunnels surrounding it. Runners talk to guards and deliver packages. Runners and Guards spend most of their time at the Pitt or in The Wading Pool. The Pitt was a large tunnel that most guards and Runners used to party and kill time in. It collapsed near a week ago. The Wading Pool is a half flooded tunnel that stinks but gets you higher than a kite. Used to relax there all the time before it got crunched while I was on a route. My route is from New Greenwich Village down through Old Chinatown. I visit 30 establishments and 49 individuals. The names of the establishments are: Tekkie Traders, Fire Den, Zen’s Den, Avenue A Deli, Fireside Grill-” A wide smile smoothly replaced the shocked look on Cyrus Hedrick’s face. A list, a complete list. Shane Dex would be paid, and there was no need to erase his memory. He was the perfect government tool. Might even put him on the payroll, but then hardly a need, he seemed to want to know as little as possible, but then he knew the names, maybe, maybe. He’d talk it over with Stanwich back at NSC, he’d know. This was gold. Tonight, all the workers at all these establishments would be arrested. All the individuals and their families and friends would be incarcerated indefinitely. The rest of the Square One trash would go just as easy as this Caylin Delphine went. It was almost too easy.
Charles Fahey watched in disbelief. Hypnotism works. Of all the dumb luck! He always thought it was a trick, just another illusion like the old sawing a lady in half bit. But here it was, indisputable proof. The system was clear. Runners didn’t know squat, but guards did, and maybe there was a way to find a guard. There certainly were enough of both kinds of men and women floating around in the water and trash below their feet after Miss Termona’s terrible blunder of an attack. It was almost too stupid to believe that she’d mistakenly alerted them to their interest. Too late now and she had disappeared with Megannis and his crew, but… with Shane Dex, it might just all turn out right. His daughter was down there and if there was anyway to get her back alive and well, he was willing to take that chance. Still, a hypnotist? Probably be smelling each other’s crotches and pissing territorially before he’s done with us.

Headlines, New New York Times Saturday February 3rd 2103:
FEDS ATTACK GARBAGE TOWN OF HELPLESS CHILDREN
Early last Monday morning a full-scale attack was launched
upon a community of peace loving children living on their own
beneath the surface of our fair city. Orphaned by poverty and mis-
fortune, these sad individuals turned to the tunnels of trash and
ruin beneath our feet for warmth and sustenance. The Federal
Government’s plan to create a new prison in the abandoned areas
below Old Chinatown includes the removal of all tray and debris
from the area both above and belowground. Using trash collector
druids, they carelessly harvested live human beings. Tunnels
collapsed taking lives and potential futures away from so many
helpless children. Mayor AppleTower had this (continued page A3)

Grant read the front-page articles of every New New York Times paper everyday. He prided himself on staying abreast of current affairs. His father had instilled such qualities upon him. Folding the thin plastic pages of synthetic ‘paper’ carefully and precisely, Grant offered them to his brother, Dirk, as he did every morning. Dirk as always shook his shaggy head of red hair and pushed out his wide lower lip. They were twins. Not identical, but twins. It was an anomaly to get an order that multiplied, but it had occurred and when his order became two and he’d been notified, their father had said he’d accept both, no use in wasting. So here they sat. Grant, tall, thin as a rail, with straw-like red hair, a gap between his teeth that was ‘in’ during his father’s time, light freckles on near translucent skin, lime green eyes, and cab door ears. Dirk, short by a few inches, thick as a tree, arms that could break a neck with a quick flex, square hands with stubby fingers, a thick square nose, high cheek bones, a unruly fire truck red beard, long curly hair of the same color, and the same lime green eyes. The Samson Twins sat at the Parkside everyday for morning coffee and the paper. Sometime in the past a park of some sort had been near the establishment, but now it was gone. Neither had respectable jobs. They were Go and Sees for Uncle Joe, a second rater in the scummy pond of Old Chinatown’s underworld.
As usual, Grant flapped the paper at Dirk, insisting, saying, “It’s important this time Dirk. It’s kids this time they’re doing in and something’s gotta be done.”
Dirk looked steadily from paper to his brother and back again, and said gruffly, “Nothing but trash and plastic you got there. No point in reading what I don’t need to know.”
“What are you jabbing about?” Grant slammed his thin elongated hands on the small wobbly coffee table.
Raising an eyebrow, Dirk answered slowly, “They got into yer head and pissed on a circuit breaker while back. There’s nothing real in all these little characters printed on cellophane. You gotta let go. It’s unhealthy.”
“Unhealthy!” scoffed Grant. “Open your mind and learn. Pa read this paper everyday and he was a man of learning, a man of knowledge and letters-“
“Pa knew a lot I give you that, but it’s all different nowanow-“
“Nowanow? Nowanow. It’s the same paper. Written by the same men. How can it be any different? You got yer head on straight? Or is there something we don’t all know that you do?” With a mocking tone, Grant addressed the rest of the sad audience of the Parkside. 
 “Ach! Come off it Grant. You know what I mean? You see how what we know for facts always gets twisted up in the machinery they got going. Again and Again. Never fails. I just think the rest of it’s gotta be the same,” Dirk explained in nearly the same words he used yesterday to extinguish the same argument. “Sides, who cares? Bunch of punks probably had it coming.”
“How can you say that? Either of us could have been orphaned if Pa hadn’t been so kind,” Grant whined, shaking the paper at Dirk in admonishment.
“Figure, it would have been you, is all. All weak and knock kneed,” Dirk chuckled at Grant’s hurt look, “Wouldn’t pass up a fine specimen like me, now would he?” To prove his point Dirk flexed and crushed his empty iron coffee cup into a misshapened little ball and reaching into his pocket threw some change onto the table next to it.
A glint of metal in his smile, Dirk grunted, “Les go.” Sulking, Grant grabbed his light jacket and slipped it on as they left the warmth of the Parkside behind.

The meeting of the Twelve and Gurney lasted nearly 6 hours and most of the other contacts had retired to their rooms. Hal waited patiently outside the doors. His large scarred hands rested easily on each of his knees. He sat on a metal bench bolted to the floor and tapped his foot to the rhythm of a song he had heard at a gathering late one evening in Harmony, a small village in New Mexico before he pulled his collection of pilots away from the throng. It is all happening so fast, he thought. He’d left his two sons at home in Appalachia City playing chess and drawing, proper pastimes commonly neglected. He hoped he’d be able to return to them. His next journey would be without them and when things really started moving it was uncertain their paths would cross again. Hal rubbed his finger along the ridges of his gray corduroy pants. He idly flipped the color through the spectrum, settling again on slate, boring gray. He was not a man of flash or flamboyance. He was a simple man. These pants were as simple as could be found and still they were a waste of materials and time. Not that it wasted a human anytime. A machine had made these pants probably in under a few seconds. That’s the way of the world nowadays. Sighing, Hal tried to remember his earliest birthday to kill time. It was an exercise of futility. He never remembered past his tenth birthday party that had been co-joined with a neighbor’s son, Peter Vaughn, who had been born the next day. It was easier on parents to combine parties, double the chaperones, and less work. Hal remembered when Peter Vaughn’s older brother and one of his 8th grade friends had thrown water balloons out the 3rd floor window onto his jacket for a laugh. The real problem had been, Hal’s mom was caught well within the splash zone and was wearing an expensive cashmere sweater. She’d never let the Vaughns forget it. Hal found himself thinking of this particular memory often. Prior to this time in his life, he only held snatches of images, tastes, smells, and feelings in his mind. He wondered if he could have remembered more 30 years ago. He often wondered about what inadvertent side effects regularly mounted inside him from the age slowing drugs. His genes, altered as they were, certainly helped cope with the extension, but his mind still might not be able to grasp the extra amount of life he’d been allotted. He remembered the sweet taste of Domino’s Brown Sugar straight out of the box. The dreamy way it melted and tasted complex and rich despite being a solitary ingredient. He recalled scrubbing his teeth with his fingers to get every last crystal chunk from his fingers onto his tongue. The grippy way his teeth felt from eating too much sugar. His reverie was interrupted by the doors receding silently into the walls. President Walton was being helped out of the Hall, one gnarled claw clenched to the shoulder of one of his many sons who looked through Hal as if he wasn’t there. Walton stabbed a cane at the floor with each lurch of a step. Men waited behind in the doorway. His secretary hovered close by. The President’s clear strong eyes met Hal’s as steady as a mountain range.
He did not speak. He simply waited. Forcing Hal to speak. Heat rising from his collar, Hal spluttered, “I don’t …I don’t mean to bother you, sir. Mr. President Walton, sir, but I have word, or… I should say rumor that there is...” Hal’s gaze flickered from his son back to the impassive, stony stare from the head of the Twelve. “Uh… A… A traitor in our midst and I just was wondering… Sir?” A smile had split at the word, traitor, and Hal looked confused.
This seemed to amuse President Walton more, chuckling softly, he said, “Son, did I ever tell you about the time I found out my dad had wire tapped my room?”
Hal looked distraught. He wasn’t alarmed. He was entertained. This was just another game to the master of games. But this wasn’t a game. It was war.
“Sir I cannot stress the importance and danger such a person represents. If you already know as it seems you do, then why-“
Interrupted with an uplifted hand, Walton continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I didn’t speak a word of it to my dad. CIA back then and all, just for kicks maybe, but who knew, maybe he thought I was leafing through his files for money from some heavy coat in an alley. I wasn’t. Besides the point. So I get a friend to come over, coach him good, and we have this conversation about how the Dean, his name was Dean Friar, had been collecting arms and was getting ready with a few of his buddies to storm the town hall down in Harrisville a ways north of what’s now Appalachia City, that’s where your from right?”
“Uh… Yeah,”
“Good country. Used to be good hunting back in my day. Feral Hog, yes. Anyway. Fact is, my dad didn’t think I was faking. They set up a squad, surveillance, the whole nine, and you know what?” President Walton peered at him with his steady blue eyes expectantly.
“What, sir?”
“Old Dean Friar was actually stockpiling weapons. Not for any reason besides paranoia I reckon. He didn’t really have any friends. Wasn’t the type of guy for a smile or a chat. Cold man, but still he didn’t deserve what he got. My father never let on that he knew it was me who tipped him and his coworkers off, but I never spoke a word heavier than air in my room or any room in my house ever again. You get my meaning?” Walton cocked an eyebrow that made him look like an owl twitching in the moonlight.
“Yes, sir,” sighed Hal. Don’t do anything. Let your opponent think everything normal, no ripples only the mirror surface.
“You always were a good listener. Take care, and keep an eye on your boys. We’ll need strong young backs like theirs in the days to come,” with that President Walton staggered away. His son glaring at Hal for delaying them as long as he did. Behind them a long line of waiting men filed out of the room, some nodding to Hal, others just giving him a once over. One of Gurney Warwick’s eyes swiveled watched Hal for a moment, but then took interest elsewhere. Hal sighed and sat down. He hadn’t even listened.

Sealing the tunnels surrounding headquarters in NNYC and setting up the security devices fell upon a special crew within the inner sanctum of Square One: Tunnel Maintenance. Their captain, Velvet Sun, had long white blonde dreads with blue and red highlights and a thin speckled goatee on a typical Japanese face, though most would not recognize it as so. He rode a small Antigravitational scooter that he’d cooked up with Josh Brewer one late night over a few Gintonics. He and his crew worked steadily with aerosol sealant cans, imbedding ion disruptors, molecule splitters, old-fashioned motion detectors and nail guns, and simple trip wires connected to grenade pins all placed just so at a weak point in the tunnel. Each tunnel leading into Square One was cut into sections to prevent flooding and escape for those who unfortunately decide to intrude. Velvet Sun had no one over him telling him what to do. He was master and commander over the tunnels. First in his class at NNYIT, formerly MIT which now rested at the bottom of a large body of water, and triple majoring in Gravitational Physics, Ancient Warfare, and Physical Chemistry, the government and military sorely missed their brightest rising star. He was officially given up for dead in the city records. His given name almost all but forgotten in his mind. He was Velvet Sun now. A self-made man.
Lovingly wrapping the smooth, cobalt blue grenade in a handful of gravel, nails, and tin foil, Velvet Sun carefully sprays around the grenade sealing it in without getting the pin wet. If he sprayed the pin, even lightly, anyone could kick as hard as they could and the trip wire wouldn’t go anywhere. Despite the popular rumors outside of Square One among Guards and Runners, he had been the one to invent the sealant that made the tunnels safe. His crew was all that stood between life and oblivion.
Derek Raker, a thin wiry kid with unruly hair, subvocalized into his neck mics that three tunnels over, Jeremy Watson was almost done. Velvet Sun simply nodded, he’d heard too but Derek was the nervous type that always repeated what had just been said just in case you weren’t listening. It had annoyed Velvet Sun at first, but after seeing the way Jeremy handled a soldering iron and explosives, a steady, quick hand, faster than his own, he found it in his heart to be easier on him. Hopping on their scooters, they headed back to a hundred yards before the mouth of the tunnel to the work on the final touch, a fake tunnel mouth. It would be hard to do considering that they won’t be able to seal themselves into the tunnel itself. Everything will have to be perfect for it to work and be convincing. Velvet Sun would have to oversee every single tunnel mouth leading into Square One in order to sleep soundly, and already 9 hrs at this, his mind felt unwashed and full of lurches and stops, like a greenhorns on the clutch.
A small beep on his wrist cpu, and Velvet Sun swore silently, a mild alert, two identified and one unidentified persons were entering the abandoned district rapidly. Problem was all the ion disruptors are set to kill even members coming home. Unless it was through the city’s own sewer system, all the tunnels were blocked, no way in. To top it off, Velvet Sun recognized both the call signs and their pin numbers, two brats, Sam, that mongrel of a girl, and his troublemaker of a son, Tripp. They were bringing someone in. Growling despite his own call for quiet, Velvet Sun called an All Back over the radio and gunned his scooter back to Square One to the cpu mainframe to figure out how to keep his son and goldilocks from getting fried.

“One more package. That’s all we need,” urged Josh Brewer scratching absently at his thick black beard. His eyes rested on Terra calmly, but his voice was that of a child begging for just another toy.
Sighing in frustration, Terra said, “No. The risk is too great. We could compromise the whole arrangement.”
Unperturbed, Josh harassed, “One more, double the quantity, and we could finish the shield. No more attacks, no more trouble with the boys in blue,” that saying had always bothered Terra, since none of the officers ever wore anything but black, and they certainly weren’t boys. Josh continued as if not noticing her sudden grimace, “This is what our objective was, and we are so close. By now they are probably already on their way to intercept the remaining packages in transit. We need to get as many of them here now as possible before it’s too late and all our cover is blown.”
Terra certainly agreed that their cover was soon to be blown, but by what or whom she could not say. There were so many possibilities to choose from. Sighing, a note of surrender in her tone, “Besides the tunnels are all sealed up, you don’t expect a Runner to come in, all the way in, through the public system? Do you?”
Surprised, Josh said, “Why not? That’s what they all want isn’t it? To get a glimpse of what’s really going on? I’ve been talking to that Susie girl,” Terra groaned irritably in exasperation. Josh ignored her, “And she’s eating up every word I say. Questions about this and that. She wants to grow potatoes with me and work on the scrubber molds. Think about it! She doesn’t know her thumb from a screwdriver but she’s enthusiastic. We could use more of that. Come Onnnn?!!”
Growling in annoyance, Terra ceded, “Okay fine, but you figure it out with Velvet Sun. Stantilus is too busy with Sister Fox to be bothered. Judging by my watch, he should be back here soon, any minute. And if you can convince him to reopen a tunnel he just spent 8 hrs sealing, or personally guide someone through the old sewer system, be my guest, do whatever you want. Call all the guards who will answer back, but I tell you this much Josh. I don’t care who your daddy was or your uncle, or whatever good you done for us. You screw this up and I’ll drown you in an inch of water myself.” Angry at herself for getting angry, and for giving into his childish demands, Terra stormed off leaving Josh affronted and reserved. Glancing down at his own watch, he saw the different colored lights that indicated different members of the Square One team and he identified Velvet Sun and his crew making their way quickly back. He would just have to wait here a few minutes and Velvet Sun would come to him. Sighing, Josh put on a smile. Things would work out. They just had to. It was science.

A small bird that once was common to the wooded, suburban and urban centers of the world, a sparrow, flew, coasting on the gusts of a chill February wind and settled down on the awning of a store front in New Greenwich Village. It was an art gallery: Frederique Guillard’s. Famous worldwide before the end of international trade. The infamous LeHomme Diamdemonde’s work graced its halls regularly despite his known connections to the EU’s Parisian province. The owner, Jean Guillard, only son of Frederique Guillard’s, sat perched on top of a tall black stool with his thin legs dangling, a long, pale blue conical cigarette between his thin gray lips. A web of wrinkles couched between his lifted eyebrows as his face practiced the disinterested look of those in the art community. A small dog with startling azure eyes and a spotted coat of charcoal and powder blue ran around the base of the stool barking and jumping, so that its jeweled necklace glittered in the sapphire light pouring down from the deep purple awning. Jean’s sharp gray eyes stared aimlessly outward. Spouts of smoke poured from his quirked lips as he condescended in wait. LeHomme was late again. His latest work was still in progress and he wouldn’t let a word slip about it. This was unusual. LeHomme was a strange man. His behavior changed rapidly. His habits routinely changed over a period of months. Usual his work influenced his behavior, but Jean was convinced that this time it was different. He’d cloned giant tropical insects extinct for near 200 years and then smashed them on giant free-standing window frames with foot thick glass. He’d somehow crossbred rats and pigeons into a sterile flying rat with a beak and talons. His debut work had been dogs, individually designed works of art, like little Brutus running around Jean’s feet. Though they had put him on the map, he despised them, considering them cheap gimmicks at best and barely looked at any of them. This was typical of LeHomme and his work.
That is what perplexed Jean at the moment. LeHomme had not been specific in his call, but he’d sounded different, feverish and unstable. There had been a hysterical high-pitched tone to his voice that Jean had never heard before. It was disconcerting. And now he was late. Later than usual. And what’s more, the man always talked about his work either as if it was the greatest thing to happen to the art world or as if he’d just washed dishes like a commoner. The roller coaster, Jean was used to. The submarine and the plane, he was not. He’d seen LeHomme last on his rooftop during a party months ago. It had been near morning and the gray fingers of light had begun to worm their way through the briar patch of cloud in east. I saw him standing their on the edge of the building, outside the flock of partygoers, a cigarette on each hand and his champagne glass between his feet. His head was cocked as if listening to something no one else could hear. The wind blew and his clothes flapped around him, but he didn’t twitch a muscle. It was then I knew that our friend, LeHomme Diamdemonde, was going slightly mad. Thinking to himself, Jean grimaced as he began smoking into the long filter of his cigarette. Spitting unceremoniously, he flicked his cigarette at the birds picking at the street. He even connected with a dirt-encrusted wing, but a small jump from it and its closest compatriots was all the reaction he received. Scowling, Jean stalked back into his gallery to get a drink.

Lounging in the warmglow of the flood-lights of the Central Astro Park main lawn, Prof. Capstone wrote furiously in his cpu template his observations of a homeless man feeding pigeons, a felony. He wasn’t really feeding them food either. He was ripping up pieces of discarded styrofoam cups and making bird noises to attract a large throng of the filthy things. Poisoning was also a felony. Big ones, small ones. As a professor of math and linguistics, Matthew Capstone had no idea which were pigeons and which were not. Pausing in his writing, Prof. Capstone flipped to the web and looked up the birds of New New York so he could list the homeless man’s victims’ names properly. He was known for his exactitude. He was proud that he’d only given out 36 A’s and 89 A-‘s in his entire teaching career of 28 yrs. A good grade should be earned not bought. That is NNYU’s standard and had always been his. Glancing at the search query’s answer, Matthew Capstone, PhD. twice over was momentarily at a loss. A government regulated site such as this was never wrong at its censuses.
Under Listed Aviary of New New York to date was Urban Pigeon solely. The classification itself experienced several bottlenecks as they cannibalized each other and were poisoned over the past century and to date there was only one type of pigeon left, known simply as the Urban Pigeon. Slightly perturbed and saddened, Matthew brought up pictures of its development periods, perhaps the smaller ones, however different they seem, might be immature pigeons. Glancing back and forth between the images and the milling mass of creatures now surrounding the bum and some hopping close enough that he could feed them by hand, Prof. Capstone realized that none of the pictures remotely resembled the small quick birds that darted in and out of the throng of slow methodical pigeons. Perplexed he stared at them for a while. Then feeling the fool held his template up and took a picture of the entire scene, a nice summation of the scene to be later accompanied with the text that was in progress, and zoomed in on one of the smaller birds and queried it in the government census files. Gratifyingly the answer popped up immediately, a Sparrow, genus Passer, family Ploceidae, sub-class Aves, class Reptilia, and then it hit him. In red letters underneath all the jargon were the words: Extinct, last citing 9/4/2058 Springfield, Appalachia. Was this art? Prof. Capstone settled all his mind’s energy on observing the homeless man feeding his quarry. In a sense, yes, but true to life, not a manufacturing. His missing teeth, his obscene giggles, yellow eyes and puffed fingers and bulbous nose did not lend the aesthetic of art. It had a certain flair for the depressed or thematic, but it was most certainly not art. Not here, not in the non-assuming corner of the great lawn under these sculpted likenesses of trees, not under the bubble of a generated blue sky. Those birds were apart. They were not eating the trash that Matthew could see. They were diving in and out of the pigeons. But to what purpose? Completely unappetized by the prospect of continued writing in the face of a discrepancy, Prof. Capstone stood up flipping off the screen to his template and folded it into his pocket, shaking his head. Strange. Extinct birds. Probably some trillionaire’s prize possession gone loose and now they’re some bums meal. Still, it made no sense. Why would anyone want remakes of those plain little birds?

Sam, Tripp, and Robert struggled through the debris and trash on their way towards Square One. A few times they stumbled upon the remains of a section that had been zapped as Sam put it. They were full of fine powder like dust and Tripp sneezed a lot. The walls were smooth and clean They had had to go different routes since Robert was too large and inflexible to fit through several tight spots. At the moment, Robert was complaining in a whining tone that he was stuck between two metal beams that made a small triangle large enough to pass through. Sam was pulling from her end and Tripp was pushing from the other. Robert was screaming dramatically while the two children whispered fiercely for him to shut up. Finally, Tripp gave up and rummaging through his jacket, a patchwork of pockets hidden within pockets, found a lighter and lit the fraying coattails of Robert jacket.
Calling in a mock panicked voice, Tripp said, “AHH! Crap! Robert we got a problem there’s a fire on our end and you gotta move man! Or I’m done for! COME ON!” To make it more convincing, Tripp began coughing loudly and hacking like he had phlegm in his throat.
Robert said incredulously, “A fire? How could there be a fire? And why have you stopped-OH OH! I’M ON FIRE! OH OH!! HELP!!” Screaming Robert popped through the crack and, bowling over an open mouthed Sam, ran dead down the dilapidated alley.
Quick figures moved out of their hiding places and intercepted Robert with a fist to the jaw. The man who brought Robert down so easily rolled him back and forth in the dirt and trash until his jacket was completely out and then lifted him easily up onto his shoulder like a sack.. The leader strode past them towards Sam and Tripp. He was wearing a retro retro purple dinner jacket with gold pinstripes, a worn black Drowned t-shirt with holes in it, aqua vinyl pants, and red cowboy boots. His white blonde dreads swung as he sauntered up to the two of them. He crossed his arms over his thin chest, his collection of bracelets clicking against themselves. His lips were compressed and his eyes held the deadened look of disapproval.
Velvet Sun said, “Well, son… What do you have to say for yourself this time?”