'more ferarum'

Saturday

"We hiked," Sunny continued, voice strong despite its breathless quality. "He let me walk at my own pace and lead ahead. A few times, he turned, just to make sure I was following. Then he'd smile as if we were doing nothing but exploring. There was no one for miles. He had longer limbs and I'm uncoordinated. Running was out of the question.

You see, Major Hill is a weird climb. It's not just one lump of mountain, it's trenches and weird, deformed rocks. It's thick vegetation on one part, and sparse in another. It's a reformed spot of hiking and adventuring that was cleared out of dangerous animals. And Major Hill is just the known climbing spot- just a few paces, if you know your way around it, would be Kings Land.

Now Kings Land is different. It's considered dangerous. Lots of grizzly bears and wolf attacks, they said. There are numerous ranger outposts in Major Hill, but they're sparse and farer between each other in Kings Land.

The forest is thick and fogs are thicker. Night comes early and people warn you about the noises. Some people have explored it of course, but only headhunters. The most time it gets used is during open season."

The record is muffled, and it's almost nothing but silence until you strain your ears to hear a soft, prancy whistling.

"I wanted to do something, leave something. But I think he'd notice. I think he was waiting for me to do something- attempt to hurt him or leave crumbs. And my head was growing desperate. I just hoped. I hoped and prayed that Kit had a location, gps thing on his phone. I couldn't pull out Kit's phone, too scared he might notice. I still needed to make sure Isla was okay.

I was so scared but I kept moving like. . . like my body was detached from the rest of me. I knew I couldn't outrun him, even with Isla. Who knows the kind of state she was in. I was resigned to the fact that he might exchange me for her. I don't know if that was a better thought. I don't think I'd hold up well in torture. I have a very low endurance and even laughable constitution. It's the same reason why I'm always sick when the seasons change."

The record stalls, catching a muffled shout, "Keep up the pace! D'you want me to carry you, ma poupée?"

The detective remembers how Sunny Finch had flinched at the endearment, prompting him to remind himself to check up on the translation of it.

"No, thank you."

"Later you'll have to," he sang before falling into a soft chuckle.

"And then I understood why." Sunny exhaled. "After almost fifteen minutes, we had come to an awkward bend of the forest and rocks- the hill had curved upward into a dangerous slope, and instead of going around it- though I couldn't see where it ends - Aron started going for the roots and footholds he was familiar with. In between, he turned to me, grinning like crazy. Pale skin and small, bloodshot eyes. He was still in his funeral clothes, loose but not awkward on his frame, and he offered a palm."

"You can run or fall. Again, dealer's choice."

"I stared at him for a long time. My body wanted to run, my mind was screaming. But I moved forward and took his hand. Autopilot. There was ringing in my ears. As soon as my hand touched his, he took it, grasped it tightly, his palm cold and sweaty. I had made a face and he laughed-"

In time for the record to pulse out a brief chlortle.

"- and then he started helping me climb. It was... disgusting."

"Well, that's heartbreaking to hear," present Aron mutters, sighing slightly. He turns to the two-way again, smile quirked. "Did you hate me that much, sunshine?"

"Stop it," Detective Moore warned.

He shrugs.

Muffled hits- clothes being pressed on at parts, with groans and movement where the phone is being uncomfortably hit - ensued... And then loud exhales. Rough and deep.

"Over the small hill we ascended from was a lesser dangerous slope going down. Enough to walk down with caution. And in the middle of it was a clearing with an old, abandoned school bus growing in ivy, part way buried in earth. The door hung loose and from the top and the growing darkness, the sun fading, I realised, there were only dark depths from it. People would have a hard time finding it."

"Welcome to our hideout," past Aron said. You could hear the small tug of pride in his voice. "Well, my hideout. Little Benjie doesn't know this one." He sighed. "Because sometimes, after he's broken them up pretty badly, or I kinda wanna teach him a lesson on almost eviscerating his toys. It's so fucking hard getting new ones by the way, much less moving them when a place gets compromised because people hear fucking screams and shit. Mostly, I move them here to prolong their lifespans. He's careless with them. Plus, I'm the only one with the car that's hard to trace, y'know? Some of 'em girls need breathing room from a psychopath too."

"Like Sasha," past Sunny murmured.

"Well. Sorta. Sasha was already pretty broken. I wanted to give her a little. . . space, I guess, as her former brother slash lover, you know?" Then he exhaled, as if he was discussing the weather in a 'What can you do?' sort of way. "But then the little bitch decided to run. Found some guts and will in that pretty little head of hers- though a little too late - and decided to run after jumping out of a fucking moving car. A lot of new will for someone whose brain cells couldn't catch up with, y'know?"

The voice preens closer to the phone, getting louder but said in a softer tone.

"I mean, between you and me, sunshine, and I don't know if you've ever seen Benji- have you ever seen Benjamin?"

"No. . ."

"Well, Benji's so fucking slim. And pathetically weak. And sure, she was bound and shit, and in the middle of nowhere, but come on. She tried to make a run on me. Me. And at that point, she wasn't even running. She was hobbling while trying to scream for help."

A snort.

"As if anyone could hear her. Benji's first experiments on her involved scalpel and her vocal cords."

"What?" Aron says, eyes wide at the detective. "I wasn't the one who took out her voice. As I've been narrating without my consent, Benji was the one who liked the fucked experiments."

"That you cultivated."

"That I am guilty of, I agree." Aron shrugs. "But it's like getting angry at god who made humans strong enough, smart enough, and resilient enough to kill other species. Most of the time for fun. It's both futile and reactionarily stupid. You don't get mad at god for flexing his creative juices. You don't get mad at him when humanity displays what's it has always been at its fucking core: humane."

Aron tilts his chin upward. "You don't get mad at god for playing god. You get mad at that human."

"God, huh?" Narcissism is one thing, but a god complex?

He smirks as if he can read the detective's thoughts.

"We are an image of him. Again, and you gotta keep up with this with me- it's all about the food chain. Here, I'll give you a pro tip: prey always know they're prey, deep down. The admittance of having fear, being in fear- that's a natural prey instinct. That's why even humans we, as a species, have our own system. Our own food chain. And fear is the most obvious trait of prey. As much as we are an image of him, not everyone can herald, act, or create as him. There are a chosen few."

Lacks. . . fear? Is that it? Is that what you are? The detective almost squints, tilting his head to the side. "And you're one of them?"

Instead of answering, Aron smirks. He leans forward to press play, body dripping with avarice. That of which is absolute hubris, fatal to a godling.

And suddenly, the detective can see him for all that he truly is.

And yes, there is fear, anger, and actualisation, all swirling in his gaze, at the clenching of his chest, but there is also something undeniable: pity.

His phone, tucked into his pocket, vibrates with a message. The next blink of his eyes is considerably slower. He knew what the message conveyed without checking it, and he couldn't help but exhaling.

Sunny's audible swallow is nothing but fear and apprehension. "Cords?"

"Disgusting, I know, sunshine, but she was mostly out of it when he. . . does his thing, you know?" Aron sighed roughly. "Give me your hand, let's walk and talk. Okay, so moving car, right? Seeing her run pathetically, barely lucid, trying to find help. . . I just did what I had to do. A gift of parting. Despite what's going on your pretty little head, sunshine, I'm not as horrible as you think I am. Mercy was the best gift she could receive."

"And leaving her there?"

"Mhm. Some things have to happen. Shall we?"

"The bus was tilted down, half of it drowned on earth. Why that was, I didn't ask. I didn't want to know either. He pressed something and golden light flickered in a string of baubles that led a precarious way down. At the end of the bus was a hole on the ground. It was dark there. You can see the earth but it was carved out well."

Whistling resounded from the recording. Far but high and constant. A familiar tune. You can hear it past the rustling of clothes.

"He jumped down easily, his height took care of that. He fiddled with a light source- a lamp of some sort that made it brighter, then he turned to me, high above, able to run if I wanted to, if I forced myself to, and he was smiling, offering another hand silently. I debated kicking him in the face."

"Well, ouch," Aron says with a snort.

"But instead I took his help and he half carried, half tugged me down. It was dark, and he had to stop a few times to open some lamps he left at corners. It wasn't a straight passageway, and the ceiling was too low for him that he had to bend down, but he led the way, assured that I was following him. The passage was empty and worn. I wondered how long it took to make."

The whistling is more concentrated, locked into a tighter space where every note is sharp.

"And at the end is a small clearing, larger in height, enough for him to comfortably stand. As he moved away, still whistling, I saw her then. Isla Delos Reyes, bound and hog-tied on the floor, eyes closed with her mouth in a wet, bloodied gag. One of her eyes was shut and purple, and marks of strangulation on her neck. At first, I stopped, thinking she was already dead, heart pounding."

"Wakey, wakey, little brat. Help's arrived," Aron sung. He turned to me. "Oh, come in, come in. It's a little tight, sure, but you're tiny enough to fit in my pocket."

"Aron turned back to Isla again, frowning. The change of expression was so fast. At first he was calm, kind even, then there was a flash of irritation and his hand had gone down faster than I could react. The slap was loud and pronounced, Isla's entire face going the other way, reddening from the impact. She had scrambled awake from it, breathing hard, eyes wide, in fear, shock.

His expression changed back, back to calm and eased."

"There we go now. It's very rude to be asleep when we have a guest. So sunshine, last choice. Are you coming in or am I going to chase you in the middle of nowhere?"

"And our eyes met, detective. Me and Isla. Through her confusion was a sudden realisation. Tears prickled in her panic as much as fear prickled in mine. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to get hurt. I didn't want to be a hero." Sunny's voice broke at the last part. She sniffled, raising her head with a wince to dry out the fresh tears in her eyes. "But Isla was brave. Brave enough for the both of us. As soon as she realised what was happening- or what she thought was happening, she acted. She pulled her body forward and yanked Aron down with her tied legs.

Everything was suddenly brought into action. I-"

"Now here's something. . . I don't like," a voice pierces through the interrogation room's small, four walls, echoing loudly into the speakers that both the men inside it wince at the static and volume. "I am not going to give the son of a bitch who's waiting for it, the satisfaction of. . . of seeing my best friend breakdown. Plus, don't you think it's time for a POV change? It's never too good to miss me too much. And I just really don't think you deserve the gratification."

Aron sits up, eyes narrowed. "That's-"

The door opens, and in his most beat up form yet, bandaged, bruised, and all in all, a physically brutal look, Kit Pouliot enters the room. It looks as if it's difficult to move any muscle, but Kit enters smirking, pushing an IV with a bandaged hand.

"Me. Hi."

Officer Adebayo enters with a chair, settling it in one corner of the table. He gives the detective a look of alarm and 'wtf, stop this kid', but Detective Moore only smiles.

As Kit settles at the seeming head of the table with a few painful groans and 'ugh's, he exhales from the exertion, smoothening his messy hair to no avail.

"If we're going to be dramatic about all of this bullshit, might as well be dramatic back, right?" Kit turns to Aron, raising an eyebrow while the man gaped at him in return. "Did you really think I was going to let you out star me?"

"They said you were still unconscious," Aron says, throwing a nasty look at the detective who shrugged his innocence.

Kit snorts. "They lied. Police are legally allow to lie, but to be fair to them no one knew I was coming. And I was unconscious for the better part of the week. Not a good place to be. But I'm here now, as I should. After all, my sunshine took my phone, leaving a very big question mark on our story. Whatever happened to Lorcan Delos Reyes and the most wonderful man in town? I'm here, as a firsthand point of view, to recount my adventures. Like a true and experienced novelist."

Kit leans to him a little, cupping his face as if he's sharing a secret. "Spoiler: you don't really look nice in my pov. Can't edit nasty bitch, you know?"

TRANSLATIONS:

FRENCH:

"ma poupée" = my doll