Tales Of The Canterlot Deportation Agency: Jack

by Estee

Fox Hunt

Within the theater of the mind, the bundle of chemicals was still trying to find some way of dealing with the news. In the outer world, it was steadily, almost merrily striding towards someone it considered to be a friend -- well, actually, 'friend' could be regarded as being the less important part of the relationship.

"Vic!" it beamed, or tried to: its face could really only do so much, which required the voice to manage a lot of heavy emotional listing. "What's new? Anything important going on? Something fresh out of the lab to show off? Because it's very important, keeping up on what one's --"

"Do not," Jack said from his place on the phantom stage, "call him 'dad' again."

The chemicals barely missed a beat. "-- friend is up to. Especially in times of hardship, such as after learning that one has been fired." An exaggerated sigh. "I can see it now, really I can. Once every two weeks, I'll have to stand in line at the unemployment office, hours of pointlessly waiting around just so some bureaucrat can ask me 'Did you even try to fracture any skulls this week?' and when I show him -- her?-- him..." It frowned, at least somewhat: a true moment of thoughtful concentration would pull on muscles enough to alter the perpetual grin slightly around the corners. "...pronouns are tricky things... anyway, he'll ask me that, and I'll plop the moaning body which I've been carrying with me the whole time on the desk because it's not as if he was just going to take my word for it, and then he'll want to know why I should continue to receive benefits if I've clearly been on the job, but then I'll have to explain that it's all been for free and he'll think that's just --"

"-- stop."

The word had been soft, but with an odd firmness within it. Something... cold.

The chemicals hesitated, speech and movement alike, a few strides away.

"Did I say something wrong?" it asked. "Someone really has to tell me when that happens. And since you're here and I know how much you love to educate, this would seem to be an opportune --"

"-- don't talk," Vic cut him off, with narrow shoulders displaying an odd tension as he leaned against the wall, some fifteen feet away. "And don't move."

Somewhere behind painted, molded plastic eyes, the chemicals blinked.

"This," it softly said, "is a little more wrong than I was expecting."

"I want to talk with you," Victor quietly told it. "And only you. So you're going to stay right there until transition is over. I've been counting seconds since the mist came out: I'll know when it ends. And when it does end, you're still going to stay there, being quiet, letting me talk. Jack --" (and Jack, moving into the stage wings, paused to listen) "-- I set up the room before I got here. I'm recording this. You'll see what it said when you get back."

The chemicals, horribly confused and now feeling a strange pain radiating from intangible wounds, did something which was still so hard for it: shut up. And waited, until the stage and Jack had receded into the shadows.

Victor nodded to himself, exactly once.

"I'm a scientist," he told the chemicals, along with the air. "Or at least that's what I tell myself, on a good day. I tell myself it's what I want to be. And scientists ask questions. That's really most of the job: asking questions no one's thought of before. But you have to think of those questions. You have to make yourself think of them, when they're hard questions. Things you don't want to think about. Things no one wants to think about..."

Long-fingered hands came up, briefly wove strange patterns within dim light, dropped back down.

"There were questions I didn't ask before you were made," Victor told the chemicals, "because I was too naive to think of them. But I had the innocence... slammed out of me. I finally asked myself 'What's a skinsuit good for?' And obviously it's good for investigating crimes, keeping the police from contaminating existing forensic evidence because they can't leave any of their own. But if you can't leave that kind of evidence... if you don't shed skin cells, drop hairs, leave fingerprint oils behind..."

The teenager shivered. The chemicals didn't know why: it wasn't a particularly chill night.

"You have," Victor continued, "an exceptionally dry handshake. I wasn't expecting that, the first time you did it. It makes touching your skin feel -- off. I'm guessing most people don't realize what's wrong, not on a conscious level. Not that you spend a lot of time shaking hands. But it's... strange. I realized that would be part of what the skinsuit had to do. I worked out the process which allowed it to happen. And I still wasn't ready for what it would feel like, to shake your hand..."

(The chemicals remembered the handshake, which had come at the very end of their agreement. It had been the first time the chemicals had ever done that, and... it had felt good. Warm. Almost -- welcoming.)

A quick vibration of head and receding blonde hair, the outer manifestation of a rapid inner centering.

"You can't contaminate a crime scene," he said. "You also don't leave evidence behind when committing crimes. That's what the skinsuit is good for. It's part of why you haven't been caught. It's what he wanted all along, and I made what he asked for because -- I didn't think of the right question. I have to think of the questions -- and then I have to ask them. When I don't, that's when things can go wrong."

He paused. Took a deep breath, as his right hand slid into a pocket.

"I rigged this place last night," Victor steadily told the chemicals. "With a camera, so I could record your answer. And with something else. There are little vials of gas all over this room. The reversion formula. The third one, in fragile containers, next to small explosive charges. And you're fast, something I didn't plan for or know was going to happen -- but I don't think you can cross the distance to me before I press the button. Once the mist touches you, Jack will take control just about immediately, and all you can do is watch for the eighty-four seconds you'll have left. So I'm going to ask you some questions."

Another pause. Another breath.

"And if I don't like your answers," the chemical's parent said, "those will be the last eighty-four seconds of your life."

More sirens went by outside. Flashing red momentarily filled the room, bounced off white skin, glinted from some of the thin glass taped to the ceiling.

"You..." The chemicals swallowed. "When we shook hands... you said you would help..."

Forced, barely-holding neutrality. "Maybe I think this is the last thing I can do to help Jack."

The electronic wails faded. Silence took over.

"The third formula," the chemicals said.

"We both know what the second does."

It nodded. Breathed, while it still could. "What do you want to know?"

"When Jack returns," Victor quietly asked, "what happens to you?"

It tried to find the right words and at the moment they emerged, knew it had failed. "I just... go away. Down, into the dark. I -- stop. It's... peaceful..."

Softly, "Do you have any awareness? Any knowledge of what Jack's doing?"

"I think... I think I dream, sometimes. I don't exist and I dream that I do." Its eyes briefly closed, behind the outer layer of its face. "I've wondered if that's what life is. But no one can tell me."

Steady, practiced words. "And where is Jack, when you're here?"

"Where I am, when I'm not."

It was possible to see the teen's hand clenching within the pocket.

"You came to me," Victor said, "when the formulas were running out. You'd lost some vials, here and there. Accidents. Fights. The count went uneven. And you asked me for help, because I'd created the formulas. The only thing which let you exist was going away."

The chemicals risked a nod.

"But that's not what you said when you broke into my house. You told me that you needed to make sure there was always a way to bring Jack back. That he didn't use the last vial to call you, and just -- leave you there. Even on that first night, when you -- woke up in the Ace Salvage Yard, after the guards heard you laughing and you... finished with them --"

It smiled at the memory, for its opening night had held some particularly fine bits of comedy, largely based in audience reaction.

"-- you read whatever you could in the kit. You found the original reversion formula, you left a message for Jack, and then you used it. And..."

Victor hesitated, then pushed the words out into the world.

"Do you know what the time limit on the application formula is? How long you have until it naturally breaks down?"

"No," it admitted.

And with the quietest surge of strength which the chemicals had ever heard, Victor said "Neither do I. Because I never got to test for that interaction. I was originally aiming for six hours. But you had to stick around for most of a holiday weekend once, and there were no signs of reversion. So we know it runs at least that long, and -- it could be longer. It could be permanent. It's possible that you could just -- stay. And I'm guessing you've thought about that, at least once. Maybe a lot more."

It felt itself nod, and realized it might have just made the final mistake of its life.

"But every time," Victor finished, "you've pulled out the reversion formula, for whatever version was there, and you've used it. You have always gone back down into the dark, of your own free will. Not knowing if you'd ever come back out."

Again, for that simple nod was the only answer it had.

"Why?"

The chemicals took a breath, and then another, because you only got to live for a little while. Everyone did. It might be hours or something over a thousand years -- but compared to all the time there was, the moments when you were a living part of the world always worked out to a precious few. There seemed to be a good chance that it was within its final minutes, and so it breathed. Felt borrowed lungs working, sensed the pounding heartbeat which might be permanently relinquished to another.

But there was only so long anyone could stall. It felt ice-blue eyes on it, waiting. Saw the clenching of that hand within the pocket. And there was a chance that it might be able to cross the distance before anything could be done, for it was fast -- well, fast on the level of an edge. It would never come anywhere close to the nightmare which haunted the Midwest, and it had wondered what it would, even could do if blasts of wind and supersonic murder ever entered the city. But against a parent, it might have a chance.

There was a chance, and so it didn't try.

"There are... two reasons," the chemicals finally said.

Victor nodded.

The chemicals explained, as best they could. To its surprise, the words came readily, even if it wasn't sure those words were the best ones. It was as if the speech had been practiced, something it had subconsciously known it would have to say eventually -- although it had absolutely no idea when it had conceived of that, and rehearsal schedules were right out. Perhaps the speech was something it had dreamed of, during those times when dreams were all there were.

The teen listened to the words. Truly listened, and even the short life which the chemicals had been through let it know such states were rare. Victor listened to every last bit and when the chemicals were done, he said something back, which let the chemicals return the favor.

They looked at each for a while, after they'd both wrapped up.

"So what happens now?" the chemicals quietly asked.

The teen straightened, taking his shoulders away from the wall as the empty right hand slipped out of his pocket.

"You get out there," Victor told it, "and do what you can. There's still a transfer point somewhere, and a Princess who needs us to shut it down. See what you can learn."

It blinked. Its eyes went wide. Both reactions were unseen.

"I'll go back to my lab," Vic added. "There's something new I was thinking about making for you. The concept's pretty basic, and I don't think it'll take long to create. I'll check in with you in a few days. In the meantime -- just try to bring him back in one piece."

"I always try," the chemicals immediately replied, now slightly miffed. "I am doing my best every single time. It's not my fault that other people don't appreciate what I'm trying to accomplish --"

Ice-blue eyes rolled. (It was a common occurrence when the chemicals were talking.)

"Go," Victor said.

The chemicals went, for it seemed as if the words had been good ones. And because they had been so good, it would repeat them, while adding in Victor's, on an occasion when it seemed as if the same question was just about to be raised. But that was a few nights away and on this evening, it headed out into the world to see what kind of exciting new acquaintances were out there, just waiting to be met. You had to meet people. You had to socialize, for it was a poor sort of life which was spent completely alone.

Everyone only had so long to live, and so every life was precious -- with the possible exception of his. The one who took lives away.

The chemicals didn't kill. But they did dream.

Comments

[Dinode]

And it's back! Although I'm a little disappointed you're not including exactly what's being said. Oh well, clearly you intend to tell us eventually.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Funny. I was just thinking of this story.

In any case, I hope Victor asked the right questions. Given the terror of the Midwest you mentioned, I'm wondering about the general nature of this world. And if it's what I suspect, then the least likely candidate for the kingpin just jumped to the top of the list.

In the meantime, here's hoping we get to hear those words repeated.

[wolfstorm56]

Only Estee could write a story where I only remember half the details with no working knowledge of what's being referenced and still be engaged with the writing.

I do remember this is a variant on the Joker but set in like Shadowrun world or something? I like how the chemicals are bracing themselves/itself (pronouns are tricky, damn) and it turns out Victor just tricked them. There's naivety in something that's like a year old. That's a nice touch.

[FashionablyHospitable]

Oh MAN, Clark is also dark? This world is pretty screwed. Is Darkseid a benevolent god? Are the moral alignments of the emotional spectrum's Lanterns flipped, with yellow justice and green tyranny? An Arthur Curry that wants to drown the world, a blur of motion that leaves bodies to bury/barry, a J'onn J'onzz that will hunt man until we match the Martians' extinction, a bloodthirsty war goddess, this world is really rather screwed.

[FashionablyHospitable]

8627652
Clarkseid

[UrsaMajor]

Is the Midwestern terror evil Superman or evil Flash?