I couldn’t say whether the doctor in question is a total pushover or if he just happens to be a fan of pigs, but he really does not push back as hard as I would hope from a medical professional. He doesn’t even ask to stay in the room. One moment, there’s a room with five people, the next, I’ve been ever-so-politely walked out of the room where Brian is into a private examination room, all alone with the fed.

  No way she’s not a fed. The only thing missing are the sunglasses worn indoors. She’s wearing a black suit, black dress shoes, well-cropped hair, visible hip holster… she might as well have a badge clipped to the front of her throat.

  As it is, it’s clipped into the side of her belt, right next to the gun. I get a real good view of it as she puts a hand on her hip, pulling back the suit jacket she’s wearing to do so.

  At least she’s honest about it.

  “Ilia Silva,” she says, drawling artificially on the syllables. “Moved to the town of Hollow Springs about two years back, living in one of the recent condo developments. Work at True Blue’s pub for a year and a half, mostly days. Went to school on the east coast, right? What was it… Abelaid U, yeah?”

  I don’t say anything.

  I don’t talk to cops. And the chances of getting murdered and thrown in a ditch to disappear are… marginally smaller with the FBI than with small-town sheriffs without supervision.

  “Got a pretty multi-cultural background, don’t ya? Pretty varied family. Wouldn’t expect it from a white girl like you, but you’re mixed with all sorts. Family immigrated to the US, second generation to go to college, used to go by the name of-”

  She pauses, as if waiting to be interrupted. I don’t give her the pleasure of guessing my reaction, and stay. Fucking. Silent.

  Even people who like cops know what the fuck is up- you don’t talk to the feds.

  “Well, I say “used to” go by. Still the same on your documents. I get it, right? Bureaucracy’s a bitch, and it’s a hell of a thing getting stuff updated nowadays. Looking like you might need to, though. You don’t look much like the pictures we got on file anymore. That intentional? Trying to keep quiet? Stay subtle?”

  One thing you never, ever do, is talk to the feds.

  Only one issue- I have my bag with me. And I don’t think I’m really in any position to stop her if she tries to look through it. At which point, the dead mouse, spider-clump, and roadkill-totem-construct-thingie I have are going to be on clear display.

  I don’t know why, exactly, people without abilities can’t seem to properly “see” all this supernatural weirdness- but it’s not universal. It’s not a blanket blockage, either. It’s more like… some stuff is easier to ignore, at best, or, more likely, they do see something, just not what it actually is.

  I have no idea if any of the stuff in my bag is “supernatural enough” for them to be able to see what it is exactly… but I figure having a bunch of dead animals and art Nouveau style roadkill is going to look particularly good for me.

  So. Don’t say anything to the fed, and don’t draw attention to the bag. But also don’t look like you’re trying to pull attention away from the bag, because that just draws attention to it.

  I fucking hate this. I really, really do. How the fuck is it that I feel less powerless in a giant fungus-mill full of monsters than I do right now?

  Answer’s obvious- there, I had insight. I had tools, even if they weren’t as good as I would have preferred. I had an out.

  Here, leaving doesn’t mean I’ve gotten an out, it just means that I get chased down by even more pigs.

  So, I say one of the very, very few things a person is allowed to say without (much) danger in front of the police.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The woman (who has yet to give me her name) just smiles. “Not at all, sweetie. We’re very much operating on a cooperative basis here. We just figured, what with how your friend drove in here like a bat out of hell, you might need help with something. Then, we see you all cozied up to a witness to a major incident, and, well… figured it’s good that we check in, right? Maybe he said something to you that he might not have to us, and kids, they can be forgetful sometimes. Good to confirm things.”

  It’s almost a plausible excuse. She could, in fact, have called in somewhere and gotten a brief read on me from some man-in-the-chair type person, back at FBI headquarters.

  Doesn’t explain why she’s here now, though. Or why she got that much information on me, especially if my documents are… marginally out of date.

  Which wasn’t intentional. I mean… not entirely intentional. I just hate documents, I hate doing all the red-tape paperwork crap, and I certainly don’t enjoy getting my picture taken and information re-profiled by the government of all people. I don’t even like it when I take my picture.

  Fuck it. I’m not going to get confirmation out of this person- I barely even trust her not to lie blatantly.

  “So I’m free to go?” I ask, knowing I won’t like the answer no matter what it is.

  “Oh, for sure. For sure. Might be better to just have the conversation now, though. Right? Easier that way? Less annoying for everyone involved, so we can all deal with things right as they happen. We want to make sure we’re doing right by the kid. He was involved in an animal attack in the woods, just two days back. Lost some of his folks. Plus, you know, you two really seemed like you connected back there. Anything you want to say about that?”

  “If I’m not under arrest, then I’m happy to head out. If I am under arrest, I’m not speaking to you without a lawyer.”

  She cocks an eyebrow, still exuding the same smarmy energy as she’s been outputting this whole time. “You know, usually when people are this reluctant to talk to the authorities, it’s because they have something to hide. ‘Guilty people don’t run’, all that jazz. You’re not under arrest currently, but depending on how the situation turns-”

  I roll my eyes, turning to walk casually but firmly out the door.

  Only to find it blocked, bodily, by the federal agent.

  “No need to get nasty, now. You don’t trust the feds, I get it. Who does, right? Hell, half the time we don’t even trust each other, all these acronyms. But in the end, we just want to make sure everybody’s safe, and we’ve got a full and complete picture. That’s reasonable, right?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “If I’m not under arrest, please move out of my way.”

  “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  I freeze.

  Instantly I know I’ve fucked up, but it’s too late. She went this whole time without saying shit, played me into a false sense of security with it. Was I hiding it? No, I had it in the open, same as my other hand. Hands in pockets are a liability around federal agents with guns. I didn’t draw attention to it, wasn’t fidgeting, so how-

  Too bad. Can’t figure it out now, and by freezing in the first place, she’s noticed.

  “Nothing.”

  Fuck. That’s not in the list of approved anti-pig responses. Get it together.

  “Really? That’s interesting. See I notice that the doc didn’t mention anything about it either, which I thought was weird. I mean the whole thing looks half-degloved. Old wound? Funky scar pattern?”

  I don’t say anything. My tools here are limited, and we both know she fucking got me with this one- I’m better off silent, even if it loses me the initiative all the more.

  “I figure, maybe you and the kid have something in common there. A way to bond a little quicker, yeah? Cause doc there, he told me the kid’s been doing nothing but talk about monsters in the woods and how gross the meat on him feels and how his legs don’t work right. Only doc says there’s no meat, and his legs work just fine.. Just a tall-as-fuck ten year old. Weird, that. But maybe you know something about it?”

  I take in a breath.

  Let it back out.

  Alright. We’re getting real comfortable behind the glass, which, historically, has not been a great sign of mental health for me, but fuck it, right? What can you do.

  I slip back behind the glass and turn to look this woman in the eyes.

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  She smiles wider.

  “I didn’t.”

  Mhmm.

  “I have no comment without a lawyer present. Seeing as I am not under arrest, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Think the kid’s gonna know all that jargon?”

  I stop.

  Damnit. Again. Shouldn’t have frozen like that.

  “Cause I think we both know that the reason you ain’t under arrest for a good few hours of observation on that hand and whatever you’ve got in that bag is because we’re still getting the lay of the land. Still figuring out where the mess starts and stops in this little shithole you’re hiding in. You can talk your way through the legal rights that all the normal god-fearing salt-of-the-earth rich folk always seem to get easy access to, and you can maybe even make some trouble if you want to, but the kid? He’s a kid. Fucked in the head, full of weird shit he doesn’t understand, and liable to hurt somebody as much by accident as he could by intent. So maybe, in that pretty little head of yours, you think through the fact that I’m here to talk, for now, instead of walking off and leaving me to jump to my own conclusions about all this. Hmm?”

  I listen to the whole thing, word for word.

  And once she’s done, I tilt my head all the way back, take a long, deep breath, and exhale back out through my nose.

  I’m reminded, ironically, of meeting a semi-visible stranger at a bar, just a couple days back. The assumption (or perhaps understanding?) that I’m more experienced, more dangerous, and more likely to be someone they can negotiate with.

  …Fuck.

  Fake it till you make it, right? Not like my other options are doing particularly well.

  It also informs me of a lot. She knows something’s not just wrong, but weird about my hand, even if she can’t fully see the Glove. She doesn’t have the authority, or maybe the power, to reach out and blackbag me off to some CIA blacksite- if she did, or even close to it, she’d have threatened that before the arrest (unless it was implied there?).

  So.

  She’s new in town. She thinks I’m… at least less of an amateur than I am, and not particularly strong or dangerous (which is kinda true), but dangerous enough that she’d prefer to start things with a talk. She also has me backed against the wall about this fucking kid. Brian deserves better than the feds coming to take him away for the crime of having legs made of corpse-meat.

  Lots of new info, only some of it good.

  …

  Welp. Let’s go gambling.

  “I don’t know the kid,” I tell her. “Met him here in the clinic. I don’t know the name of what attacked him, if it has one, but I’ve been attacked by it once too. It’s what messed up my hand.”

  The agent, who still hasn’t told me her name, nods. “How long ago?”

  “About a week, week and a half. It followed me from work and attacked me. So far, it doesn’t seem to come into town during daylight, and it hasn’t attacked me indoors. Considering the kid’s situation, I’d guess it lives in the woods.”

  “Anything else? Description, a handler, anything particularly weird about it?”

  I give a little snort at that. “Plenty, but it can’t… I don’t know, summon ghosts or some shit. It’s large, around the weight and size of a bear stuffed into a gorilla body. Looks like a gargoyle, like one of the nasty ones with no wings on old buildings. Smarter than an animal, but I don’t know if it was taking orders or just mutilating people for fun. It moves a lot smoother than it should, and it’s fast.”

  “Where did it attack you?”

  “Near my house. The construction site. The big accident that-”

  “I know the one. How’d you get away?”

  I recognize the tactic. Interruptions, followed by rapid-fire questions, not giving me time to process, triggering anxiety to use it to the interrogator’s benefit.

  I’m behind the glass. The adrenaline is somewhere else.

  “Didn’t. It chased me, crushed my hand, watched me scream until I passed out. When I woke up, it was gone.”

  “And you haven’t seen it since?”

  “Not once. Are we done here?”

  The agent tilts her head to one side, black suit and caramel skin stark (and, admittedly, pretty gorgeous, she clearly moisturizes) against the white linoleum of the clinic’s walls. “Why were you in the clinic today?”

  I shrug. “Had a seizure. Happens sometimes. This one happened near my friend, so he brought me here.”

  “Seemed worried. Not like someone who knows you have seizures. Doc seemed pretty worried too.”

  I shrug again. “Ok.”

  We stare at each other for a while… and eventually, she sighs, letting the air out through her nose. “Alright. Don’t leave town.”

  “The kid. Brian. He’ll be alright?”

  A pause. And then… a shrug.

  “Lot of trauma to dump on someone like that. We’ll see what we can do, but there’s protocols to make sure he gets taken care of. We’re waiting on his grandmother, and if she takes him, we’ll monitor. So far, he hasn’t shown anything too dangerous. If he keeps it that way, he’ll be fine. In a few years, hopefully he doesn’t remember a thing.”

  A nod is the best I can offer to that. Not quite a best case scenario… but maybe, so soon after a tragedy so vast, there aren’t any to offer. And it’s a lot less “immediately murder the mutant” than I was afraid of.

  Which could mean it’s a lie. Obviously. But maybe not.

  The agent steps aside, and I step past her, out into the hallway.

  I can hear Jay by the jingling of the metal in his hair. He always messes with it when he’s anxious. I don’t blame him.

  I didn’t tell her anything about me, really, nothing besides the stuff she already knew. Which, apparently, doesn’t include what I can do or where I was when I had said seizure. With any luck, they end up a little closer on the trail of the gargoyle and a little further from me.

  Not a best case scenario, but then again, who the fuck gets to have their best case scenario nowadays? In this economy?

  Guess I’ll have to settle for “not dead yet”.

  Besides, it’s not worst-case either. I could have gotten arrested, or worse, started working for the feds. Now there’s a fate worse than death.

  Officially back up to 8 solid chapters ahead over on patreon!

  And just for funsies, here's the discord!

  And hey! This shoutout is incredible! Because it's for one my closest friends! This beautiful friend of mine has written their story, a psychedelic trip through an ever-growing madness with a protagonist who's as into Biomodding as mine is, just from a completely different light. If you love the surrealism and strangeness of VISCERAE, plase do yourself a favor and give Remark of Ruin a chance!