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> Dad! > Dad, please, we need to talk. * Justin Greyhound clung to his telephone as if for dear life, biting at the fleshy base of his left hand's thumb as he waited for the connection to go through. Come on. Come on, I know that's your current number. It has to be, I can't be that out of the loop. I need to know where you are. I've fucked up. "Greetings, this is the European embassy in India, you're speaking to Lavanya Jain," a polished, professional, accent-smoothed voice fielded the call. Justin's hand popped back out of his mouth. "This is Justin Greyhound from Dark Arcadia," he stated, aiming for similar composure but some of his raw despair trickling into his tone at the edges, nearly splitting and cracking individual syllables. "Is Francisco Ahlgren still with you?" There was a pause, the clack of an old-fashioned keyboard subtly audible in the background, a brief interlude of silence. Then: "Just a moment, sir." A few more soft, mechanical sounds bridged the pause to the next statement. "I'm afraid Mr. Ahlgren left three hours ago." Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. "Do you know where he went?" He struggled with tears, bravely keeping his voice in check. Tap, tap, near-audible contemplation. "He... may still be in his hotel, would you like me to put you through to the reception?" The question was ludicrous. Good day, Caine Ahlgren, can we help put you through to where your father may possibly be? The fresh anger at that perpetual familial divide had no chance in the tempest that was his emotional landscape, fraying and dissolving before he was even truly aware of it. Hot tears stained his cheeks. "Yes, please," he forced himself to say, and rocked a little in his chair, feeling five years old and utterly overwhelmed. * A groggy voice marked the end of Justin's battle with the reception and arduous wait for someone to pick up, connection clicking into existence and a breath the first sign of life, even before the monstrous abstraction at the end of the line identified himself: "Francisco Ahlgren." It was a voice that spoke volumes, tired, exhausted and worn out and trying to force all urge to say 'go away' into submission. "...dad. Dad, we need to talk," Justin half-stammered, half-pleaded. "...Justin?" Francisco's voice lit up, bleeding into a balance of fondness and concern with determination. "Dad, Ian is trapped," Justin blurted out, words bursting forth after having been contained for nearly an hour of frantic search for the man he was now speaking to. "We can't disconnect him, he's gone, he's not talking to us, he's just. Lying there." The silence at the other end of the line bred a terrifying uncertainty. "I- I'm sorry, I don't know- I think he was-" Speaking had become impossible. Inwardly, Justin shrieked in frustration at his uncooperative vocal chords and a moment of silent struggle later he forced more even speech: "I don't know what to do and I feel responsible because we dragged him into Bitscorch and- and I don't want another Tidefire." An tense, near-jittery exhale on the other end of the line revealed that the words had been registered, parsed and knocked rusty cogs into gear. "Europe wasn't responsible for Tidefire," Francisco reminded, less as an answer as much as simply to have something to say. "I- I know, but they might change their minds," Justin franctically said, keeping back tears but no less obviously drowned in abject horror. Inhale. Exhale. "When did Ian get trapped?" "We're not certain, Rebecca found him still connected after four hours of focussed work. She was tired and didn't think anything of it until he still hadn't moved after she slept some. We think it happened around... six? Six-ish?" "...today, then?" Francisco double-checked the implication, himself almost impossible tense, a hint of rage somewhere in the confines of that so pragmatically groomed tone. "Today, yes," Justin breathed heavily, resisting what he felt as panic by the skin of his teeth. "All right," Francisco concluded. "Listen up, I want you to go to Rayen if you aren't with her already and take a walk. You need to calm down and you need a hug. Let me handle the ramifications of this. Nothing will happen to Dark Arcadia. Breathe normally, soldier." It wasn't rational, but it didn't stop tears welling from Justin as partial relief washed over him in a soothing cascade. Clutching the phone like a lifeline, he sobbed, the sounds spilling from him pitiful and weak, loud and wretched. Too much had just gone wrong. "That is a direct order, soldier," Francisco said, firmly and fondly. "You're not going to question the orders of your superior officer, are you?" "No, Sir," Justin wept into the phone, heart coming apart at the memories alluded to by the conversation at hand, the hours of goofy roleplay, the collection of fake missions best suited for sci-fi B-movies, the far-fetched, exaggerated loyalty spiel between comrades, played out in a nation with no military itself. "Good," Francisco insisted, the friendly game punctured by the tension of the underlying situation, frightfully real as it was. "You're dismissed. You'll be informed on tactical reports a need-to-know basis. Now scram." The 'order' hit Justin with mixed feelings. On the one hand, the idea of being allowed to run away from this phenomenal catastrophy sounded like the only thing that could save his sanity. On the other, he was speaking to Francisco. "...dad," he choked out. "Justin," Francisco echoed, half in concern, half sternly. "Dad, I. I spent an hour trying to find you. P-please don't do that to me," he stammered into the phone, trying to find words to express the depth of his love somehow, past the agonising complaint. "I'm sorry, Justin," Francisco responded, softly. "Let's talk about possible solutions when you've calmed down." A spike of rage briefly leapt from the boy, teeth gritting, the grief from the aforementioned overwhelmingly Too Many things wrestling conscious thought and behaviour into submission. The triumphant, visceral Justin wanted to snarl, but stopped short out of lack of knowing what to snarl. 'That's just an excuse to put it off indefinitely' was far too wordy for something that primal. The moment subsided again. "...please." "I'll call you," Francisco promised. "As soon as I've straightened this mess out, all right?" "Yes," Justin numbly responded, not even aware of how his free arm was by now circled around one of his legs, hugging it. "Good boy," Francisco said, voice full of deep appreciation. "Now go talk to Rayen." The connection clicked out. * Francisco Ahlgren let the phone rest cradled in both of his hands, staring at the face of it, the buttons, trying to sort his thoughts, impossible tangled and thick with fear as they were. It was one thing having to be a father, it was quite another having to be a father to someone who could easily be one himself by now. Justin had always prided himself about his composure, and as much as it ate at Francisco to see him this way for any reason, he couldn't fault him for it. He hated himself for how much he had wanted that conversation to be over, how much it had felt like the fine grip on sanity might slip and have him, uselessly, fall into the same spiralling trap Justin had been in. Justin, my son, I love you, but if I speak to you just one more minute I will open my mouth and I will scream. He wasn't even sure what he would scream, or what emotion would be driving it. His own heart hammered in his chest. It was only the surreality of the situation that stopped it from psychologically crushing him into a fine dust. In morbid comedy, his mind sarcastically wrote a letter detailing the trouble to the one that would be most livid about it: > Hello, Bennett, > > the angry psychic deity I stole from your military base > by just walking out the front door at a leisurely pace > and whom took to my seastead in the ocean where he's > been helping a mad scientist botanist with her groceries > got trapped online in a rogue network he was helping to > thwart in his free time. I hope you understand none of > us wanted this. If you could, please refrain from > bombing my fragile seastead out of existence in rage > over one of your most valuable military assets > effectively being destroyed. > > Yours truly, > Francisco Ahlgren, Archon of Dark Arcadia This couldn't possibly end well. |