Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 4

Continued from yesterday:

  Goren was sorting the credible witness reports from the outlandish when the Australian Exchange Officer turned up at his desk.

  “Got'cher girl’s permanent record,” said Spence[1]. “Volumes A to K…” {WHUMP} “and L to Zed.”[2] {WHUMP}

  “Nobody gets that joke in New York,” said Eames.

  “I get it,” said Goren. He was smirking at the two enormous folders. "Thanks.“

  "No worries,” said Spence. “Needed t’ do some weightlifting.” He flipped his hand somewhere in the vicinity of an absent salute and returned to *his* paperwork.

  “Times like this, I wonder how Stabler is handling Canberra[3],” said Eames. She took a folder.

  Goren examined the other one. “After he gets over the tall poppy syndrome, he should be fine…” he whistled as he flipped through the pages.

  “So much for your doormat theory,” said Eames. “This one school has twenty counts of fighting inside two weeks.”

  “Was she treated for hand injuries?”

  “No… face, ribs, some soft tissue damage… a fractured rib or two… That just means she’s *bad* at picking fights.”

  “Or the fights pick her and the aggressor gets away.” He flipped through some more pages, skimming through the contents. “Though she *did* pick a fight *here*…” he shared the images of two girls, one much older than the other… and the elder of the two had come off worse. “Settled out of court years ago. Injuries versus mental anguish. Interesting that Sara’s testimony’s been *censored*…” He held the page up to the light. “And not because she swears.”

  “Ice capades in *July*?” said Eames. “This girl is dangerously insane.”

  Goren went through more of his folder. “I think it’s worse than that. She’s *smart*… too smart for her own good.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s violent! Unstable. Her last school threw her out for *moral* reasons.”

  “I wonder what moral reasons those were…” said Goren. “She's certainly been sliding down the quality scale since age eight. Look at this… she starts at Lady Favisham’s - very high-ticket finishing school, and goes steadily downhill until she’s stuck in Carol Danvers High[4].”

  “Where she’s in Remedial Ed.,” said Eames. “That’s hardly smart.”

  “Come on. Ice capades in July?”

  “That could’ve been a fluke.”

  “And some of these other offences… re-engineering the entire school’s computer interface so that it acted like HAL from _2001_. Correcting the *language* teachers.”

  “Fidgetting in class. Not paying attention in class,” Eames flipped pages. “Fighting, fighting, fighting, fighting… Defacing school property… *fighting*…”

  Goren peeked. “I notice nobody else was bought in for fighting *with* her,” he said. “Isn’t that strange?”

  “Not for a mutie.”

  “Ay,” warned Spence. “We’re not paid to be racist… *girlie*.”

  Eames made a fist. Goren held her into her seat.

  “Yeah, that pissed you off, didn’t it?” Spence leaned back on his chair. “Reckon some of those mutant folks’re tired of hearing ‘mutie' slung around, too.”

  “She was bought in every day because she was *bleeding*,” said Eames.

  “Yeah? So’s my kid. He’s a full-time nerd,” Spence informed. “Never picks the fights, but he sure as shit gets th’ blame for 'em.”

  Goren found the most recent pages. “She’s doing well in correspondence school,” he noted. “Leaping ahead in record time.”

  “I’m still asking her landlord about her.”

  “*You* saw her apartment,” said Goren. “Did that look like the residence of a violent psychopath?”

  “No. But they never do.” Eames waved a legal document. “And what sort of person puts out a restraining order against their own *mother*?”

*

  Sara’s colour was coming back, her babbling had died down, as had the twitching obsession to put her peeling skin back together. She gratefully accepted the hot meal Mort made for her and gradually trembled into a tired slump. She also jumped and yelped at the telephone ringing.

  Jones answered it. Then she got furious. “You’re not allowed to call here,” she said. “You have thirty seconds to hang up before *I* hang up and call the police on your ass.”

  Sara’s slump almost became a full-on collapse. “Let me guess. *Mother*.”

  “She hung up,” said Jones. “What a surprise.” The phone rang again. "*Now* what?“ She picked it up. "Yes? Mm-hm. Oh, she’s getting over the shock right now, and it’s getting late. Yes. I’m sure an inspection in the morning’s going to be fine.” She listened, but mouthed, 'social worker’ at Mort. “Yes, I know what you saw on the news. I’ve seen it, too.”

  Mort knelt by Sara’s side and held her. “It’ll be all righ’,” he managed. “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

  “Four words,” murmured Sara. “New record.”

  “Yeh. Have t’ piss off… soon. Or get in trouble.”

  “Or purchase a camp bed. Or a futon.”

  “I’ll just not be 'ere… when th’ inspector comes. Y’re better off.”

  “Says you,” she sighed. “I rather like the company.”

  His heart almost exploded from that affirmation. _God, you’re gonna be in trouble when you turn eighteen,_ he thought.

*

 [1] Bruce Spence is that really tall Aussie guy with the horse-ish face. His first international appearance was in one of the _Mad Max_ movies as the aviator. He’s been in other features, but I have no clue which ones you guys’d remember. This is his cameo

 [2] The Brisbane version of the Yellow Pages is so full of businesses that it’s been released in two volumes for almost a decade, now. Whenever an Australian is referring to a really thick document, they make some variant of this joke.

 [3] Detectives Goren and Eames and Officer Stabler are all from spin-offs of _Law and Order_. See if you can name them all.

 [4] Aka Miss Marvel, the chick that Rogue got her extra powers from in the comics

~

  Mrs Jones used to be a nurse, and finally cleared Sara for slumber when the clock approached midnight. Sara gratefully slumped into bed, only voicing a minor protest that she deserved the mattress.

  Mort just gently removed her shoes and lovingly tucked her in.

  “She’s special to you, isn’t she?” said Jones.

  Mort closed the door. “She’s a miracle.” He was compelled to restore Sara’s order to her flat. Something to make her feel at home when she woke up and had to face the next Spanish Inquisition[1].

  “I thought the same thing when I needed a babysitter for the late shift,” said Jones. She fell to helping him. “At first I asked myself how any mother could let her go for being a mutie - no offence…”

  “None taken.”

  “And then I actually *talked* to her mother…” She shuddered. "Frankly, I’m shocked both her parents are still married to each other. It was on the 'phone, but *still*… She is an absolute witch with a bee. And that’s being *nice*.“

  "Never knew my mum,” said Mort. “Got chucked out.”

  Mrs Jones winced. “That should never happen to *any* child. Mutie, norm, black, white or what…” She fumed over the washing up. “Some aspects of the human race make me want to boycott it.”

  Mort laughed at that one.

*

  “…early mornin’ singin’ song! Sing, siiiinng song… sing a song…”

  Mort smiled to himself and kept his eyes shut. “Mornin’ luv,” he said, picturing her naked only in his mind. “Le’ me know when… y’re decent.”

  Sara continued until the final, chime-like 'sing’, then rustled into a robe. “Modest, now.”

  Mort got up, folding away the sheets and blanket, stowing them in the filing cabinet that served as her linnen cupboard. He was lost about what to do with the mattress.

  “Leave it,” Sara advised. “Until I find a spool, it’s the only spare furniture I have.”

  Mort rolled his eyes. “Tell me yer kiddin’…” He remembered having a spool. Combination coffee table, improv seating, storage unit and, when the winter got too severe - heat source.

  “I *was* rather planning to dress it up a little.” {Bzt!} “Oh *fudge*… and I haven’t put a face on, yet.”

  He was reluctant to leave her, but he knew he had to. “Get 'em to wait… 'till we’re dressed?” He gestured at his own PJs and her robe. "Their fault for bein’… early.“

  Sara waved him into the shower while she turned on the intercom. "I thought business hours didn’t commence until nine,” she said.

  “NYPD never sleeps, miss.”

  He barely heard the, “Oh *FUDGE*!” and Sara’s hectic scramble for some clothes over the water. As it was, he decided to hurry it up and at least *try* to look like everything was above board. If all else failed, he would lie and imply he was impotent.

  The little wench with the nosey git had looked the sort to believe *anything* about a mutie.

  The detectives were in the flat and he was wrangling breakfast for them both before he knew what was what. He remembered to ask if they wanted anything, at least. “We go’ choc'late… tea…” he fumbled through the cupboards. “Buggerall else, pard'n th’ French.”

  “The tea’s herbal, I’m afraid,” said Sara. “Tastes like boiled grass clippings infused with lilac. I’ve heard one can build up a tolerance, though.”

  The male smirked. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Mr Toynbee… are there any more eggs? We could at least offer a snack…” Sara was dithering, trying to set things up with too few resources.

  He looked at the frying scramble and tried to imagine how he could stretch that much and the one rasher of bacon to feed four. “Cupboard's bare, luv,” he said. “You eat first. I’ll scrounge la'er.” _Translated: I’ll go hungry for your sake. You *need* the comfort of food inside you._

  “I should’ve gone shopping last night,” said Sara. “Alas, I was unexpectedly derailed.” She sat and stared at the pitiful meal. “It feels so wrong to stuff my face while you’re all going without.”

  The male mouthed, 'doormat’ to the female, who sneered.

  _Saw that, bunky. You’re lucky she’s watchin’ or I’d rip you *right* off._

  “It’s fine,” said the male. What was his name? Gonad? “We’ve already eaten.”

  Sara made a small, anguished noise.

  “Do I 'ave t’ do… airplanes?” Mort threatened.

  She concealed a giggle behind a hand, but she at last picked up her fork and ate. Dainty little bites. Trying to make a small amount of food seem bigger.

  “We have a few… concerns about your permanent record,” said the female. Eaves? Something like 'eaves’… Eve?

  Sara’s anguished noise was a little louder. “Which particular parts would concern you? The explosions? The quote-unquote 'fights’? Or perhaps my disruptive behaviour?”

  “I’ll take all of the above,” said Eve.

 [1] “*NO*body expects the Spanish– oh sod it…” – Monty Python

~

  Sara lowered her head. “I guess structured education and I don't really mix,” she said. “There’s aways some level of… conflict. Between myself and established authority… between myself and the teachers…”

  “Between you and the students?” prompted Eve.

  “No, that was just malice,” said Sara. “They didn’t like me, so they made me bleed. Mostly owing to a rumour that I was actually some kind of transsexual.”

  “There’s your 'moral reasons’,” said Gonad.

  “*Are* you a transsexual?” said Eve. This earned a glare from Gonad, not to mention Mort’s eternal hatred.

  “No. I merely look male in the few items of off-the-rack clothing that actually cover me decently. Jeans with legs long enough for mine disguise the bottom half, and the shirts that conceal the midriff also obscure the top.” She tidied up her empty plate and utensils, then absently washed them. “Rest assured I am, was, and always have been completely female.”

  “She got documents,” said Mort.

  Sara raised an eyebrow at him. “Quite.”

  _Fuck._ Her documents were in one of her lock-away positions. A case with a lock in a bottom drawer. Never before had he wished he was mute again. “Maybe I aught t’ go… shoppin’,” he said. He found a pair of cheap shades that were gender-neutral and put them on.

  “Maybe you should,” said Sara. “CPS is due at ten.”

  He had no wallet, but that would change in a matter of minutes on the street. “You be okay?”

  “Moderately.”

  Mort turned and went into exile.

~

  Goren watched Sara bustle. There was little to re-order about her apartment, but he let her indulge in what paltry nervous activity she had. She was scared, worried, anxious, and it all had to go somewhere or she might just jump out of her skin. Again.

  Sara flipped a page in her day book, running a finger down the new day. She examined the twin candles and took the lit one out onto a little metal plate on the pocket balcony. She returned inside and retrieved a long taper and another pot candle. The candle went onto the windowsill and the taper was lit from the old candle just as the last of the wax erupted into flame. She took the fire from the old candle and, with practiced and careful movements that reminded Goren of a Japanese tea ceremony, lit the new candle, placing it just so.

  “You’re keeping vigil,” he said.

  “For Daddy,” she said. “So he can find me.” She blew out the taper and placed it in a painted jar of other used tapers. It looked - almost decorative.

  “I’ve always wondered, you know… how long does one of those candles last? Burning continuously.”

  “Five days, give or take a few hours,” said Sara. “It depends on the generosity of the candle-makers.”

  He did a rough guesstimate. Given that each taper represented five days… “You’ve been waiting a month and a half?”

  “I’ve been here a month and a half,” said Sara. “During which time, my neighbours and my landlord either guessed or found out I’m a mutant… I’m still here and there hasn’t been any trouble until - yesterday.”

  “I saw those skin flaps are gone,” noted Eames. “Did you save them, or…?”

  “They’re still attatched,” Sara blushed, turning a darker shade of bluish aqua. “It seems to want to come off in one piece, I’ve tried trimming… TMI. Excuse me. You - don’t really want to know all this.”

  “*I’m* fascinated,” said Eames. “I’d *love* to learn some mutie beauty tips. Where did it all go?”

  “Tucked, folded, and held in a sort of girdle arrangement,” she was truly dark, now, staring at her hands as the fingers intertwined with each other. “…if I go out today, I’ll have to wear gloves…”

  Goren could barely *see* where the peeling was. She was overcautious. Twice shy, as it were, from being bitten once. “I kind of guessed you'd prepared for this,” he indicated the table of body parts. “You know how to handle latex?”

  She took the change of subject with the grattitude of a drowning man who, having clutched at the straw, found it was firmly attached to a lifebouy. “Oh, yes. I was fascinated by the opportunity to change myself when I was younger… and rather desperate to stay the same when this–" a gesture at her scales, ”–happened. You can understand, can’t you? Why I’d need to blend in?“

  "Of *course*,” he soothed. “Yesterday only proves it.”

  “Well, yesterday only proved there’s so much one can do on a budget. I’ve been… trying to save my supplies for a sufficiently large need. There’s only so much that glue can do. As everybody’s seen.” Another bustle. Quick, long steps to check her hand against the mould. “It'll still fit. Thank goodness.”

  “You can’t have grown that much in a month and a half,” said Eames.

  “I did once. I was thirteen. Constantly growing out of things, it was a *mess*. The wedding people had to fit me at the last possible instant just to make things work.”

  “Wedding. People?”

  “I’m a harpist… amongst other things,” she put her spare hand down. "I did weddings, parties, bah mitzvahs… though probably not any more, now. I’ll miss playing.“ A supreme sadness touched her eyes. She closed them, and for a moment, became as emotionless as a rock. When she returned to herself. "But I get the feeling we digress.” Another mini-bustle, feeding her hamster. “Is there anything specific in my record that looks… bad?”

  “Pretty much all of it,” said Eames.

  “What was that thing you did?” said Goren. “When you mentioned not playing the harp, you went… blank.”

  “You don’t really need to see me breaking down over a silly harp," said Sara. "I just put my mourning aside for later, when I have the time.”

  “That must have helped you cope when you left home,” said Goren.

  “Only somewhat. I didn’t need it all that much because mother…” she trailed off, cocking her head to listen.

  Someone upstairs was watching CNN… something about an attack?

  Sara turned her computer on and activated a program that mimicked the TV, also turning to CNN.

  “Reports are unclear as to why the mutant attacked the president, or which terrorist organisation may or may not be involved,” said the presenter.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Sara. She rushed to the balcony and screamed, "*MOOOOOOOOOOORT*!“

  Goren stared at the man on the scene, but didn’t hear a word the reporter said. He’d remember the protesters in the background, and the minor fracas between the pro- and anti-mutant people. He’d remember seeing the shaky zoom-in to the balcony, and the white-faced President trying to smile.

  He’d remember Eames reading Sara her rights, arrested for conspiracy to attack the white-house, incitement to riot, and manslaughter.

  Then Mr Toynbee buzzed the door. "The fuck’s goin’ on?”

  He was arrested, too.

  For being a mutant.

~