Death's Remedy, Chapter 1: The Man in the Wheelchair

Chapter 1

The Man in the Wheelchair

Remedy sat on her plain, white hospital bed hearing the faint conspiratorial whispers of what must’ve been her doctor and her mother by the door. Their silhouettes were outlined on the thin curtains that covered the glass that looked into her semi-private room.

But there was no mistaking that third shadow. A blurry mass of darkness that fluttered down the hallway slowly and silently, at ease with itself as it was unseen by everyone else— except Remedy.

“Hello there,” she said aloud to the empty air in front of her. “Have you come for me?”

The shadow had left her sight, making a decent way past her room. Once Remedy had chosen to speak she heard a soft hiss, not agitated like a cobra about to strike but rather one that sounded bored and curious. A gust of wind hit the room coming from no feasible point of origin, making the curtains sway.

Remedy continued to stare in front of her, as an entity she couldn’t quite make out appeared by the side of her bed. The air shifted and rippled, like mirage lines on a steamy desert day. The problem was that Remedy couldn’t see it, she could only sense its strong presence. And it wasn’t for a lack of trying either. No matter how hard Remedy tried to turn her head, her neck became stiff and simply wouldn’t move, as if it was part of the creature’s design to prevent itself from being seen.

“You might as well get it over with then,” she said. “I just got here though. Might be a relief to the doctors... This hospital’s full enough as it is without me hogging a semi-private.”

The harbinger of death let out a shrill noise. Remedy imagined that it was smiling, possibly laughing. They usually did when they talked to her. Just as suddenly as it had come, the shadow flew back into the hall and glided away.

It didn’t come for me then, Remedy thought. If not me then… who?

The sudden turn of the door knob pulled Remedy back into reality. A middle-aged doctor in his thirties stepped in with a head full of brown hair and a bulky body of tanned skin. “Remedy?” Dr. Gillian called for his patient’s attention.

“That’s me.” Remedy’s eyes met her mother’s for a moment. She walked in behind the doctor, smiling. But the smile that was on her lips did not reflect the sadness that was in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Letum sat on the edge of her bed and held her daughter’s hand. Remedy flinched and pulled away.

“I’m fine,” she said as she saw the concern creep on her mother’s features. “A bit dizzy, but fine. I’m feeling better though. Can we go home…?”

“I’m afraid we can’t let you leave, Remedy,” Dr. Gillian said. “Your condition turns out to be a bit more severe than we thought.”

Remedy’s eyebrows rose in confusion. “I told you. I just... fell down the stairs. Did I break something…?”

“Well, you said yourself you weren’t sure why you fell down the stairs. Your mother said you’d been pale and faint these past few days and we did a blood test to make sure. And the results… came back as Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

The blank look on Remedy’s face showed no reaction. The doctor felt an explanation was in order. “It’s a type of…”

“Blood cancer.” Remedy turned to her mother and gave a dismal smile. “Like the one Grandpa had.”

Mrs. Letum’s grip on her daughter’s bedside tightened and her face blanched. She broke their meeting gaze and stood up, wandering to the open window that looked over the back lot of the hospital. Dr. Gillian watched her reaction curiously, but decided it was not his place to inquire. He took up the seat Mrs. Letum just left and leaned towards Remedy.

He spoke in a gentle tone. “I understand how this might come as a shock. But there are treatments available for this disease. If you’re feeling better, we could discuss which could be best for you with your mother. We can find a way to cure you. If you need to talk about this with someone we could call in a counselor and —”

Remedy gave an airy nod as she inched her way off her bed. Her head felt a little light and her leg still throbbed from her fall, but otherwise she felt fine and strangely alert. She could hear a crash come from a room somewhere down the hall and approached the door.

“Remedy,” John called out to her, grabbing her lightly by the shoulder. “Please come back and sit. We still need to talk about a few things…”

She simply shook her head and shrugged John’s hand off when another crash, louder this time, caught his ear as well. John sidestepped in front of Remedy and came into the hallway, seeing a few nurses rushing into said room presumably taking care of some patient. As another doctor came up to John for a consultation, Remedy slipped past him and ran towards the room.

Remedy saw an old man with cobblestone grey hair and tanned skin, sitting in a wheelchair. He seemed angry, shouting at the nurse who tried to placate him, pushing him back down every time he tried to get up on his feet. A monitor and an IV stand were on their side on the floor, having been knocked over in his rebellious attempts.

“Let me go!” he said in a voice that was heavy and scratchy after years of use. “I need to see her!”

As Remedy kept her gaze on the floor, she noticed something out of place. The number of shoes was odd. Mathematically speaking. She saw the white sneakers of the nurse peeking out from his blue scrubs and snuck inside a little further to see if she could find the pair of the old man’s slipper. When she reached a vantage point that could see to the other side of the bed, Remedy gasped as she saw a stub of flesh for his left leg, being cut off by the knee as opposed to seeing where the rest of his leg was supposed to be.

That was the last Remedy could see as a firm hand pulled her by the collar and back into her room. She looked up to the face the hand belonged to and saw her mother, stoic and quiet as always. “You shouldn’t wander off in a hospital like this. You might catch something.”

“Something worse than cancer?” Remedy mumbled just loud enough for her to hear.

Remedy lay back down on her bed, staring at the faded white ceiling as her mother and Dr. Gillian discussed treatment options. The mention of chemotherapy made her eyes flick to them every once in a while, but she was too immersed in her own thoughts.

Her mind couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the other room. The one who seemed so upset to find himself in the hospital in the first place. Not that Remedy couldn’t relate to the feeling. He however was more than upset. He was furious, practically volatile. He had cuts on his face and arms, bruises on his neck and legs. He looked like he had been in an accident. He and someone else.

Remedy recalled the amputated leg and shuddered. She saw that by his feet was a black cat. One with sharp claws and wide, mesmerizing green eyes. It turned to Remedy as soon as she came, and it let out a sound that was familiar and terrifying. It let out a soft hiss.

“That man’s going to die soon,” she thought aloud, making her mother and John Gillian freeze mid-speech.

Postal (Chapter 1)

It's seems like I've gained a few more readers for this blog. Special shoutout to my fellow 2013 Scholars, you're kind comments have completely rekindled my love of writing and I can't wait to get to know you guys more for the next few years :)

Here's a short story I've written ages ago (completely different from the ones already posted -- my mind is just filled to the brim with half-baked ideas) so instead of letting it gather dust on my desktop, I decided to share with you all. Also because a certain someone insisted I continue with my short stories (yes, Julius, this means you).

So enjoy! :)

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Postal



The soft jingle of the bicycle’s bell echoed in the still, early morning. Speeding off like a bullet, the little boy mounted on top of the bike stopped pedaling as he reached the slope and went downwards, letting gravity supply the momentum.

He had always loved the hill-like roads of Ashenshire. The feeling of going up and down, against and with gravity, made his heart pound. Sometimes if he rode fast enough the tires of his bicycle would float a few inches off the ground as he glided over the top of the incline and for those few seconds before they came back down, it felt like he was flying.

An old canvas satchel was swung around his left shoulder, a slightly bulkier and rectangular one seated on the basket of the bike. He wore the clothes of any young boy — a pair of jeans, a fitting tee, and to cope with the cold rainy season, a pair of Wellington boots and a jacket. A grey denim beret rested at a slant on his head, tufts of wild, curly, chocolate brown hair peeking underneath.

He pulled back on the bike’s brakes and screeched to a stop in front of a small one-story house. He set up its stand and walked to the front porch, rummaging through his satchel.

Most people would think he was one of the newspaper boys, doing his rounds but the fact was, he was not. In his own eyes especially, the boy saw what he did every morning as a matter of grand importance. He didn’t have the responsibility of delivering news of the world to people’s doorsteps, most of which had nothing to do with him or attracted his concern. His duty was to help people sustain their connections and relationships with each other, be a bridge that relayed communication. He delivered their mail.

He pulled out a small bundle of letters, some thin, some thick, some small, some wide, but all of which were addressed to a Mrs. Hansten. The lad walked cheerfully up the steps and bent down onto his knees in front of a white, flower-patterned door so that his eyes became level with a metal, gold-painted slot. He began to slide the post through it when the door suddenly swung back, the appearance of a slim figure sending him tumbling backwards, landing on his bottom.

Mrs. Hansten in her blue cotton bathrobe was equally surprised and called out, "Alfie! I thought I heard someone coming. Heavens, dear, you scared me out of my wits!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hansten," Alfie replied politely. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to deliver your mail!" Alfie held out the letters for her to take.

The old woman gave a small laugh. "Of course you are, dear. Why else would you be here?" Mrs. Hansten undid the rubber band and quickly glanced at the letters taking on a slight look of distaste. Bills, Alfie reckoned. Her expression suddenly turned to one of pure delight once she got to the bottom of the pile and Alfie personally knew it was the letter she waiting for. A letter from her son.

Alfie smiled inwardly. "Well, then, I must get going! Post to be delivered and such." He turned on his heel and began to set off.

"What's the rush, Alfie? Come inside and have a nice cup of tea, it's almost freezing out here. You're awfully early as it is."

"Couldn't sleep last night, I'm afraid," Alfie shared. "Not to worry, I'm perfectly fine! Early morning's the best time to deliver the mail, before anyone's awake. Imagine someone waking up and seeing they have no mail!"

"Oh, that would be tragic!" Mrs. Hansten joined in with slightly exaggerated shock.

"Maybe some other time then." Alfie had kicked back the stand and settled down on its leather seat, checking the next address on his delivery route. "Good day, Mrs. Hansten!" he greeted over his shoulder as he pedalled away.

"Good day, Alfie!" Mrs. Hansten smiled fondly. The boy was always a breath of fresh air during his stops. And such a kind heart he was, delivering the mail without asking for a single penny as payment.

She gently squeezed the yellow-enveloped letter in her hand. It was postmarked yesterday and without the local mail-boy's help it surely would've reached her much later.

In all honesty, his visits made her rusty soul feel less lonely, not that she was the kind to ever admit she was. Now impatient with anticipation she crudely ripped the envelope and unfolded the letter.

I'm coming home soon, read the first line.

And maybe Mrs. Hansten would not be so lonely anymore.

Brave-Hearted Soldier

I'm getting a lot of reading done lately. I've read Stardust by Neil Gaiman, and then The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (Which was brilliant, by the way. Warrants a book review, soon). Like I wrote in my last post I got a bit into Diana Wynne-Jones before that, reading her Chrestomanci series, the first of which was Charmed Life which I then followed with the Lives of Christopher Chant. She is brilliant as a fantasy writer, especially when dabbling with magic. I could detect certain details that are parallel to some in the Harry Potter series, whose author, J.K. Rowling once shared that she was insipred by Diana's work. Below is a storylet, which I suppose falls into the category of fan fiction that is based on a scene in Charmed Life where the magical children bring some toy soldiers to life.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or story elements referenced to the works of Diana Wynne-Jones "Charmed Life" or any other book in the Chrestomanci series. This was made with no intention of copyright infringement or profit-making.

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Brave-Hearted Soldier

Life as a tin soldier was, in a word, uneventful. Being inanimate played a huge role in that but living in Chrestomanci Castle never left them that way for long.

The battalion of soldiers was kept in a mahogany cupboard with ivy borders and panes of glass that puts its contents out for display. They were made of special metal, one that could never crack or break and were dressed with the softest of paints. Black paint covered the rounded tops that sat on their cream-colored heads. Their uniforms were red with dots of gold for the buttons and chains and a layer of navy blue formed the slacks. Brown and shined pewter shoes kept them upright and held in their meticulously crafted hands were a soldier’s badge of skill and courage — a miniature black rifle.

Though the soldiers were uniform in size and design, and cut from the same mould, there was one soldier that stood out from the rest. He was dropped in a fireplace, by its previous owner, and melted slightly by the remaining ambers of a fire extinguished. It only singed its right arm, leaving a frozen clump of sludge that ended abruptly by the elbow. It was a disadvantage on the battle field and frequently threw of its balance. It was perceived by its comrades as a disability, though it was something it had guessed from their expressions because even if they were granted the ability to fight and move, they could not speak.

But the soldier knew, deep inside that the stub of arm was also the one thing that made it different, made it unique.

It was that small fact that made the soldier think differently. And when Roger Chant once commented on another collective detail for the batch of toys — an engraved letter “B” on the right foot of every soldier — it got the idea that it needed an identity. A name to distinguish itself by, even though it could not share the name with anyone or hear itself addressed that way.

The tin soldier pondered for days on what that name should be, reflecting on who it was and who it wanted to be.

In the end it chose the name Braveheart.

*   *   *   *   *

Roger and Julia Chant, son and daughter of the great Chrestomanci came into the playroom often to send the soldiers into battle. Roger flung the cupboard doors open and scooped a handful of them and set them up into neat battle formations on the stained carpet of the playroom floor.

“Come on, Julia!” He throws an irritated glance at his sister who absent-mindedly fell onto one of the armchairs, her thoughts absorbed in a story, the prose pouring out of a book that floated in front of her eyes, pages turning of their own accord. “You said you wanted to play soldiers.”

Julia sets the book down on the arm of the chair and sighs heavily, muttering a weary “Alright, alright” as she pulls out a handkerchief from seemingly out of nowhere and starts tying the ends of it a knot.

One by one, the remaining tin soldiers in the cupboard started to blink and move their metal lips, stiffly at first but growing more fluid with every motion. Roger mimicked the action, using his own magic to make his soldiers come to life.

The soldiers face each other, once in their suited positions, rifles at the ready and poised to attack. Roger and Julia give each other a defiant look and after a wordless consensus, they simultaneously yell, “Charge!”

The little crafted people from metal take heed and the battle begins.

In one of Julia’s droves, placed on a low shelf of a bookcase and tasked with burden of firing matching tin cannons to provide support, a soldier that calls itself Braveheart pushes a cannon as best as it can with its one good arm.

Roger’s soldiers are quick and daring, charging headfirst into the line of fire and although some fall they take down many of Julia’s men beforehand, and a surprise attack from a battalion that snuck upon them from the right leaves Julia with little chance of victory.

Braveheart watches his fellow fighters fall from the sidelines and a part of him is itching to jump down and save them, plunge headfirst into the battle.

But Julia, the commander, pouts once she realizes she is losing against her brother and after tying another knot in her handkerchief, the hearts of the standing soldiers she has left start to fill with fear and they run away out of the danger, scrambling under the dusty cupboard.

“Hey!” Roger clambers to his feet, indignant. “That’s no fun, Julia! Don’t make them run away!”

Julia merely sticks his tongue out at him, unknots her handkerchief before sitting back on the armchair and returning to her book.

Just before the magic seeps out of the tin soldiers causing them to fall dead onto the carpet, Braveheart fleetingly wonders whether he has any bravery at all.

*   *   *   *   *

The news of new arrivals into Chrestomanci Castle reaches the ears of the soldiers one day, when Roger and Julia speak of them over a battle. “That Gwendolyn is an insolent pig!” Julia screams, the rage practically lighting her up in flames. “The way she flicked the marmalade all over my face, I very well lost my appetite!”

Roger who wasn’t paying much attention to their battle, seeing how his soldiers were winning so easily, reacts to the lost appetite comment with raised eyebrows, perfectly aware of how they both love marmalade, even though they weren’t allowed to eat it often. “Daddy seemed very upset about her tricks as well. I’m not sure what he’ll do if she keeps it up.”

“He better punish her,” Julia suggested sourly. “Can you imagine having her as a sister? That Eric boy seemed somewhat nice, a bit stand-offish but he follows her everywhere.”

Braveheart, who was manning the cannons in Julia’s army (for some strange reason he always ended up under her control), perked up at the mention of the boy. The Gwendolyn they referred to sounded like a horrendous person, and a little too old to play with tin soldiers. The boy however, was the children’s age and might just happen to find Braveheart in his army and give it the courage it so much desired.

So it was excitement that bubbled up inside its little tin body when the boy they called Eric but prefers to go by Cat, stumbles into the playroom a few days later. Roger and Julia turn to him, embarrassed and slightly guilty as they were caught in the act for using magic in the Castle unsupervised.

“You won’t mention this, will you?” said Julia and Braveheart is afraid the secrecy of the act might scare Cat away so it even more hopeful when Roger asks:

“Would you like to come and play too?”

The hopeful notion is shattered when a hasty “Oh, no thanks” comes as the reply.

But Braveheart bounces back quickly. Maybe he just needs to be patient. Maybe his courage needs to be earned.

*   *   *   *   *

It was raining that Saturday afternoon when Roger managed to convince Cat to come into the playroom. Julia was busy reading again, but was adamant this time that she wasn’t going to play soldiers. The tin men could actively think once the Chants were in the playroom, the mere residual magic that exuded from their beings enough to bring them slightly alive.

Braveheart was left on his side by the door and heard ever word between Roger and Cat.

“Julia won’t play soldiers,” he says to Cat when he bumps into him outside. “Will you?”

“But I can’t — not like you do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Honestly.”

When Roger said that he was simply being nice, but Cat’s inability to do any magic made a huge difference in the battle. Braveheart was on Cat’s army, which made it ecstatic at first but then disappointed since Cat could not make it move. Roger’s mobile soldiers overtook Cat’s easily, even though Cat was quick to manipulate the, by hand with the aid of the lid of the tin soldiers’ box.

In desperation Roger turned to his sister with a request. “Can you make Cat’s soldiers move for him?”

“I’m reading,” said Julia as sucks on a lollipop. “One of them’s got lost and they think he’s perished miserably.”

“Be a sport,” Roger tries to convince her then threatens to spoil the book for her if she doesn’t.

Julia retorts with a half-hearted threat of her own, but in the end concedes. Braveheart springs to life and scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can with his only arm but instantly recognizes the feeling in his veins when his legs start moving of their own accord, once the scales tip in Roger’s favor, and it along with the other soldiers turn around and flee.

“Julia’s soldiers always run away!” Roger exclaims in exasperation.

“Because that’s just what I would do,” the sister in question explains. “I can’t think why all soldiers don’t.”

Her remark sparks an angry thought in Braveheart’s mind. That’s because soldiers are supposed to be brave!

Braveheart cowers behind an armchair cushion with the rest of his fleet, while Roger’s own continues to fire with their rifles and slash at the air with bayonets, bringing down the tin men on the main carpeted battlefield. Roger tries to persuade Julia to make Cat’s army braver when Gwendolyn suddenly barges in search of her brother.

While this happens, a soldier is shot and falls to the ground near the cushion, close enough for Braveheart to rescue. But the fear that stems deep within his heart roots Braveheart to its hiding spot.

“I need him.” The soldier hears Gwendolyn demand for Cat.

Julia draws a luminous cross appears in the air with a knitting needle she had been using as bookmark and a stubborn Gwendolyn at the door finds that she cannot enter, and like a vampire unpermitted entry, she walks away. Perhaps it is the shift of magic in the air, or the shift of Julia’s focus but a weight lifts off of Braveheart’s shoulders and finds that he can move of his own volition. It can still feel the fear that lingers from Julia’s compulsion but sees the fallen comrade on the carpet and is driven into action.

The adrenaline pulses through it and Braveheart rushes over to the soldier and carries him to his feet, holding onto him with his left arm and places him down behind the cover of the cushion. The soldiers do not speak, not being given the ability so by their owners, but the wounded man communicates a heartfelt thanks with the look in its painted black eyes.

Even before Julia directs the needle from the cross to Cat’s soldiers and says “Carry on. I’ve filled their hearts with courage” the disabled tin soldier realizes that it has had it in its heart all along.

The Benefits of Lying

I'm taking a writing skills development class (or what my school calls KIR), and our assignment this week was to write about a weird/unrealistic scenario. It was a struggle to find the right topic. When I found a nice one, "What if people never aged over seventeen?" it turned into this complex story line about forbidden love, a bit West Side Story-esque, and Romeo and Juliet inspired, but then I realized that I couldn't get it done in time and decided to shelve the story for better circumstances for now.

So that meant I had to come up with a back-up plan. I chose a topic that was my original first idea, which I'm sure if it were ever to come true would just set hell loose. "What if everyone never lied?" The story I ended typing out last-minute was a bit rushed, but the idea of course was solid. And when I was writing down the closing conversation, things really hit home. I won't post the whole story, but I'll quote the end bit.

“Why? Did anyone bully you? Say something mean?”

            “Yes… and no. I don’t know. When people speak their mind, bad things can come out of it. Just because you don’t like what they say, it doesn’t mean they’re wrong, does it?”

            “Even if they are right, you can’t let what anybody says bring you down, hun. What they say doesn’t matter.”

            “No, Mom, what they say does matter. And that’s kind of what sucks. You can have such a good attitude at whatever they throw at you, but that doesn’t change the way they treat you. And they tell people what they think and some people buy it. And they start treating you differently, too.”

            Her mother squeezed her as she said this, understanding her pain and not quite sure on how to respond. “But, I learned something from today. The truth can hurt. More often than not. And I took the truth today with a spoonful of sugar and am now stronger because of it. And it’ll be more than satisfying when I prove those people wrong.”

            Amelia lifted her head and looked at her mother’s face. “I also learned that when some people don’t tell the truth, it’s because they’re just looking out for you. They just care. It’s one of the benefits of lying, I guess. You can spare a person’s feeling, but still push them to be the best. You don’t say the complete truth, because you know it would destroy them. And that’s the last thing you want to do.”

The Case Files of Natasha Riviers, Case File # 1: Return To New York City

Case File # 1:
Return to New York City

On a hot day in the bustling NY PD, a little girl could be seen sitting in the lobby. You might've wondered what the small child was doing in such a place. Her name was Natasha Riviers, a 12-year-old British girl. Her dark blonde hair fell just above her shoulders, matching well with her fair creamy skin. She brought herself in a well-mannered fashion, making her seem more mature than her physical age. Although she stuck out, she seemed to fit into the scene quite well. A lone child in a room filled with grown-ups.

She crossed her legs, rested her chin on her hand and sighed impatiently.

"Nervous are you, Natasha?"

She looked up to find Christopher Fidéle Diamanté gingerly sipping his hot coffee. His light green eyes stared back at her gently, with a look of understanding. He had always seemed to have powers of telepathy, seeing through Natasha's most convincing charades. She had spent most of her childhood with him. He was like a brother to her. He was 22 years old, a decade older than herself, but seemed to have kept some of his childlike demeanor. He had the most fiery red short hair, and fingers that were exceptionally long from long hours on playing the piano.

"Are you referring to the press conference? Poppycock, Christopher. This is just the chance I've been waiting for! Imagine a live global broadcast! The whole world shall know the genius of yours truly, Natasha Riviers!"

There it was again, Natasha's confident facade shielding her anxiety. The past four years had taught her that adults sympathized young orphan children. She wasn't allowed to show signs of weakness. She had to be strong, and prove herself to the world.

"I'm sure your father will be proud of you," commented Christopher.

There was a pause. Natasha nervously swept back her hair. "Yes... Of course, he will. I'm continuing the family legacy, aren't I?"

Natasha gave a weak smile. It must've been hard for someone so young to experience a painful loss. She could still remember her father lying on the study floor, covered in blood. The moment she left to call for help, the body had disappeared. Whether he was alive or dead, no one could tell. But that small chance was what kept her sane... The small chance he was still alive. Four years had passed now. Perhaps it was time to let go of that false hope...

"Natasha," called Christopher standing up. "Let's meet the chief now, shall we?"

Natasha stood up as well and they rode the elevator to the second floor. They entered the door just in front of them, the Chief of Police's office.

"Good morning, Chief Starnez," greeted Natasha with a small bow.

"No need for formalities, Natasha. Haven't you grown since the last time we met," commented the Chief with a friendly hug. Natasha accepted the gesture in an awkward and stiff manner.

"It's only been a year. Now, what reason did you have to invite us?" She plopped down onto a swivel chair, sat bolt upright, and crossed her legs.

"Straight to the point as usual, I see. Sorry about the wait, by the way." He gestured to a young woman standing by his desk. "Allow me to introduce, Ms Reginald Policia Sanders."

"You can call me Reggie," the brown-haired woman said. She gave a sheepish smile towards Christopher. She had been staring at him since they had entered, but he didn't seem to notice. To Natasha, she seemed oddly familiar. And when Reggie laid eyes on Natasha, she shared a look of recognition.

"Hey..." they both chorused simultaneously.

"You're the officer who tripped in front of us!" exclaimed Natasha.

"And you're the little girl I saw come out of the office!" exclaimed the woman.

"Ah, so you've met," said the Chief.

"Briefly," replied Natasha. "She was outside the office last year and we bumped into her after I solved the case."

"Wait a second," interrupted Reggie. "Right after you solved the case?"

"Yes, Reginald, allow me to explain. This young child prodigy is Natasha Riviers, the detective that solved the Miranishi kidnapping case. She asked for her identity to be kept hidden until she was ready."

"Until she was ready for…?”

"Ready to open up my own Detective Agency," chimed in Natasha proudly. "I was sure the press wouldn't buy a word of this, so I spent the last year sharpening my intellect, to prove my worth once the Agency was opened. Passing college was a breeze."

Reggie's jaw dropped. "You've passed college? B-b-but I thought he solved the case," she stammered, pointing at Christopher.

"Then you are mistaken. It was I who cleared up that unfathomable case."

"And why must I bodyguard her?"

"Bodyguard?" wondered Natasha. "Why would I need a bodyguard?"

"You see, this press conference will clear the speculation and rumors of the public, but with her identity revealed, we are afraid someone might do her harm. Like the Jingkuja mafia, the kidnappers last year. This is just a precaution, the Interpol has decided on."

Natasha considered it. Interpol, she whispered unbelievingly in her mind. “Fine,” she decided. “I’ll accept her as my bodyguard. But, you must abide by my orders. You will follow me wherever I go, and must be fully alert at all times.”

“Fine then,” Reggie said at last, “as long as this body guarding job pays.”

“When did you schedule the press conference?”

“Four-thirty p.m. sharp, in the station’s lobby.”

“That’s quite a while away…” Natasha pointed out.

“Well, I had to reschedule it.”

“Why did you have to reschedule?”

The Chief tossed out two Broadway tickets. “How about you go catch a show?”

Natasha stared at them curiously. Her intuition began to tingle. She could feel an incident had occurred. In spite of herself, she gave a small enigmatic smile. “What kind of show?”

“It’s a mystery show… a murder occurred, one I want you to solve.”

*  *  *

They seemed like a strange trio, standing in front of the theatre. A British girl dressed in a brown jacket over a white blouse and jeans, with a handsome, tall man wearing an “I ♥ NYC” t-shirt, and a woman wearing a badge, by her side. Even stranger was the number of policemen swarming the renowned theatre. The Chief had already explained Natasha’s presence, and they let inside, giving off looks of curiosity, disbelief, and even respect. Together, they stepped inside.

The Broadway Theatre was massive in size. Red velvet seats lined up the carpet-covered floor, under the balcony and private booths, with their golden railings. A crystal chandelier above, gave off a soft golden glow that illuminated the large hall. But amidst this grand scene, something was out of place. The stage at the end of the hall, framed with red silky curtains, was broken in the middle… and covered in blood.

“I believe you were the one who reported the crime?” Natasha addressed a well-suited man, busy with his BlackBerry, who was leaning against the wall. He briefly looked up from the screen, and seeing only a little girl, went back to looking at his phone.

Natasha tapped her foot impatiently. “If I’m not mistaken, you were the one who requested my services.”

“I asked for that ‘Unknown Detective’, kid, not you.”

“On the contrary, I am that ‘Unknown Detective’.”

The businessman and theatre manager, Aaron Miverdy, scoffed. “Yeah… sure, kid.”

“I am not joking, Mr. Miverdy. If you are still in disbelief, you may call the Chief of Police himself.”

And Aaron did just that, seeing Natasha was too focused on playing detective. Kids these days had no manners… How did she get into the crime scene anyway? Mr. Miverdy thought.

Chief Starnez picked up the other end of the phone, and a look of surprise came to Miverdy’s face. He hung up with a look of distaste. “Fine, kid, if you got any questions, ask away.”

“What exactly happened here?”

“Well, the victim was our lighting technician, Richard Chance. According to the witnesses, he was up on the catwalk and his girlfriend, Tracy, went up to talk to him. The must’ve gotten in an argument and Tracy pushed him off. He fell hard on the stage, and broke the trapdoor. A splintered piece of wood pierced him right in the chest. With all that blood he was losing, he let out his last breathe.”

“They’ve already taken the body for an autopsy, haven’t they?”

“Yes. And the suspect, Tracy, is sitting right over there,” he added, pointing to a corner seat.

Natasha spotted the woman. “Thank you, Mr. Miverdy. I’ll be sure to wrap this case up, posthaste.”

“You’d better, kid. With the theatre closed off, I’m losing lots of money. I’ve already had to refund the tickets for the next showing… Hah… all those dollars gone…”

Natasha left the businessman alone to mourn his lost money, wondering how greedy this man was to act like this murder didn’t mean anything. Didn’t someone’s live, stranger or underling, mean something of value? She shook off that thought for now, suddenly focused on solving this brutal murder.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said politely to the woman Mr. Miverdy pointed out. “May I have a word with you?”

Tracy Young was in her early 20’s, yet her face seemed like she was 52. Sadness and anxiety weighed down on her face, making it look pale. “Oh, sure, whatever…” she said depressively, not seeming to care who she was talking with.

“You’re the suspect aren’t you? I’m sure you could give me any story regarding what happened, but before I ask, I want you to answer one question. Did you murder Richard Chance?”

“No!” shouted the woman. “Of course, I didn’t! He was my boyfriend, how could I?” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. “Yes, we were fighting these past few days, but I didn’t even touch him yet! He fell on his own…”

Natasha handed Tracy her handkerchief. “So you admit you went up the catwalk. What do you mean he fell on his own?”

Tracy took the hankie and wiped away her tears. “He was ignoring me, leaning against the railing. When I reached out to touch his shoulder, he just fell.”

“Strange… could he have just slipped?” murmured Natasha.

“I don’t think so… He fell forward, and the railway is just under-chest level,” replied Tracy. “He would’ve been able to stop himself from slipping… unless he was…”

“Pushed,” finished Natasha, and Tracy’s face sank. “Or, some other force made him fall…” Natasha considered the possibilities. Her eyes wandered to the stage. Behind the curtain, she could see the catwalk above head. The background paintings and props hung from the ceiling, ready to anchor down by rope. Sandbags were also hanging mid-air acting as weights. Natasha’s eyes lit up with an idea.

“Miss Tracy, would you please show me your positions up on the catwalk?”

Tracy looked up and realized that she was talking to a young girl. The way she spoke, Natasha had sounded like a mature adult. Without question though, she followed her up to the catwalk. The catwalk was a rectangular metal platform furnished with a single chair facing the controls for the stage light’s and music control panels. Tracy showed exactly where Richard was standing. Natasha stroked the railway, and found a streak of red. It seemed to be blood.

“That’s odd… he was already bleeding before he fell?” If you looked up you could see a fixed pulley without its rope. Natasha looked down to stage, and spotted a piece of rope buried under a plank of wood.

She rushed downstairs immediately, with Tracy at her side. Under the plank of wood was, as Natasha suspected, a sandbag. “I might be able to prove your innocence after all, Miss Tracy. Now I’ve found the real reason behind Richard’s fall! This sandbag must’ve fallen on his head!” Natasha sounded triumphant, and Tracy looked hopeful. She had established the ‘how’, all Natasha needed was to prove the ‘who’ and ‘why’. Perhaps it was one of the witnesses…

Before Natasha had a chance to think it through, she was approached by a woman. The black short-haired woman was tall and slender, wearing a pair of round-rimmed glasses on her nose. She had gentle eyes, and creamy skin. An over-sized lab coat hung down on her shoulders, covering her casual ensemble. “How did you get in here, dear? This is a crime scene, you know.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, ma’am,” answered Natasha patiently. “I am here to solve this crime.” Natasha was sure she wasn’t going to believe her. Was it really that hard to accept that a child would have the intellect sufficient enough to be a detective? But unexpectedly, the woman seemed surprised for only a moment. Then, she put on a smile and nodded approvingly.

“Who would’ve thought a kid would be the ‘Unknown Detective’, everyone was talking about? I suppose you’d want to ask me about the autopsy results? My name is Maria Gomez, by the way. I work at the NY PD’s forensic department. The moment I heard the ‘Unknown Detective’ was on the case, I rushed down here right away!”

“And what are the autopsy results?”

“Well, I uncovered a few strange details.”

“Please elaborate, Ms. Gomez.”

“One, the body had strangely gone through some slight rigor mortis, the stiffening of a body after death,  indicating an earlier time of death than his fall.”

“You mean he died before all of this?” asked Reggie in disbelief.

“Yes. We suspect he died around 8 a.m. this morning.”

“That would explain the dry blood on the railway. Anything else?” asked Natasha.

“Yes. The cause of death was a stab to the chest. Strange thing is, we analyzed the wound and found it was too long and deep to have been made with the short piece of wood.”

“So, he died before Tracy supposedly pushed him, and now it seems the cause of death was made by a different weapon,” summarized Christopher. He and Natasha looked at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes indeed, Christopher,” Natasha said with a smile. She had expected nothing less from him; after all he was her father’s apprentice. “This was neither an intended murder nor a simple accident. This was an attempt to frame Ms. Tracy and cover-up the real murder that occurred earlier. If it wasn’t Ms Tracy, it must’ve been someone else. We should interview the witnesses. Now, they are all suspects.”

The theatre was mostly empty as the staff prepared for the next showing. The dancers and other staff were out on lunch break, and the only two who had seen the incident was Millie Karligan, a newly discovered actress, along with one of the theatre’s make-up artists and wig designer, Bethany Strauss. Natasha decided to interview them separately to see if their stories would match. She started with the actress, Millie Karligan.

“Where were you at the time of the crime?” asked Natasha, straight to the point.

“I was in my dressing room with Bethany. She was retouching my make-up for the next show. Afterwards, she said she was feeling tired and wanted to grab a coffee at the café across the street. I heard her scream outside my dressing room and when I went out saw her running over to Richard under the rubble. I did see Tracy on the catwalk, but I didn’t see her push him.”

“No one did, so there might be a possibility that someone else killed Richard. Do you notice anyone acting strange, lately?”

“Well, yes, I did. Bethany’s been acting strange lately, like she was hiding something. And if you ask me, she seemed a bit too eager to pin Tracy as the culprit.”

“You’re suspicious about Bethany, then? But, would there even be a reason why she would do it?”

“It seems a bit impossible for her do have done it. She wasn’t up on the catwalk. But, if I had to say a reason, it would probably be because of jealousy. You see, Richard and Bethany used to date, and then he dumped her for Tracy.”

“A love triangle…? Hmm…” Natasha began considering the possibility. If it was Bethany, with jealousy as a motive, how did she kill Richard in the first place? “One last question, when was the last time you saw Richard?”

“Come to think of it, I didn’t see him at all today… He was probably here early this morning, preparing for the show.”

“Alright, then, thank you for your cooperation. Please call in the other witness, Bethany.”

Soon Millie gracefully walked away from the seat in front of Natasha, and Bethany took her place. Natasha didn’t hesitate with the questions. “Ms Karligan states that you had exited the dressing room right after the fall?”

“Yes, that’s true. I just finished retouching Millie’s make-up.”

“What was your relationship with Richard?”

“I, Richard, and Tracy used to be best friends in high-school. The two of them are dating, and had been fighting recently.” She sighed quite convincingly. She didn’t bother to mention that she and Richard had dated as well. On her waist was a utility belt. As the make-up artist, she had kept her tools on it. There was a can of hairspray and red hair-dye on her right side. Natasha noticed that there was a scissors pocket on the belt too. It was made of leather, and was long.

Probably for her barber scissors… reasoned Natasha. Then the jigsaw pieces all fell into place, as the answer hit Natasha.

“I can’t believe Tracy would do this,” continued Bethany. “We’re best friends, and it pains me to have to testify against her… She doesn’t seem to have the heart to do something like this…”

“You’re right, Ms. Strauss, she doesn’t.” Natasha looked her straight in the eye. “But, according to the evidence, you do. You are the murderer of Richard Chance.”

*  *  *

Everyone watched in shock and suspense, as Natasha was about to play the final act in this murder story. Bethany stood up, shocked. Tracy stepped forward towards her best friend. “What? Bethany… was it really you?”

“Of course not!” she snapped. “Stop playing innocent, Tracy. Although you’re my friend, you’re the murderer! Who else could it have been? And you, little detective, should know better than to make an accusation without any evidence! I knew you were a fraud, right from the start!”

Natasha merely smiled as she took center stage, ready to explain. “Now, now, if you truly are innocent, Ms. Strauss, I don’t see a reason why you should be so enraged. And if I truly am a fraud, than letting me explain my fraudulent claim shouldn’t be a problem.”

She turned to address Ms. Tracy. “Now, there were a few vague details about the series of events. Tracy did indeed climb up to the catwalk, but there was no direct evidence that she pushed Richard to his death. And according to her, he fell on his own. Stranger still, I spotted a streak of blood on the railway. Why was Richard bleeding before he had even been injured? Now, if we assume that Ms. Tracy is innocent, and that Richard fell on his own, the question now is how. How did Richard fall?”

Natasha walked onto the stage, picked up the sandbag, and pointed up into the catwalk. “Richard’s position was right under a sandbag, which was found near the body. If someone were to send Tracy up to the catwalk to Richard, a timed release of the rope would send it tumbling down on his head. Imagine a plank of wood was leaning against the railing. If the sandbag were to hit the higher end, it would tip over to the other side. That was how Richard fell. This was planned to make it seemed like Tracy had pushed him.”

“Now I had to establish who or why had done that. During my interview with Ms. Karligan, she stated that you had been acting suspicious today. And you exited her dressing room, right before the incident. Tell me, Tracy, did you bump into Bethany before heading upstairs?”

Too shocked to speak, she merely nodded.

“See? Your timing was perfect. You directed Tracy up to the catwalk and released the rope. Richard fell, and you pretend to help him, again making it seem that Tracy had pushed him, and you were just a witness. Ms. Karligan also informed that you were Richard’s former lover, and he dumped you for Tracy. Your motive was purely because of jealousy.”

“An interesting theory,” interjected Bethany. “But that is all it is, a theory.”

“Please, let me finish. Afterwards, Ms. Gomez brings me the results of the autopsy. I’m sure this information will intrigue you. Would you like to tell them, Ms. Gomez?”

“The odd thing is, the body’s state of slight decomposing shows an earlier time of death,” Maria announced.

“It seems that Richard was dead long before this happened. The Richard up on the catwalk was merely his corpse. This explains the blood on the railway, were someone left him leaning on,” explained Natasha.

“Also,” continued Ms. Gomez, “the wound was too long and deep to have been made with the splintered wood. The murder weapon was something else. Something much longer, like…”

“Like a pair of barber scissors?” finished Natasha. “On your utility belt is all of your make-up tools, this made me wonder why your scissors pocket was empty. My final deduction is that early this morning, you and Richard met and had a fight. In a blind rage, you grabbed your barber scissors and stabbed him. That’s why no one saw him today at all. Not wanting to get caught, you decided to frame Tracy. You placed him on the catwalk under the sandbag and timed the release.”

“Yes, I use barber scissors to trim the wigs for the costumes, but you can’t prove I killed him!”

“Very well, then, Ms. Strauss. If you’re innocent, then I suppose you won’t mind emptying your jean pockets?” Natasha requested pointing to her right pocket which was slightly bulging in a triangular shape.

That simple request was like an arrow hitting Strauss’s chest. This little girl was on the verge of catching her. And oh how smug she looked! It made her want to scream! In a blind panic, Bethany pulled out the bloody scissors from her pocket and jumped at Natasha…

Clang! With a well-aimed kick from Reggie, the scissors fell out of Bethany’s hand and skidded to the floor. An officer casually picked up. “Nice kick, Reggie,” praised Natasha.

Reggie put Bethany in a headlock as she tried to jump at Natasha again. Her face was distorted with rage and hatred. The killer’s true nature had come out from that innocent charade. “You little brat!” she shouted at Natasha. “If you hadn’t come here my plan would be perfect! My revenge would be complete!”

On the floor, Tracy had fallen to her knees as tears flooded down her face. “Your revenge…? Why, Beth? What did I do to make you hate me…?”

“You idiot, don’t you realize! You stole Richard from me! I protected you all throughout high-school, and this is how you thank me! He dumped me for you! What do you have that I don’t? You’re a wimp, Tracy, I hate you! I HATE YOU!”

The hysterical shouting of Bethany rang throughout the vast hall. Her words stabbed Tracy in the heart. Natasha felt like comforting her, but knew it wasn’t her place. She handed her handkerchief and told the officers to take Bethany away. Before she left, Natasha gave her these harsh words, “You’re pathetic, you know that? You’ve done all this over a love quarrel? Don’t you think Richard’s live is worth much more than that? And worst of all, you’ve hurt your best friend. You deserve to go the jail.”

The officers and theatre staff stepped aside as Natasha exited the theatre. Aaron Miverdy, clearly impressed with Natasha’s work invited to watch a free show. Natasha politely accepted the gesture, (Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.) and drove back to the Police Station.

*  *  *

At precisely, 04.30 p.m., a press conference was held in the lobby of the New York Police Department. Natasha sat nervously (though she didn’t show it) beside the podium. She calmed herself, by reflecting on this afternoon’s case. A tragedy it was, and she hoped for Tracy to recover. But despite all that, she quite enjoyed the experience. Her first official case and she had made quite a good first impression. There was also that feeling of satisfaction and thrill when she had pinned the real murderer. There was a lot of injustice in the world, but that was why she had decided to become a detective. She was going to find the truth wherever it may hide, and she was determined to deliver justice. Just like her father did for so many years…

“And now,” started Chief Starnez on the podium, addressing reporters, “I present you with the ‘Unknown Detective’.”

Natasha walked onto the podium and smiled. Everyone in the world, watching the live global broadcast, gasped. “My name is Natasha Riviers, and starting today I am opening the Riviers Detective Agency to help those in need. Feel free, to ask any questions now.”

Silence followed that simple statement.

Natasha kept on smiling. This was only the beginning of her career.

The Gods of Lunar City, Prologue: A Chance Encounter

Prologue

A Chance Encounter

Lunar City is a cutting-edge futuristic city currently standing on what used to be New York City. The year is 3000 A.D. A bit surprising the Earth hasn’t died out yet, huh? Thanks to human ingenuity, and technology advancement, we managed to survive. Just barely. Lunar City isn’t a ‘real’ city. It’s all artificial. A glass dome covers the city with an artificial sun shining above head. Outside the dome, the Earth resembles a giant junkyard. The air and oceans have been polluted with toxins, and most of the plants have withered out, leaving little habitable areas. Perhaps I should feel lucky I live in Lunar City, but I have my own problems to deal with too. My name’s Astro Star and I am 12 years old. I myself didn’t care about what would happen to the Earth, but I experienced something that made me realize otherwise. It all started out as a normal day…

Krriinngg…! The school bell rang as the students exited their study pods. A leather recliner chair equipped with a video helmet projecting educational videos and a computer-generated tutor. A metal slot beneath the armrest produced a mini-CD, my weekend homework. Whoopee. I took the CD and stuffed it into my bag, steeping onto the school’s moving walkway. It led me out the classroom and past the hallways until I reached the school’s front gate. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the city’s filtered air. It was better than the filthy air outside the city, but I couldn’t help but wonder what natural clean air tasted like.

I walked through the gate and started making my way home. Tall skyscrapers soared overhead and hover cars zoomed on the sky lanes. I soon reached Satellite Lane, and stepped on the front porch of my apartment. A retina scanner next to the doorbell scanned my left eye and the door slid open to let me in. I then rode the elevator to my apartment room, where my sister, Crystal Star, was busy cleaning the kitchen.

‘Hey, sis,’ I greeted, searching the fridge for some food. I then slumped on the couch and put on my TV goggles. A 3-D version of Jurassic Park played on the screen.

‘I just wiped that table!’ My sister scolded, pushing my feet off of it. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and head to the store for me?’ She shoved a list and a jacket into my arms and pushed me into the elevator before I could even protest, so I had no choice than to do what I was told.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of the grocery store with a bag of items in my hand. A computer café was standing next to the store. I didn’t really feel like heading home and decided to play on the net for a few hours. It was after that when things started to go wrong. I pulled out my cash card from my pocket and was about to swipe the card on the cash register when… crash!

‘Ouch…’ I looked up to see a red-haired boy looking back at me. ‘Can’t you watch where you’re going?’

‘S-sorry,’ the boy stammered, standing up hurriedly. He didn’t help me up and ran out the café.

‘Honestly,’ I muttered to myself, brushing myself off. ‘You’d think people would have some manners…’ My voice trailed off as I realized something. My green pendant was gone. The pendant I always wore around my neck, a gift from my parent’s during my 2nd birthday.

‘That kid…’ I swore silently and ran out the café without a second thought.

The red-headed boy took my pendant, I was certain of that. He was standing at the corner of the street, talking into his mobile phone. He hung up as soon as she saw me and ducked into an alleyway. I chased him all the way to the Backstreets, the gang territory at the southern part of the city. I zipped my jacket all the way up my neck and pulled the hood over my eyes. The Backstreets was definitely not a place where you’d want to attract any attention. The red-headed boy slowed down his pace, unaware I was still following him and entered a nearby warehouse. I crept up behind him and put him in a headlock.

‘Hey, let me go!’ he protested, kicking the air in front of him. He was about a year younger than me and didn’t put up much of a fight.

‘I’ll let you go as soon as you give back my pendant,’ I demanded in a stern voice.

‘I didn’t take it,’ he lied unconvincingly.

‘What did you do this time, Carrot-head?’ a voice said behind me. I turned around to see 4 boys emerging behind several crates.

‘He took my pendant,’ I explained. ‘Now he won’t give it back.’

The boy in the middle, who looked the oldest with jet black hair, took a step forward. ‘Give me the pendant, Craig. Let me handle this.’

Craig finally managed to free himself from my headlock and reluctantly handed over my pendant to the black-haired boy. I reached out my hand for the pendant, but he didn’t return it. ‘You want this back?’ he asked. I nodded, unsure of where this question was heading. ‘How about you do us a favor first?’

I sighed, but I was also curious. ‘What kind of favor?’

‘Simple. We’re practicing for a school play, a kind of magic ritual scene. We need someone to play the sacrifice for awhile, as the real actor is sick today. How about it? You don’t even have any lines to say, just stand there and follow my lead.’

‘That’s it?’ I said almost relieved. I agreed to his condition. I would do anything to get that pendant back. That was the last gift my parents gave me before they died in a hover car accident.

‘Excellent,’ the black-haired boy said smiling. ‘My name’s Chris by the way. That’s Michael, Greg, and Trey. The carrot-head pickpocket is Craig. He’s supposed to be on probation right now, but hey, old habits die hard.’ He gave Craig a playful punch on the shoulder.

He led me into the warehouse, his friends following close behind. On the warehouse floor, drawn with white paint was a circle with a pentagon in it, another star drawn inside. ‘Ritual circle,’ explained Chris. ‘But this is all fake, of course.’

It was then I felt a tingle on my arm. Something didn’t feel right. But it was too late to turn back now, as Chris pushed me into the middle of the circle.

The five boys put on black cloaks and stood at corner of the pentagon. In Chris’s hand was an old book. It was the old kind of book, made of paper and ink, instead of the 3-D hologram ones we have now.

‘Within this circle of magic we stand,’ he recited from the book. ‘We call upon the spirit of venom, the Goddess of Toxins, Toxica, with a sacrifice of blood as a sign of our belief.’ He walked towards me and forcibly pulled out my hand. He cut my hand with a knife before I could resist, and the blood dripped down onto the ritual ring. The room fell silent as a black haze rose from my blood. The haze turned more solid, forming a pile of black sludge. A figure emerged from the toxic slime, its ink black hair flowing down, and its eyes a glowing blood-red.

‘Toxica,’ Chris breathed almost in delight. ‘Welcome. My name is Chris, and I would like to ask for your help–’ Chris was cut off before he could finish. A whip of toxic sludge hit him in the face.

‘Insolent human,’ Toxica hissed. ‘You think you can command, Toxica? Not even a single offering of polluted water. I am leaving.’ She turned to the door and slid away like a snake, leaving behind a trail of black sludge.

Chris was left dumbfounded on the floor as he wiped the sludge off his face. It took a firm grip on his shirt’s collar to knock some sense back into him. ‘What was that?’ I demanded, angry and confused at the same. ‘Explain everything, now. And I’d like my pendant back, please.’

‘That was Toxica,’ he replied calmly as what he was saying made perfect sense. He also put his hand in his pocket and pulled out my emerald pendant. I snatched it back, afraid he might take it back. ‘An ancient god, we just summoned. It’s in the book,’ he pointed to the one lying open on the floor.

I bandaged my cut hand with my handkerchief, and picked it up. ‘The Ancient Gods of Lunar City’ was the title written on the cover. I leafed through the pages until I found Toxica. ‘The goddess of toxins, the personification of the environmental damage brought on by humans. Pollution in human form,’ I read. I fixed my most contemptuous gaze on Chris. ‘All that, and you still wanted to summon her?’

‘Hey, I thought if should control it, she could get rid of it too. But, I’m not stupid, Astro Star.’ I was about to ask how he knew my name, but then remembered that it was written on my school uniform.

He took the book from my hands and showed me another page. ‘Techna, the Goddess of Technology’ was the title of the page. ‘I tried summoning her, but it didn’t work. I thought I could get Toxica to help stop pollution, but I guess I should have thought ahead.’

‘Pollution… And why do you care so much?’ I asked.

‘Have you ever seen the world outside the city, Astro?’ I considered the question for several moments digging into my distant memories. I remembered a time when I was little, just a little after my parents passed away. I was sad like any normal four-year-old would be, and stumbled off on my own into the city. The police station was near the city’s Eastern Gate and I accidentally passed through. Outside, I saw a barren stretch of grey land, as far the eye could see. Plants and grass withered out and the sky was filled with a thick toxic mist. One gulp of the poisonous air was enough to make me suffocate, if the authorities hadn’t saved me in time.

‘Unfortunately, I have,’ I answered, thinking seriously about the subject for the first time.

‘The Earth wasn’t always like that. It used to be green and full of life, like the one you see in the movies or old educational videos. And it’s us humans that have killed that, and turned it into the dump that is now. I wanted to change that, Astro. Surely you can’t blame me for wanting that.’

I felt a tug on my shirt and turned around. Craig was standing in front of me pointing to a mini-TV screen. ‘You should take a look at this,’ he said. And so we did. A channel of the local news was broadcasted showing the city’s water plant. The water plant collected water from water bodies, such as lakes and ponds, polluted from outside the city and filtered into drinkable, clean water, which was then pumped into houses all over the city. Trails of black slime were all over the building’s front yard.

‘But, I can blame you for this. Now toxic water is being pumped to the whole city!’ I accused to a guilty-faced Chris.

‘I can fix this,’ he whispered, trying to regain his composure. When he finally did, he spoke more confidently. ‘Or more specifically, you can fix this, Astro.’

‘Me?’ I shouted astonished. ‘Why me?’ I protested. ‘This is your mess. You fix it.’

‘Ah, but that’s where your wrong. It is my mess, and I would love more than anything to fix it, but unfortunately, I can’t.’ He leafed through the book once more until he found the page he wanted. ‘It’s all in the book. We used your blood to summon her, and only with your blood can we send her back. Just sprinkle one drop, and recite this spell. Then poof! Problem gone.’

‘You make that sound so easy… Fine I’ll do it,’ I reluctantly agreed. What other choice did I have? I did care; I really did, all about the pollution and stuff. I didn’t realize that until now.

Do you really care, Astro? a sudden voice in my head whispered. What? Who are you? I asked back. Tell me you care about this Earth, Astro. Let me hear you say it.

‘I care,’ I said barely more than a whisper. ‘I care about our Earth. I want to help if I can.’

Good answer. The voice said, not just to me this time, but to everyone in the warehouse. An electrical haze appeared in mid-air slowly taking form a human girl. Her hair was a blue, transparent color, and was formed by electric sparks. Her skin was as white as snow and she wore a turquoise blazer, the sleeves were laced with frills, and she wore a matching turquoise skirt. ‘Hello,’ she greeted in a gentle voice. She looked like a regular 12-year-old girl. Everyone in the room was standing open-mouthed. Chris was the first one to recover his skill of speech.

‘I can’t believe you summoned her!’ he said almost with envy. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve tried?’

‘Oh, yes, I remember you,’ Techna said. ‘You did care, I’ll give you that, but you lacked determination and resolve. Proof of this is just when you shoved the responsibility of taking care of Toxica to Astro here.’ Chris stared down at his feet guiltily. ‘Now, Astro,’ she continued, turning back to me. ‘I’ll help you defeat Toxica.’

‘Good,’ I breathed sitting down on a crate. This was a bit too much for me to take in all at once. ‘I hope you have a plan ‘cuz my brain is too strained to come up with one.’

‘It’s all quite simple, actually. She’s in the water plant, isn’t she? Recite the vanquishing spell, add one drop of blood, and reactivate the filter. Clean water will be back into the city,’ Techna suggested.

‘Good plan,’ I agreed. ‘Just how do you plan to reactivate the filter?’

Techna gave me a small smile. ‘Have you forgotten? I am the goddess of technology. Hacking into the system will be a piece of cake.’

Before I could talk myself out of it, me and Techna were standing in front of the Lunar City Water Plant ready to execute our plan. We slid into the building without a sound, and Techna placed a hand on the water plant’s generator. ‘Here,’ she magically produced an earpiece in her hand. ‘Use it to keep in touch.’ I secured the earpiece on my ear and gave her the thumbs up. She dissolved into a million particles and disappeared into the generator following the cable to the water plant’s computer. I could see the progress bar on the computer screen. 50%... 75%... 97%... 100%. Now I just had to wait for the filter to start. I waited and waited. Nothing happened. Toxica was still lounging in the water vat.

‘Astro?’ Techna’s voice sounded into my earpiece. ‘We have a slight problem.’

I sighed. There was always a problem. ‘What is it?’

‘There’s no electric port for me to get out off. I can’t materialize. The filter’s starting button is on the panel. You’ll have to press it yourself.’ At that idea, I gulped. Walk past an evil toxic goddess, and just press a button. Sounded easy enough. I reluctantly stepped out from behind the wall and started tiptoeing my way to the computer. A metallic tile beneath my left foot was broken and made a loud clanging noise. Toxica’s head swirled around to meet my eyes.

‘A meddlesome human,’ she hissed in her snake-like voice. ‘You are either very brave or just plain stupid!’ A slimy black hand emerged from the water vat heading straight for me. I ran to the computer, which suddenly seemed so far away. I reached the computer, and Toxica’s hand closed itself around my neck. I reached around blindly with my free hand. I found the round ‘ON’ button and pushed it, the last of the air leaving my lungs.

I gasped for air as Toxica’s grip slackened. I turned around to see her face twisted in pain. The black water in the vat was slowly being sucked through the filter, taking Toxica along with it. I edged closer to the vat and held out a knife in my good hand. I made a small cut on my forefinger, and let a drop of blood drip into the vat. ‘Toxica, return,’ I whispered softly, the exhaustion of the recent events finally catching up with me. Toxica’s face melted into the vat of black sludge and was cleansed by the filter. She was finally gone. I took a deep breath and stepped away from the vat. Techna was standing in front of the generator, smiling proudly at me.

‘Good job, Astro,’ she praised. ‘There’s hope for mankind after all.’ She placed a hand on my forehead, and my mind fell into unconsciousness…

* * *

I regained consciousness a day later and found myself in a hospital bed, my sister staring worriedly at me. ‘Thank God you’re awake,’ she said, giving me a hug. I gently pulled her away and asked, ‘What happened? Why am I in a hospital?’

She gently placed a hand on my forehead. I felt a slight bump and a dull throb start to attack my head. ‘You ran into a lamp post,’ Crystal explained.

I blinked back at her in disbelief. ‘A lamp post?’

She nodded. ‘You’ve been asleep for about a day.’ Hearing this triggered a question in my mind. Then all of that… The warehouse, Toxica, Techna… Was it all a dream? ‘Astro?’ my sister asked anxiously, taking me out of my reverie. ‘At the internet café… did you try to leave without paying?’

I nearly jumped out the hospital bed. ‘Of course, I didn’t!’ I exclaimed. ‘I took out my cash card and swiped it on the… cash register…’ My voice trailed off as the incident flashbacked in my mind. Before the card made contact with the machine. A red-headed boy crashed into me…

‘Craig!’ I blurted out before I could stop myself. My sister stared at me with even more concern. ‘Never mind,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I really did pay, sis.’ Or at least I meant too, I added in my head. ‘You got to believe me, honest!’

‘The evidence says otherwise, kid,’ a man said emerging through the hospital room door. I recognized him as the computer café’s owner. He pulled out a laptop and placed it in front of me. A sketch of the café’s blueprint emerged on screen. Every booth was numbered, and a red and green light flickered beside each one. I guessed green meant ‘already paid’, and red meant ‘left unpaid’. I scanned the layout for my booth, C-16, and gulped as I saw the red light. The owner saw my reaction. ‘Have anything else to say, son?’

I searched my brain, trying to come up with a good reply. I didn’t find one. It was then a miracle happened. The red light suddenly flashed to green and I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. ‘Yeah, I think you may have experienced a glitch.’ I turned the laptop screen to his face. He studied the screen for a few moments and then scratched his chin. ‘Guess I did have a glitch. Sorry, about the mistake kid.’

A happy grin stretched across my face. ‘No problem,’ I replied. On the corner of the screen, the word Techna emerged in small letters. It wasn’t a dream.

Death's Remedy, Prologue: The New Patient

Prologue

The New Patient

One thing about hospitals is the way they seem welcoming and yet at the same time foreboding. It’s a place where people who are sick get cured, diseases are eradicated and every now then, where miracles happen. Yet when you’re a doctor, working at this so-called higher institute of healing, you see a completely darker side to medicine.

Our power of healing is limited. It’s inevitable. People suffer in pain, people question why, people scream, people die. And as a doctor, you have to face all of that every single day.

The worse part of it was that as a doctor, you had to deliver bad news. That was exactly what crossed the mind of Harper Hospital’s diagnostician, Dr. John Gillian. He hoped that at least, he wouldn’t have to give any today. Unfortunately, he had.

“Hey, Elliot,” he called towards the nurse that passed by his office. “Did the tests from Hematology and the biopsy come in yet?”

“Yes, Dr. Gillian,” the young intern formally replied. “I have the tests right here.”

He said a quick thank you and consulted the charts. At first, he tried to stay optimistic (a futile attempt), but as he scanned through the numbers on the blood test results, his face fell.

Thankfully, it was then a beautiful woman in her early thirties walked the hallway pushing a baby stroller towards him. “Hey, honey,” greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek. “Ready for lunch?”

It was nearing noon, Dr. Gillian’s scheduled time for lunch break. According to protocol, doctors should always put their patients first. That included delivering medical updates ASAP.

“Absolutely,” he answered, placing the charts on top of his desk. That could wait until later. His break was only 30 minutes anyway.

“Joanie said her first word today,” reported his wife, Reina. They found a table for two amongst the medical staff that occupied the cafeteria.

Usually, any talk about his dear baby girl would lift his spirits up, but after this morning it didn’t really help. “What did she say?” the doctor asked in a neutral tone as he picked his sandwich, a tray of food between them.

She instantly took his hand. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

He dabbed some mustard off the corner of my mouth with a napkin, and hesitantly scrunched it up into a ball. A part of him loved how she was the only one who can see through him. “It’s work. Apparently, it’s my job to keep on giving bad news.”

“Come on, you’ve done it tons of times before.”

“But I don’t think I can do this one patient.”

“Why, is it someone we know?” asked Reina panicked.

John squeezed her hand for reassurance. “She’s twelve.”

“Oh,” was all she managed to say.

For a few seconds, Dr. Gillian’s eyes wandered to the baby stroller beside their table. Sleeping peacefully with her thin baby hair was the small angelic blessing given to him, Joanie. She had turned 1-year-old just days before. What if this patient was her…?

“Why’d I ever become a doctor?” he sighed solemnly.

“Why?” his wife repeated, appalled. “You became a doctor, because you wanted to help people. To save lives. One of those lives was your brother’s. Don’t ever forget that.”

Despite his melancholy, he smiled. “I hope he hasn’t forgotten that either.”

Suddenly, his pager rang. “Gotta go. They need me.”

John Gillian stood up and hugged his wife farewell. Leaning down into the baby stroller, he gently kissed his baby girl on the forehead. “Have a nice nap, Joanie,” he whispered to her.

He came running towards his office moments later. “What’s up?”

By his desk was a fellow doctor named Dr. Freed. He was talking to a thin, weary looking woman before he interrupted. “John, finally you’re here.”

“Well, I am entitled to a lunch break now and then,” he pointed out as he sat down in his swivel chair. “Who is this, if I may ask?”

“This is Mrs. Letum, the mother of your patient that got admitted here this morning.”

“Ah, I see. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Letum.” Out of common courtesy, John held his hand out. She shook it somewhat reluctantly.

“What are the results of your diagnosis?” she asked a bit timidly, as if she was frightened of the answer.

“Well…” John let out a sigh. Was there any easier way to say this? “The blood test has confirmed a massive number in her WBC count and presence of RS cells in her biopsy. She has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

John held his breathe as he waited for Mrs. Letum to respond to the heart-breaking news. “Cancer…?” she whispered weakly.

“Yes,” was all John said, not trusting himself to say anything more.

The expression in Mrs. Letum face showed deep disbelief and desperation. Her eyes began to water slightly, but she managed to compose herself and ask, “Have you told my daughter yet?”

“Not yet. Would you like me to tell her the news?” John thought it was the right thing to offer. He could never stand having to diagnose is own child with such a deadly disease. But in a sense, he was tired of giving more bad news.

Mrs. Letum nodded, her expression changing to that of calm and understanding, probably to hide her concern and worry in front of her little girl. John led her to Remedy Letum’s hospital room, discussing possible treatments. Soon they reached a semi-private room with no other current occupants thus leaving it all to herself.

As Dr. Gillian’s hand touched the doorknob, Mrs. Letum reached out for it. “Before you go in there, I think there’s something I need to tell you, Doctor.”

“If it concerns Remedy, then by all means. The more information, the better we can treat her.”

“Well…” The fatigued mother’s gaze wandered to the floor, as if she was embarrassed about what she was going to reveal. “Remedy has a bit of an… imagination. A bit high up there, I suppose.”

John could see where this was going. He had experienced a few cases with younger patients. “What, does she have an imaginary friend? A bit uncommon for a girl her age, but not that strange.”

It seemed that John’s assumption was right on the money, but only made Mrs. Letum’s brow crease with worry. “Yes, she has an imaginary friend,” she confirmed. “But the thing is… she says she can see Death.”