Stealth

Civilization?

This story is set in the Into the Black RP 'verse, which originated on this forum.
The title and storyline are inspired by "Rain on the Scarecrow" by John Mellencamp. For those not in the know, the song's about a farmer who lost his farm after a bad harvest.

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The color of the skies above the docks of Coryain was a bright blue. A clear azure that evoked the background of a dead digital channel. The warm sun and cool, salty sea breeze made the industrial area seem more like a tropical resort.

The few people present were the stevedores, drone barge pilots and other assorted laborers that kept the factories, shops and citizens of Coryain supplied with whatever goods they desired. It was most certainly not a tourist area with the noise of the industrial machinery a stark contrast to the pristine air and water.

And it was not Thomas Sakdikul’s usual gathering spot. The young Rooster dodged a drone barge off-loading some — most certainly expensive — goods. He continued on his way down the concrete path. There was the sound of jeering from a group of punks loitering at a corner but Thomas ignored them.

Or at least tried to, when what felt a like an empty cigarette box bounced off his hat to the sound of laughter. He turned around and glared at the group.

Mixed species. Mostly Human with a few Canine.

The laughter had instantly stopped the moment and was replaced with nervous mutterings the moment the group got a look at Thomas's face. Unlike the yellow beak of a Chicken, he had the toothy muzzle of a Deinonychus — the long-extinct Mesozoic predator. That and his long, sinuous, feathery tail were the products of a cosmetic gene mod his parents had gotten him before he was born. It wasn't exactly legal but credits in Coryain could make anything "inconvenient" disappear.

Not even bothering to say anything to the ruffians, the Rooster continued on his pathway. A homeless Iguana with an open bottle of the trendiest cheap booze lay slumped in his path. Thomas routed around the snoozing lizard. As he did so, he noticed the reptile's battered artificial arm. The composite housing once shone like a gem but the months, if not years of neglect and abuse on the street had transformed its finish from "polished onyx" to "dirty concrete" — complete with cracks where it looked like the housing had been glued back together.

The Rooster continued his journey. Without even bothering to look at the street sign but with the determination of one who knew his destination, he turned down one of the many identical streets in the docks.

And he soon found himself in front of a locked iron gate. Thomas placed a hand on the gate. It was just as cold as he remembered it years ago. There was sign on the gate just as he recalled but instead of gleaming metal and paint, it was corroded and crusted with salt; the words faded into illegible smears from the salty sea air.

The nearby personnel gate was still locked, the card reader's LEDs blinking in an undecipherable cadence. Thomas fished out his old ID from his pocket and swiped it. A beep and a click signaled that the gate had unlocked and he pushed it open, the rusted hinges shrieking in protest. He looked around the empty parking lot. Hardy seaside plants poked out from the cracked asphalt. LED lights stood sentinel over the parking lot, providing illumination for cars and workers that would never come again. 

The Rooster sighed as he looked over the parking lot. It was the first time he had ever seen the lot completely empty. He continued into the factory proper. The once shiny corundum windows were dulled with the hazy coat of salt and spiderwebbed with cracks. Another swipe of his old ID and the doors parted like they had for years before.

Thomas looked around the lobby. The faint scent of mold and mildew hung in the air. The reception desk, its computer long since vanished, remained in place. Ornate posters extolling the virtues of Sakdikul Fabricators — the company that his grandfather and then his father owned — hung on the walls. The battered metal and plastic chairs along with the metal tables from the company’s twilight remained, untouched save for a thin patina of dust.

He took in his surroundings. Like ghostly numbers burned into the LCD monitors at Coryain's train stations from years of use, Thomas's memories were faint but persistent. He could almost imagine the specters of activity in the empty lobby.

The Rooster then entered through another set of doors and stepped onto the factory floor. It was as well-lit as he remembered it with the automated chip fabricators, robotic sorters and other industrial equipment still in place. Even the safety posters and workplace guidelines remained fixed on the wall, as if reminding phantom workers on proper workplace etiquette.

His eyes widened as he saw a tattered picture underneath a poster reminding workers to wear PPE.

"It's still here," he said softly as approached the picture and raised a trembling hand as if to stroke it. The picture was a childish depiction of the factory floor in full production complete with stick figures and bright colors. At the bottom of the picture, in swooping black ink was the name "Tommy Sakdikul" and a date: 2038.

And with that, his brain booted up those old memories.


June, 2038

A Rooster stepped into the bustling factory floor and looked around. Workers of all species, clad in goggles and hard hats were performing all sorts of tasks that kept the factory running. A Polar Bear drove a forklift containing a gleaming silicon boule inside what looked like a large glass bottle past a Frilled Lizard operating an electric cart that contained boxes of the completed chips ready to be shipped out.

"Daddy, what's inside that big bottle?" the chick next to the Rooster asked. One could be forgiven for being surprised at the chick and Rooster being related, as the adult Chicken had the fan of metallic green feathers on his tail, orange plumage and yellow beak his species was known for. The chick on the other hand, had a long, whip-like tail ending in a fan of orange feathers and an outright dinosaurian muzzle full of sharp teeth. The only thing he had in common with his father was the orange plumage.

"Well, Tommy," the Rooster said. "That's the raw material that computer chips are made out of. It's called silicon and we get it from sand and rocks."

"But it's shiny and sand isn't shiny!"

"Well, that's because sand isn't actually silicon. It's a silicon and oxygen compound."

Tommy placed a hand on his muzzle and thought. "So it's like how bread doesn't look like flour and water?"

The adult Rooster nodded. "Kind of. When two elements combine into a compound, they take on different properties than what they are made from. Just like your example with bread and how it doesn't look like flour or water."

"But then how do they get the silicon? You can't unbake bread," Tommy replied.

"It's complicated and I'll explain it in more detail but basically, we heat up the sand to a really high temperature with charcoal. This pulls the oxygen out of the sand and leaves us with silicon that we can then purify."

"So that glass bottle keeps it from getting dirty before you can use it?"

His father nodded. Although his beak prevented him from smiling, the expression on his face indicated that he would be smiling if he could. "Exactly."

“Hey Tommy!” a voice said. The young Rooster turned to see a slender Black Mamba slithering up to him. The snake’s lower body was clad in a “sleeve” of heavy fabric and rubber that served as the equivalent of shoes. On his upper body, he wore an orange reflective vest over a t-shirt printed with the silhouette of a raptor and a double helix — the logo of the famous science fiction thriller Mesozoica.

“Mac!” Tommy exclaimed.

“How’s my little raptor?” The snake’s accent placed him as an immigrant to the city — likely from Tanzania.

“Good!” 

“I got a little gift for you.” The Black Mamba placed a small wooden sculpture in Tommy’s hand. The sculpture was the steely grey color of Mac’s scales and gleamed like the silicon boule he had just seen earlier.

Tommy looked at the sculpture. It was of a Chameleon — its features exaggerated to grotesque proportions — carrying a bundle of leaves. “It’s really nice, but what’s it of?”

“My people — the Makonde — believe in spirits we call shetani. These spirits are usually malevolent and can take many forms. The one you hold is one of the more, shall we say, less harmful ones called a shuluwele. It gathers herbs for sorcerers,” Mac replied.

“Thanks!”

“Makame!” a worker called from across the busy factory. “The guys from the gas service are here! They need you to sign off on some tanks of argon.”

“On my way!” Makame replied. He then turned to Tommy. “I’ll see you later!”

“Bye!” Tommy watched as the Black Mamba slithered away to continue his work.

 “Why don’t we go to the break room?” the elder Rooster said.

“Sure!” Tommy let his father take him by the hand as he was led to the break room. On his way, he watched as the robotic arms of the automated chip sorters packaged and sorted chips with speed that only a machine could accomplish. It was downright hypnotic, watching those surprisingly delicate tri-clawed hands pick up and package those small bits of silicon and metal with such speed.

The break room was remarkable in its blandness — the floor, walls and ceiling were a muted off-white color that seemed to be calculated to be as boring as possible with the only splashes of color being inoffensive posters bearing motivational platitudes. The only appliances in the room were two well used microwaves, a large refrigerator that looked like something pulled out from the kitchen of a dive bar and an incongruously sleek water dispenser.

“Okay, Tommy, I’ll hold onto the sculpture for you and I’ll get you some pens and paper to draw or write with,” his father said.

“Okay!” Tommy hopped up onto one of the equally inoffensive white chairs. Luckily, the chair was made to accommodate tailed species and his sinuous tail easily slid through the large slot in the back. He licked his teeth as he sat on the chair. The door opened and he looked up. A Human with an artificial arm entered. The woman sat down at a nearby table and opened up a port on her arm. With her organic limb, she ejected the spent battery, plugged it into a charger and exchanged it with a freshly charged one. After she flexed the fingers and joints to ensure everything was in order, she turned to see the young Rooster staring at her.

“So how’d you lose your arm?” Tommy asked. The words came out before he remembered what his father told him. He immediately opened his muzzle to apologize but to his surprise, the woman wasn’t offended at all.

“I didn’t lose it,” the woman said. “It’s an upgrade.”

“Upgrade?” The Rooster tilted his head. “But I saw you changing the battery. I never have to do that.”

“But can you do this?” the woman held up her arm and spun her hand in several complete revolutions. She then repeated the process, this time with her prosthetic elbow joint.

“And that’s not the best part.” She then picked up a glass bottle that someone had left behind, stood over the recycling bin and flexed her fingers.

Tommy watched in rapt fascination as the bottle exploded into glittery shards under her prosthetic arm’s crushing grip. The woman then opened her hand, revealing metal fingers with gripping ridges not unlike those found on the jaws of a set of pliers.

“Cool!” he exclaimed. “I want one!”

The woman’s expression grew serious. “Upgrades like that are for adults only. Even then, it’s like getting a tattoo — a big decision that’s more or less permanent. Think it over when you grow up.”

Those words in mind, Tommy watched as the woman returned to the factory floor. He looked at his own comparatively feeble hands. The child sighed and got up off the chair to help himself to some water from the cooler.

Cup in hand, he returned to his seat just in time to see his father place some pens and paper in front of him. “Thank you, Daddy.” Tommy then picked up one of the pens in his clawed hands and placed it to the paper. He tapped the paper a few times in thought and then he began drawing. Memories and thoughts flowed out of him, with the pen as the input to his brain’s output and the paper as the display.

Soon, the white paper was marked with the colorful scrawls of a child’s artwork. Tommy was so engrossed in putting his image of the factory to paper that he didn’t even notice the workers were filing in and out of the break room.

After what seemed like an eternity to the young Rooster, his masterpiece was finished. And just in time for his father to come into the room. “Do you want to go get lunch with me?” the elder Rooster asked.

Tommy eagerly nodded and got up from the chair. His father saw the picture he had drawn and nodded approvingly. “Very nice!”

“Thanks!” Tommy replied.

His father picked up the picture and some magnets from the refrigerator and exited out onto the factory floor. The floor was a bit quieter now as the workers were heading into the break room for lunch.

Tommy watched his father stick his artwork on a metal support beam. “Someday,” his father said. “That picture you drew, one day it’ll be real and this factory will belong to you.”



June, 2050

“You can’t be serious, Dad!” The thump of hands slapping against wood punctuated the harsh words.

The elder Rooster shook his head as he looked out the window and out over the rolling seaweed and mollusk farms that made the ocean town of Ostrea famous. “I wish it weren’t so, Tom, but I’ve tried everything to save the factory.”

The teenaged saurian Rooster, just fresh out of high school sighed as he looked at his meal of poached catfish on a bed of amaranth greens. His childhood dream had crashed harder than an antique computer trying to run the latest game. Those twelve years he had waited were all for naught. “God fucking damn it!” Tom exclaimed. “How could this have happened!?”

The older Rooster sighed and sat down with his son. “One of our biggest customers, Brennan Synthetics pulled out after the Great Crash...and then everyone followed.”

Tom winced. The “Great Crash” was a massive wave of sudden, severe failures of Brennan Synthetics augmentations. When it was all over two days later, hundreds, possibly thousands of Augments lay dead or comatose. Investigators combed through every item the company made and all their suppliers. The verdict: Sakdikul Fabricators had released a batch of bad chips that had failed QC.

What seemed like an open-and-shut case turned out to be premature verdict that the Coryain Police Department had handed down in the face of public pressure. Independent testing of the faulty augments by Seryet City University and Coryain Electronics Engineering Institute revealed that the blame lay solely with the batteries that Brennan Synthetics sourced from its in-house design team — and never properly tested.

But it was too late; Sakdikul Fabricators was forever marked as being the cause of the Great Crash and the company’s fate was sealed.

“But it wasn’t even our fault!” Tom exclaimed.

“You think I don’t know that!?” his father snapped, slamming a feathered arm onto the table, making the cutlery jump. “I read the fucking reports front to back for hours on end!” Rage burned behind his amber eyes and then flickered out as if the power had been cut. He clicked his beak and took a deep breath. “The truth is Brennan got their story out first. And you know how it is.”

“It’s not how accurate the story is; it’s how fast you get it out there,” Tom echoed.

“Exactly. All that’s left is to do damage control, downsize and hope we can at least turn even a tiny profit.”


December, 2050

The elder Rooster looked at the sales figures. He shook his head; even with the layoffs and shutting down all but one production line, the figures were still in the red. He sighed; he had no other options left. The Crash had so irreparably tarnished Sakdikul Fabricators’s reputation that no company would purchase even the inexpensive organic semiconductors that were used in things as banal as a disposable temperature sensitive coffee cup — let alone the advanced and durable diamond-based chips that were the mainstay of the cybernetics industry for their biocompatibility, chemical resistance and radiation hardness (allowing for sterilization by irradiation — a vital feature for any sort of implant).

“Tom, please come into my office” he said.

There was the sound of the door opening and the young saurian Rooster entered his father’s office. It was unchanged from the time he remembered it as a child — a computer on the seemingly anachronistic wooden desk, server racks and uninterruptable power supplies lining the walls like filing cabinets in the offices of old. A faint woody scent mingled with the distinctive plastic-ozone-chemical odor of computer equipment running at full power.

“Have a seat.”

Tom obeyed and sank into the spare seal leather chair that was next to the desk. “This isn’t good news is it?”

The brief look he got at his father’s face before he silently averted his gaze said it all. “The company’s done for. I’m sorry but there’s going to be nothing left for you.”

The younger Rooster sighed. “There has to be another way.”

The elder Rooster shook his head. “There is no other way. The only people working there are Makame, you and me and all we have is a massive stock of plasti-chips that no one will touch, even though we shut down all production over a month ago,” he said, using the industrial jargon for organic semiconductors. “And we still have to pay the taxes, electricity and water. And then there’s that loan I took out two months ago.”

Tom sighed. The loan was taken out to pay for an advertising and testing blitz to show how Sakdikul Fabricators’s chips were perfectly safe and reliable. It was a desperate gamble to bring back business to the dying company.

And like most gambles, it failed; instead of showcasing the chip’s safety, companies interpreted the advertising blitz as a cover up, a shady way to shift the blame onto someone else, a desperate plea for people to buy shoddy goods or all of the above.

If Sakdikul Fabricators was a pariah after the Great Crash, the advertising blitz had turned it radioactive. No one wanted to buy from a company that refused to take any responsibility for such a serious product failure.

The younger Rooster tried his hardest not to cry as he realized that the family business was fatally wounded and that the name had been tainted forever. Despite his efforts, some tears leaked out onto the wooden desk. A shuddering sob came out before he suppressed it.

The elder Rooster got up from his chair and placed a hand on his son’s back. “Tom,” he said, his voice quavering. “I think it’s best if I handled this.”

Tom nodded and with the sound of the door closing, he left his father alone in his office. When he was alone, he reached inside a drawer and pulled out a picture of a distinguished looking Rooster who looked just like him, only slightly shorter.

He closed his eyes and let the tears flow freely. Between sobs, he choked out the words. “I’m sorry.”


September, 2053

Tom sighed as he reflected on his life. He was expecting the usual routine of “go to the factory, do some perfunctory work — read slack off — for a few hours and then go home” that had been his life for the past three years since he graduated high school and the company had entered its death spiral. As he drove his car down to the Coryain docks and took in the serene blue skies of the waterfront, he silently reflected on how useless his task was (and possibly how much in denial his father was). This wasn’t giving a child’s cartoon bandage to someone riddled with bullets; it was giving CPR to cold corpse.

He parked his car in one of the marked stalls and plugged in the charger to keep the battery topped up. The Rooster looked around the spacious parking lot.

Bare save for his car and Makame’s sleek grey roadster. He took a breath, inhaling in the salty sea air and strode towards the entrance for what was likely the last time.

The front doors parted, revealing a threadbare front office with a simple buzzer on the bare receptionist’s desk. The only furnishings in the room were tatty plastic and metal chairs and a metal table that wouldn’t have been out of place in Coryain’s low income housing. The plush catfish leather couches and chairs and gleaming black engineered stone table had since been sold off in hopes of making a dent in the loan.

Tom tapped his ID card against the reader and entered the cavernous production floor. To his surprise, he could hear his footsteps echoing. The once omnipresent sounds of equipment had been extinguished, leaving behind a stifling silence.

He knew that bad news was coming and the fact that he could see the Black Mamba slithering towards him as fast as possible confirmed it.

“Tom,” Makame said. “Your father called. He said that he’s busy today so that you’ll have to sign off on the papers on his behalf.”

A leaden weight materialized in Tom’s chest. If it weren’t for the fact that his Avian physiology didn’t permit him to sweat, he most certainly would be doing so. As it were, his internal state was betrayed by the fluffed out feathers on his neck, arms and muzzle. He ran a hand over his feathers as he willed them to lie flat.  “All right,” he said.

He then headed to the office where a Tegu and a Human — both dressed in immaculately clean business suits were waiting for him. Tom sat on the cheap synthetic fabric upholstered chair. He carefully placed the stacks of bills and collections letters aside, exposing the smooth glass top of the desk.

“Are you Thomas Sakdikul?” The Human’s voice was stern with no hint of warmth.

“I am. How may I help you two?” Tom clicked his claws against the glass surface of the table.

“I have some papers for you to sign.” A fat stack of papers was handed over to him.

The saurian Rooster wrinkled his muzzle as he looked over the papers; the name printed on them was “Surayud Sakdikul” — his father. “I believe you must be mistaken. These papers are not for me to sign. Now, if you’ll please leave my factory…” The teeth peeking out from his muzzle and narrowed eyes indicated that he suspected that they were trying to swindle him.

The Tegu said nothing but placed a piece of paper on the table. Tom immediately picked it up and read it. It was an authorization for him to act on the behalf of Surayud Sakdikul. The signature on it was the smooth curlicues of his father’s handwriting.

“Makame,” Tom said, as he placed the piece of paper on the desk. “Can you verify that Dad called earlier?”

The Black Mamba, who had been outside the office during this whole exchange, bobbed his head up and down in the Adderarian equivalent of a nod.

Tom then turned to the duo. “Just one moment,” he said, holding up a finger as he picked up the office phone and swiftly punched in his home phone number. 

Almost instantaneously, his father picked up. “Surayud Sakdikul.”

“Dad,” the younger Rooster began. “There’s two guys with paperwork with your name on it but they want me to sign it.”

“I know. The papers are for the sale of the factory.”

Tom’s mouth opened. “Wait, what!?

“Tom, I have no other choice. The factory’s a credit sink at this point.”

The saurian Rooster let out an audible sigh. “Shouldn’t you be handling this?”

“I’m busy right now. I’m trying to find anyone to take the load of plasti-chips sitting in the factory off our hands.” A sigh came through the phone. “Fuck it, I’m willing to sell them for scrap or oil feedstock at this point! Bye.”

There was the click of the connection being terminated. “Right where do I sign?” Tom’s voice was bitter as he clutched the pen in his taloned hands.

The Human placed a stack of papers in front of him. “Goddamnit,” Tom muttered as he uncapped the pen and placed it to the paper.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Makame, his body drooping, slither out of the doorway, seemingly in an attempt to give Tom the privacy he needed to sign off on the company’s death.


A seeming eternity later, Tom locked the factory’s main entrance behind him for what was likely the last time. Makame slithered into his car and shut the door.

It was still bright outside but the tropical sun and sea breeze did nothing to brighten his mood. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed out onto the winding roads of the Coryain Docks.

The Rooster let the hum of his car’s electric motor occupy his thoughts as he took the main thoroughfare out of Coryain. As he did, so he passed by other commuters heading home. The occasional bus or truck added some variety to the traffic.

The thirty kilometer drive to Ostrea was uneventful. As he pulled into the surprisingly small town, he was greeted by the sight of drone ships and their crewed counterparts tending the seafood farms that surrounded the crystal clear waters of the town. He sighed as he took in the sights; in the twenty years he had been in the town, it seemed little had changed. Sure, maybe was an extra road, another sign or an additional small roadside stand selling everything from fresh seafood to artisan goods like fresh Ostrean sea salt. But the big businesses stayed the same. The little hut for Lamésara’s Fishing Tours still occupied the main dock next to OSFS Gladius— a sleek vessel that looked like a patrol boat crossed with racing hydrofoil that was used by Ostrea Fishing Company for hunting swordfish.

Pulling into his home’s garage, he noticed that it was empty — his father’s car was missing. He got out of his vehicle and entered the house. There was the scent of fish sauce and peanut that hung in the air from yesterday’s dinner but it was otherwise immaculate.

He entered the kitchen and found a note on the table. He snatched it up and his muzzle opened in shock.

Tom, by the time you read this, I will have left Coryain. I will not tell you where I will be nor how to contact me. All the contact info that was connected to me is obsolete. However, rest assured that I am still alive.

The house and the business account of Sakdikul Fabricators with all its credits are yours to do with as you please.

From your dear father,

Surayud Sakdikul

Tom stared at the signature; it was both in English and Thai script. The fact that the letters in the English signature were rounded and curvy with some superfluous strokes confirmed that it was authentic; it was a trademark of his father’s signature, the result of cross pollination between his two languages.

The world swam as Tom tried to process everything. The teakwood Buddha statue in its shrine next to the dinner table began to grow indistinct and fuzzy. The saurian Rooster staggered over to the sealskin couch and collapsed onto it. Tom lay on his back, his tail jutting out and loosely draped over the armrest. He stared at the ceiling, taking in the still emptiness of the house.


The next five years were a monotonous blur of drifting from menial job to menial job. While Thomas’s educational pedigree was impeccable — he graduated with a bachelors of science summa cum laude in industrial engineering from Seryet Engineering Institute — he was about as welcome as ransomware in any reputable business thanks to his name. And of course, no judge would approve a name change.

That was not to say he wanted for money. Every month, he got 40,000 credits deposited into his bank account from some obscure relative in Thailand (who he suspected was actually his father). To say nothing of the sizable amount of credits in the business account.

A niggling feeling in the back of his head told him that the money may not have wholesome origins, but he was reminded of a common saying: “Income tax is nice way of paying off the Feds.”

And not once in those five years had he stepped foot back into the factory grounds.

Until now.

As his journey down the winding alleyways of his memories came to an end, he heard the distinctive rubbery rustling of a shod Adderarian approaching. Reacting on instinct, he immediately whirled around, teeth and claws bared and feathers fluffed out in the primal stance of an agitated Avian.

Upon recognizing the slender dark green scaled Black Mamba, Tom relaxed. “Makame?” his exclamation echoed inside the cavernous silence of the dead manufacturing floor. Plastic pallets and other assorted industrial detritus with a patina of dust decorated the once bustling factory.

“Yeah.” The Black Mamba’s voice carried all the excitement of the dusty concrete floor that they stood on. “So what brings you back here?”

“I could ask the same about you.” Thomas smoothed down the erect feathers on his arm.

“Just wanted to see what became of the factory.”

The saurian Rooster nodded. “Same here,” he said. “This place’s been on the market for five years. Five fucking years in Coryain’s industrial waterfront and not one single buyer.”

He looked at his childish drawing still stuck to a steel beam and sighed. “I’m tired, Makame. Tired of seeing this printer fire of a factory. Tired of all the paperwork involving its sale. Tired of drifting from job to job.”

Makame blinked his nictitating membranes. “And how are you going to offload this factory?”

“I’m not. I’m having it demolished.”

“Tom, no company in Coryain will do business with you if it’s involving this factory.”

The Rooster narrowed his eyes. “No one’s getting paid for this.”

The Black Mamba’s jaw dropped, exposing the deep black interior of his mouth and his fangs the moment he realized what Thomas was planning. “Have you no respect for your father and grandfather’s legacy!?” The words came out harsher than he had intended.

Tom bared his sharp conical teeth. “Do not imply that I am disrespecting my father’s legacy with my action. I am giving this site a more dignified death than letting it rot…or be taken as a trophy.” His tone was cold and bitter.

Makame closed his mouth and lowered his head. “Very well,” he said. “I cannot say I agree but I will not stop you.”

With those words and the rustle of him slithering away, the Black Mamba left Tom alone with his thoughts.

The sound of the door closing after Makame echoed through the factory. Tom looked around the factory, where dust motes danced in the mid afternoon sunbeams. His footsteps echoed as he made his way to the break room and offices.

The break room was almost as he remembered it, save for the conspicuous lack of furniture. Even the walls were the same: a dull shade of off-white seemingly calculated to be as inoffensive — and boring — as possible. The only two things remaining were the antiquated microwaves and refrigerator. They even still had the stickers from the auction a few years ago where practically everything that wasn’t hardwired in place was sold.

The offices were the next stop. Tom pushed open the door and peered inside what was once the office of his father.

A featureless white void greeted him. Not even the lighting was safe. Dangling from the ceiling were three wires, their naked copper strands evocative of cobwebs. They were the sole remnants of a custom made chandelier in the shape of the crystalline lattice of diamond (and made out of rejected chip diamonds from the factory’s diamond CVD growth chambers) from the factory’s heyday. Tom sighed. Probably some dickhead competitor bought it as trophy, he thought.

He shut the door behind himself and headed back out onto the main area of the factory. As he looked over the factory, he looked over the empty space that once held nanolithography machines, diamond CVD growth chambers and the other machines that were responsible for turning raw materials into the gleaming techno-gems that underlay modern life. He remembered selling them a few years ago; despite being over a decade old, each piece of equipment was worth billions of credits. Sadly, thanks to the reputation of the company, buyers assumed they were completely broken and Tom ended up selling them for scrap and parts, getting mere tens of millions of credits for all the machines combined.

The saurian rooster headed over to the steel pylon where that picture from so many years remained. With the reverence of a priest handling a sacred relic, he gently removed his drawing from the steel pylon and exited the factory into the bright afternoon sun.

Despite the warm sea breeze, a chill ran through his body. Was he really going to go through with it? His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten lunch.

Sighing, he unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat as he placed the drawing in the passenger’s seat. He then pulled out of the parking lot, the old transponder in his car awakening the dormant gate that slowly creaked open.

As he drove out of the waterfront industrial sector and into the commercial district, he saw the warehouses slowly giving way to low cost housing and grimy looking restaurants and shops. There were numerous people walking around, most of them appeared to be the manual laborers and other industrial workers that were indispensable to Coryain’s functioning but were ignored or treated as little more than eyesores not too different than their workplaces by the wealthy in the tony Diamond Square neighborhood — once home to synthetic diamond factories that gave the neighborhood its name before gentrification drove out all the factories and replaced them with penthouses and stores that sold designer furniture and clothes worth more than his car.

Tom then pulled into the parking lot of a discount store and parked his car. He entered through the automatic doors. The store itself was reasonably well lit but the floors and shelves all had the patina of dirt on them. He grabbed a shopping cart and ambled down the aisles. Soon, his cart was filled with the inexpensive synthetic fiber blankets that were popular with the poor of Coryain. He stood in line behind a young looking Boar whose ample fat utterly failed to conceal the coils of solid muscle underneath.

The massive Boar then ambled away with a sizable bottle of some cheap energy drink clutched in his massive hand. “Next!” called the dark-skinned woman working at the register.

Tom took out one of the blankets and the woman scanned it several times. “Uh, you got any self-lighting cigarettes?”

“Nope. Banned,” she said. “Too many young punks use them to light fires. But we carry regular ones as well as e-cigs.”

“Just the blankets.”

“Four hundred credits.”

Tom passed over the credit chits needed to make the purchase. He declined a receipt and a bag as he wheeled his goods out of the store and into the parking lot. The blankets were hastily thrown in the backseat of his car before he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

The next stop was Eleven Nines Wine. The Rooster gave a bitter laugh at the irony of the name — the store sold the cheapest, foulest beverages imaginable; a far cry from what actual eleven nines would drink — as he parked his car. He spotted a bedraggled looking Capybara begging for some spare credits to spend on some alcohol at the opposite end of the parking lot.

As he got out, he felt the cracks, loose tarmac, cigarette butts and assorted litter crunching underfoot as he made his way to the entrance. As he did so, he noticed that the facade on the building was nothing more than grey, weathered and crazed concrete, interspersed with windows rendered near opaque with streaks of grime. Standing out in stark contrast to the cold concrete walls were some colorful graffiti. The cleanest looking item on the building was the sign bearing the name of the shop. And that cleanliness was simply due to it being too high for troublemakers to reach. Though dents and cracks on it indicated that said troublemakers had thrown bottles at it.

Gingerly pulling open the door, he was greeted by a rather small selection of alcoholic beverages (ironically, wine was not among them). And some more unpleasant…organic odors. Tom wrinkled his muzzle slightly as he noticed patrons browsing the aisles for their alcoholic libation of choice.

The Rooster picked up a basket and browsed the aisles. He noticed that most of the available items were facahols, inexpensive libations made by diluting pure ethanol and spiking them with assorted flavors and colors to make lowbrow imitations of more expensive liquors. The shelves held everything from the familiar faux rum to drinks that might as well have been extraterrestrial in origin, such as a bottle labeled “DBAN: CONDITION YELLOW” filled with a luminescent highlighter-yellow liquid.

Of course, Tom’s careful browsing had attracted some suspicion, seeing as the usual clientele of such an ill-reputed store would simply choose the least expensive and/or strongest beverage, head to the counter, throw some credit chits at the cashier (possibly quite literally), head out and consume the beverage right in the parking lot.

“Can I help you?” the Wombat who was mopping the floor asked.

“Um,” Tom glanced at the drinks available. “What’s the cheapest and strongest drink you have available?”

“Format.”

The Rooster browsed the aisles until he found the aforementioned drink. It was nothing remarkable, just a clear liquid inside a plastic bottle with a label depicting a computer monitor with the name of the libation on it. Indeed, one could be forgiven for assuming that the contents weren’t even drinkable. He then quickly filled the basket with as many of the bottles as could fit inside and carried it to the cashier, who didn’t seem to react at purchase of enough alcohol for a lethal dose and then some.

A cardboard box containing the drink was then handed over to him once Tom had paid for the libations. He then placed the box in the trunk of his car, got in and drove out of the parking lot.

Seeing as he had no reason to go to heart of Coryain, he made a convoluted series of turns that led to him driving back towards the Coryain Docks — and passing by that very same discount store he had purchased his blankets from, its dilapidated sign trying its best to welcome customers.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror as he headed out of the city, the drab industrial buildings giving way to sandy shores, marshland, shellfish and seaweed farms. His feathers were dulled with the stress from the past years weighing on him. Tom sighed.

“Do I?” he said to no one in particular. The internal turmoil he felt began to manifest in his losing his attention on the road. Eventually, a shrill tone and blinking text in the lower left of his car’s windshield indicated that he was drifting out of his lane.

The saurian Rooster pulled off the main road into Ostrea and onto a parking lot paved with oyster shells (a common substitute for gravel in this town). Oyster shells crunching underfoot, Tom entered the building.

He sniffed the air and was almost bowled over by the scent of sea salt and body odor. Tom tried his best to ignore the smell as he looked around the shop. It appeared to be some sort of cheap convenience store. The kind that sold items that were shoddy at best or outright dangerous at worst.

Tom browsed the racks mainly to satisfy his curiosity, seeing as the proprietor didn’t seem to be in at the moment. He found everything from single use power packs for various electronics to highly processed snack foods.

He then spotted what he was looking for, the autocigs behind the counter. Tom approached the counter and rang the bell. The moment he did so, he heard the distinctive metallic cadence of horseshoes on tile. There was the sound of a door opening and then a Fell Pony exited from the back room.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“A pack of autocigs,” Tom replied.

The Equine reached under the counter and placed a pack on the wooden counter. “One hundred fifty credits.”

The Rooster handed him a credit chit and his ID.

The Fell Pony didn’t even bother to look at the ID but accepted the credit chit.

“Thanks,” Tom said as he pocketed the cigarettes.

“No problem.” The Fell Pony headed to the back of the store. Before he turned away, he spoke up. “Thought you people didn’t smoke?”

The Rooster bared his conical teeth. “They’re not for me.”

The Equine raised his hands, in an attempt to placate the angry Avian (and avoid getting bitten, shot or stabbed) “We’re cool,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by that!”

Tom said nothing but exited the musty confines of the shop and into the salty sea air of Ostrea. It was then his brain, angry at not having received a meal, made its displeasure known. The Rooster’s head swam as hypoglycemia began to take hold.

Luckily for him, one of Ostrea’s many seafood restaurants was nearby. He made a beeline for the white clapboard structure nearby. A sign that was little more than a rough-hewn wooden cutout of an oyster was nailed over the entrance to the door. Years of sun and harsh salt spray had worn the paint away, leaving little more than white specks atop grey weather beaten wood.

The saurian rooster took a deep breath, taking in the scent of slightly rancid oil, breading and seafood. Another weathered sign was stuck into the ground in the parking lot. This sign read Oyster Shell Café.

“Let’s see if the food is as I remember it,” Tom muttered as he entered through the rickety screen door.

Almost immediately, he was bombarded with sounds, sights and smells that transported him back almost twenty years. Memories of his father taking him here for a special treat when he did well in school. Memories of the grizzled mariners teaching him how to fish, shuck oysters, navigate by the stars and other maritime tasks came back to life.

And why he had no mother. He was very young when it happened; so young that he wasn’t even in preschool. All Tom could recall was that his mother went out with her crew on a routine swordfish chase…and never returned. All they could find of the ship were the wooden crates that the processed fish would be packed in.

The same hardened mariners were still there, enjoying their meals. In the corner sat a stained and decrepit boom box that looked like it had been fished out from the harbor. Scratchy hard rock blared out from its tattered speakers. Seated at the bar and enjoying the sea breeze, bottles of beer and inexpensive bar food was motley crew of all species with their fur, skin and hair battered by years of sea spray and sun.
 
He then took a seat at the bar.

“Been a while, huh?”

Tom immediately looked up at the speaker. It was a dark skinned Human, his black hair mottled with strands of sea-salt white. A patch on his grubby work overalls read “Washington ‘Wash’ Edwards”.

“It has, Wash,” Tom said, with a sigh.

Wash looked at Tom and smiled, creasing his weather beaten face even further. “Ah, I remember when you were just practically knee-high and covered in fuzzy down! And now, look at you!” He took a pull from his beer.

An Otter wearing a set of salt-stained work coveralls walked in. “Tom!” he said. “What brings you back to our little hole in the wall?” He vigorously shook the Rooster’s hand.

“Nothing much,” Tom said, accepting the handshake and then extricating himself from the overly enthusiastic mustelid.

“Hey, a round of beer for everyone!” Wash shouted over the hard rock.

“Coming up!”

Tom watched as the bartender snapped off the caps of a row of beer bottles with machine-like precision and speed. In what seemed like mere seconds, everyone — the young Rooster included — included had a bottle of Sea Bream, a beer made from genetically engineered barley that was capable of growing in seawater

Tom took a sip of the liquid and quickly swallowed, trying not to reveal his disgust. The taste was definitely an acquired one with a sweet malty flavor that had clear salty, oceanic notes. All overlaid with the burning, medicinal taste of alcohol. He placed the bottle back on the countertop.

His stomach, angered by the sip of alcohol without the accompanying food, lurched. He quickly cracked open the menu and scanned it for something that would fill him up. In the end, he settled for a basket of fried oysters and clams.

“You gonna drink that?” the Otter asked, his already empty bottle of Sea Bream clutched in his hand.

“Take it. I ain’t drinking that ever again.”

The mariner swiped the bottle and in full commitment to the drunken sailor stereotype, drained the bottle in mere seconds. Of course, the otter was far from intoxicated as he ordered full round for himself and all his friends. Tom was included and another open bottle of Sea Bream was placed by him. He politely declined and offered it to Wash, who eagerly accepted it.

“Man, you don’t look so good,” Wash said, taking a seat next to the Rooster.

It was then that Tom was acutely aware that he had done a very poor job at masking his emotions. Not wanting to reveal what was truly on his mind, the Rooster quickly said, “That beer didn’t exactly agree with me.”

“You shittin’ me?” the Otter exclaimed with a laugh and a wave of his webbed hand. “You barely had a sip!”

“Empty stomach.”

Soon, the greasy, salty and outright oceanic smell of his fried seafood arrived, putting an end to the inquisition. A plastic basket lined with a paper towel and laden with oysters and clams clad in a glistening golden-brown crust was placed in front of him. Licking his lips, the saurian Rooster delicately picked up one of the morsels between his clawed fingers and popped it into his mouth. Almost immediately, the briny, metallic-sweet and mildly bitter flavor of Ostrea’s local farmed oysters paired with the salty, slightly alcoholic beer batter filled his mouth. The flavors lingered as they transported him back in time to when his parents were still around and his name wasn’t practically a curse.

Tom nodded as he took another oyster. “Tastes just like I remember,” he said.

Wash nodded. “Yep, nothing like down-home ocean food,” he said, taking a sizable bite of his catfish burger. “‘specially when you live by the ocean.”

Tom nodded as he continued eating. As he did so, he pondered the action he was going to undertake. Those thoughts drowned out the music from the speaker and the raucous laughter and chatter from the mariners who were seated practically next to him.

Soon, he had finished consuming his meal. Without any prompting, the bartender placed the bill in front of him and took the empty bottles away. Tom said nothing but placed a credit chit that covered the bill and tip.

“Hey, see you guys later,” Tom said to the group of mariners.

A chorus of farewells came from the now slightly intoxicated group. Stepping out of the bar, Tom blinked as the sun beat down on him. The briny scent washed the cloying smell of grease and smoke from his nostrils. Oyster shells crunched underfoot as he made his way back to the convenience store where he had parked.

He then got into his car and drove back onto the main thoroughfare of Ostrea. The local small businesses and seaside blended into an indistinct blur as Tom weighed the course of action he was about to undertake.

Incredibly illegal? Yes. But at the same time, Sakdikul was among the most hated names around and it wasn’t like anyone was going to look too hard at their factory burning down.

As he pulled into his driveway, he nodded as he made up his mind.

Tonight would be the night.


The shrill tones of the alarm jolted Tom out of his bed. He looked at the soft green digital display of his alarm clock: 2 AM. He stretched and headed to the bathroom to wash up and put yesterday’s clothes on before he went to get breakfast.

The saurian rooster winced as he turned on the lights, flooding his eyes with a cold, white, synthetic sunrise. Half-asleep, he went through the actions of preparing breakfast. As he slid the precooked catfish sausage into the microwave, he got to work brewing some strong coffee.

Tom went over his mental checklist as he listened to his coffee brewing. Bottles of Format? Check. The cheap synthetic fiber blankets? Check. The auto-cigs? Check.

The piercing beep of the microwave indicated that it had been sufficiently heated. He got up, pulled the steaming sausage from the microwave, poured himself a cup of tea and quickly ate his breakfast. He quickly washed the dishes and set them on a rack to dry

Tom then entered his garage, unplugged his car from the charger and opened the door. He failed to stifle a yawn as the dim light from the garage door opener illuminated the garage’s relatively bare interior. He then checked the backseat and trunk.

“Looks like everything’s in place,” he muttered as he gave his supplies a once over. The box of Format, the small paper bag with the auto-cigs and the piles of blankets were in the same place they were yesterday.
 
Climbing into the driver’s seat, Tom turned the car on and slowly backed out of the garage. Closing the garage door and pulling out onto the deserted streets of Ostrea, lit only by the stars, and dim streetlights, the Rooster quickly turned on the radio. Heavy buzzing synths and booming drums and bass of a local trance band quickly filled the interior of the car, filling Tom with energy. The flickering of the streetlamps through the windshield as he drove along the main highway into the city further added to the illusion that his car had been turned into a one-person Coryain nightclub.

Turning down a side road into the industrial sector, he was immediately able to spot the old factory. It was the only one where the pale blue glare of LEDs illuminated an empty parking lot. The gate slowly creaked open as he drove up and parked his car.

Tom then unlocked the factory door and stepped into the reception area with all his supplies in tow. Locking the door behind himself, he got to work in the reception area. He arranged the plastic chairs into facsimiles of beds and draped a blanket over them. Another blanket was draped over the wooden desk, as if it had been used as an improvised bed.

The saurian Rooster then took his supplies into the cavernous main factory floor and got to work arranging the numerous plastic pallets into beds and draping them with the blankets. So engrossed was he in his work, that he didn’t notice the front door unlocking and someone entering the main factory area.

Once Tom had set down one of the pallets and laid the blankets down, he looked up and saw the person looking around. Picking up one of the bottles, he carefully concealed himself behind one of the steel beams.

“Tom, are you here?”

The Rooster’s jaw dropped as her recognized the speaker. He carefully peered out from behind the steel beam and saw who it was.

Makame. The Black Mamba was looking around and soon, he locked eyes with Tom.

“Makame?” Tom asked. “What are you doing here?”

“The same could be asked of you,” Makame replied, eying the bottle of Format in the Rooster’s hand and the pallets stacked up to form improvised beds.

“What does it look like?”

Makame’s response was to pick up a bottle of the strong alcohol, open it and “accidentally” drop it onto the pallet. Soon, the air around them began to take on the sharp, burning scent of the facahol.

With that gesture, Tom followed suit. He watched as Makame disappeared into one of the offices with the remaining blankets and a bottle of Format. Already, the bottles had been placed atop and near each of the “beds”.

A few minutes later, Makame emerged from the office. “Is everything ready?” he asked.

Tom nodded. “Good, we’ll have a celebratory smoke.” He pulled out the package of autocigs, tore away the wrapping and handed a few of them to Makame. The Black Mamba then disappeared back into the office.

He pulled out one of the autocigs and placed the box atop the bed. He looked around, hoping that the “beds” were close enough. After all, he didn’t want the funeral to go sideways…even if the Coryain police weren’t interested in looking too closely.

He was then broken out of his ruminations by Makame slithering towards the exit. “Tom! We have to go now!” It was then that he could smell a distinctive, noxious scent. That was his cue.

The autocigs were of the chemical ignition type as they were clearly marked with a dot at the tip. Tom gave the tip a firm squeeze and was rewarded with a pop; a distinct, pungent burning odor and a wisp of smoke coming from the tip. He then tossed it onto the ground, where it landed on the corner of the blanket touching the alcohol soaked floor. He quickly stomped on the still smoldering autocig, rupturing the hypergolic ignition capsule. The small blue-white flame lasted for a second at most, but it was enough to set the alcohol soaked synthetic fiber blanket alight.

The Rooster watched as the pale blue flame slowly spread out on the pool of alcohol on the floor and tendrils of bright orange slithered across the blanket like circuit traces. The autocig package ignited with a rather loud pop accompanied by a brief flash of blue-white fire. Most of the flaming debris landed on the concrete floor and burnt out, but a small piece landed on another blanket, igniting that as well. The heat from the small blaze washed over him as he watched to make sure the fire was still going. He could see the blanket and pallet starting to melt and weep burning rivulets of molten plastic. The empty Format bottle was starting to collapse into a puddle as the flames licked at it.

“Tom!” Makame’s voice was insistent. “Hurry up! We don’t have much time!”

A second flicker of orange caught his eye as he saw coils of smoke pouring from the office.

The saurian Rooster turned his back on the factory room floor. By now, more fires had started as the blankets began to melt into burning puddles that ignited the spilled alcohol.

Tom walked as quickly as possible to the entrance, where Makame was waiting outside. “There you are,” the Black Mamba said. “I was afraid you’d fallen or gotten lost.” He looked inside; the factory floor was now almost completely invisible through a black haze of smoke. Flickers of orange were the only signs that an inferno lay beyond the veil.

The Rooster nodded as he took the last autocig, ignited it and casually tossed it into the reception desk. The pale white wisps of smoke emanating from it were rendered invisible by the dark smoke billowing out from the factory floor.

Makame watched in silence. The duo said nothing, letting the barely audible crackling of the fire and the scent of sea and smoke take the place of conversation.

After a seeming eternity, Tom turned to the Black Mamba. “Well, I guess this is it,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral as he watched the orange flames greedily devouring the reception area’s furnishings. The firelight shimmered through his tears as the memories flooded back.

The first day his father took him into the factory and the day he met Makame.

The day his father promised to give him admin access to the company once he became of age.

And then, more unpleasant memories joined.

The day he learned that the Great Crash bricked the company (and the Sakdikul family name).

His father’s desperate gamble to restore the reputation of his family name and the company.

The failed gamble, his sale of the factory, and the disappearance of his father.

The five years of assorted menial jobs.

And now, the funeral pyre of the factory.

Bowing his head, Tom turned to Makame. “I guess there’s no point in delaying the inevitable,” he said, taking a step towards his car. He was suddenly stopped by Makame’s hand on his shoulder.

“There isn’t,” Makame replied. “But we’ll meet again someday.” He shot a glance at the factory, now fully aflame. “And if we do, perhaps we can bring back your father’s legacy from the ashes. But that is later, we must leave now.”

The Black Mamba made his way to his roadster. Tom followed, letting the warm orange of the flames battle with the cold white of the parking lot’s LED lights. Tom got inside his car, started the motor and drove out of the parking lot after Makame.

As he drove through the deserted streets of the outskirts of Coryain and onto the highway leading out of the city, he glanced at the clock out of the corner of his eye. 4:10 AM. He yawned despite the obnoxiously loud dubstep that blared through the speakers.

And then just like that, Makame’s roadster exited the highway, leaving him alone on the highway. Tom looked out over the Coryain waterfront, watching the cargo ships slowly drift along an ink-black sea. As he watched, he suddenly saw a ball of fire erupt from what he knew used to be the site of Sakdikul Fabricators’s factory.

Makame must’ve started a fire near the air conditioner and it burnt through a refrigerant line, he thought.

As he drove over the bridge that would eventually lead him to Ostrea, the Rooster pondered Makame’s last words.

Was the Black Mamba being prophetic, foolishly optimistic or just trying to assuage his guilt?

Tom’s mind swirled with clashing answers and even more questions. But the main question on his mind was, “What next?”

Ostrea had no need for an industrial engineer who specialized in semiconductor fabrication. No company in Coryain would hire him even if he paid them.

Those ruminations were cut short when he saw the battered wood sign that welcomed visitors to Ostrea. Soon, he could hear oyster shells crunching under his car’s wheels. The distant lights of the drone ships tending the seaweed and mollusk farms could be seen out over the harbor. Surprisingly, there were actually a few cars on the road, despite seemingly every store in town being completely closed.

Once Tom got back to his house, he parked his car, closed the garage door behind himself and staggered into the living room. The Rooster barely managed to remain conscious through his shower to remove the scent of soot and smoke.

And the moment his head touched the pillow on his bed, he instantly shut down.


Tom groaned as the sunlight danced across his muzzle. He slowly got out of bed, feeling like he had too much to drink with Wash and the other mariners at the local watering hole. A glance at the clock told him it was about 9 AM.

After his morning routine of using the bathroom and washing up, he sat down to a meal of a catfish sausage and seaweed crisp breakfast sandwich. As he ate, he scrolled through the local newsfeed on his phone.

And one entry caught his eye:

Infamous Factory Burns Down

Yesterday, the waterfront factory of Sakdikul Fabricators — Coryain’s most ill-reputed property — burned down. While the fire was easily extinguished, sources indicate that the building will likely be demolished due to the extensive damage sustained. The cause of the fire is under investigation, but preliminary investigations by the Coryain Fire Department point to the cause of the fire being squatters carelessly using autocigs while consuming facahol.

Despite the news, Tom couldn’t help but feel a little satisfied. The arson was written off as being an accident caused by squatters and the company’s rivals couldn’t use their building. Even though the investigation was preliminary, he suspected that the authorities would just accept it. After all, it didn’t affect the bottom line of the eleven nines. And of course, with the company so hated, no one really cared.

Upon finishing his meal and sipping a cup of tea as a morning pick-me-up, Tom washed his dishes and got to work. Carefully taking the shuluwele statuette that Makame had gifted him years ago, he looked at the Chameleon’s grotesquely exaggerated proportions.

As he did so, he recalled how the Black Mamba had taught him about Makonde folklore and art all those years ago. And how his father had given Makame a teakwood model of the spirit house found outside almost all Thai homes. Including his own.

Tom gingerly wrapped the statuette in some paper towels and set it aside. The next thing to be set aside was his old artwork, carefully sealed inside a plastic folder. He then headed to the kitchen to brew a second cup of tea in a worn ceramic mug. Unlike before, he stirred in a heaping spoonful of sugar and then took the cup out to the small backyard.

The backyard was nothing too different from a standard suburban backyard, save for the lack of a lawn. The property was ringed with beach roses in full bloom, their brilliant red blossoms standing out in contrast to the white oyster shells that were a salt spray proof and appropriately themed stand in for grass. Some small, rugged trees native to the dunes of Ostrea rounded out the backyard.

The object he was after was what looked like a miniaturized temple on an end table. The ceramic structure was originally a gleaming white and gold but the humid sea air coupled with the lack of cleaning left it with a fine dusting of salt crystals and dropped leaves. Even so, the Sakdikul spirit house had quiet dignity of an ancient temple abandoned to the Southeast Asian jungle.

Tom remembered his father placing cups of either sweetened rose tea or the petals themselves as an offering to the spirits, in hopes of gaining their favor.

Let’s hope the spirits treat me better than they did Dad, he thought, as he gently placed the cup in the miniature temple’s courtyard and locked eyes with the small ceramic figures that represented the spirits and gods. While he was not one for superstition and spirituality, Tom decided that providing an offering was a good way to honor his father, seeing as it was the last action he remembered his father performing on the day the Rooster went to the factory to sign off on its sale.

The offering made, he returned to his home and began packing. There was nothing much to take. Just some clothes, toiletries and the external drives of the family computer. Of course, there was also the shuluwele statuette and his childhood drawing. Everything was carefully packed into a small suitcase.

Tom then headed to the garage to place his suitcase into the car and drove out onto the unpaved road. He closed the garage door and gave one last look at the simple one story house. The small scrubby trees that grew in the front yard were still alive, despite the years of neglect. The beach roses growing on the fence were also perfectly healthy despite the lack of care.

As the Rooster continued his drive, seeing the old house recede into the rearview mirror, a bittersweet feeling welled up in his heart. He’d be starting a new life; the looks of disgust his name inspired would vanish. But at the same time, he’d likely never see Makame again. And his old home would probably sit empty, save for occasional vacations.

But where to live? Tom thought as he drove onto the exit that led out from Ostrea and onto the highway, blending into the stream of commuters. Letting his mind wander as he drove, he looked out over the bay, alive with a medley of ships. Up ahead was not another city, but a combination of salt marsh and mangroves interspersed with the occasional farm. The smell of the sea filled the inside of his car, bringing back distant memories that he allowed himself to view like videos saved on a long forgotten hard drive.

He soon found himself cruising along a road flanked by tall reeds and scrubby trees. Small shacks and stands on the side of the road selling everything from sea salt to assorted crops and seafood and oyster shell roads leading to small farmsteads broke up the monotonous drive.

“Wait, that’s it!” he exclaimed as he saw the sign that he drove past. “That’s where I’ll be!”

The sign in question simply read: “Lanthae, 330 km”.

Keystone

Butcher