Super Genetics

Later that evening, his mother’s body was paraded out to the masses. Night had reigned over Wichita for nearly a week and Terry wondered if he’d ever see the sun again. The fog cloyed heavy to the streets and large floodlights fought to illuminate the procession.

He considered asking his father when the sun would return, but couldn’t bring himself to break the heavy silence between them.

The Emperor’s court, along with Terry and his father, observed from the palace promenade as an honor guard of living and unliving escorted the open casket down the boulevard cutting in front of the palace.

Where those of the court had grieved extravagantly, almost theatrically, in order to garner attention and one-up their rivals with their display, the common citizens watched the procession stoically. They bowed their heads in solemn respect and tossed white roses—his mother’s superhero symbol—on the street and the casket as it passed.

A loud cry suddenly went up from the crowd below, echoing up to the promenade with an ethereal quality.

“Long live the White Rose! Long live the White Rose!”

The somber crowd burst to life and took up the chant.

Only when the casket passed, turning down a corner and out of sight, did the chants falter, then finally extinguish. The crowd began to murmur restlessly, lost expressions on their faces.

Among the distant relatives and court officials on the promenade, it was impossible for Terry not to notice the uncomfortable shifting of feet and the awkward glances cast toward the Emperor. In their efforts to win his attention, they struggled to gauge how they should react. To them, Terry’s mother had always been an outsider, an interloper coming to claim their rightful dues.

But to the common people, she had been a beacon of light, now snuffed out against the backdrop of a seemingly-eternal night.

I will be that beacon of light, Terry promised. I will pick up the mantle my mother was forced to drop in death. Not now, maybe, but I will…I swear it.

Slowly, the crowd filtered away, drawn back to their homes by the unnatural fog that whispered of death and the Underworld.

The next morning, Terry woke to the sound of bells tolling through the open window. He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, only that the pealing tone echoing throughout the city signaled the morning.

He rolled over with a groan, wrapping his pillow around his ears to drown out the noise. A sodden wet patch pressed against his neck and he threw away the wet pillow with a groan.

When he looked out the open window, he was momentarily taken aback by how dark it was outside. The morning bells should have brought the sun—

Realization dawned on him and his stomach dropped. For a moment—the briefest moment—he had forgotten about Sol’s attack and the Emperor’s response. He had forgotten about his mother’s death.

How could I forget?

He was a terrible person. What kind of son could forget their mother’s death only a week later—even for a moment? He had been too annoyed that the morning bell had woken him up to remember what had happened.

With a shout, he threw his other pillow against the wall. He wanted to hit something, throw something that would break, do damage. He eyed his computer, every ounce of his being demanding that he throw it out the window.

What did he need video games for? His mother was dead.

And then he thought about how she would have reacted if she saw him take out his frustration on expensive items. That disappointed pursing of her lips, the subtle arch of her brow.

His anger evaporated in an instant, replaced with a bone-deep sadness. His chest ached with longing.

To see her, just one more time…

His eyes went wide as an idea came to him suddenly. He rushed to the computer, not bothering to sit down as he frantically typed in the search bar.

White Rose superhero

He left the query open-ended, not sure exactly what would come up. He hit enter and the search results populated a moment later. Video after video featuring his mother appeared on his screen and his throat tightened.

He closed the search window with a forceful click. He couldn’t bring himself to see her…not yet.

Turning away from the screen, he jumped in surprise as he noticed the two ghoul bodyguards standing by his door. They were intently staring at the far wall, their eyes glued to a single spot. He vaguely recognized these particular ghouls, though their species in general tended to be difficult to differentiate to humans.

But a lifetime among the unliving had given Terry some tricks to tell them apart. These ghouls were ones that he saw in his grandfather’s court regularly—elites among their caste. The one on the left had a distinct red and black marbling on his arm, and Terry had mentally identified him as Bloodstain, because of the way the coloring looked like a bleeding wound. The one on the right was unusually dark-skinned for a ghoul, the shade of its skin edging towards a purplish-red—burgundy, his mother had once informed him—whereas most ghouls had a blood-red coloring.

Terry had very originally dubbed him Burgundy.

“Did you weirdos watch me sleep?” he asked with crossed arms.

The ghoul on the left—Bloodstain—answered with a slight bow. His tone was clipped, but he was able to enunciate much better than Crunch ever had. “We were instructed by Emperor not let out of sight.”

His brow furrowed. “We’re safe here…aren’t we?”

“Of course, my prince,” Bloodstain replied.

He thought about arguing. If they were safe, why did he need two ghouls watching him while he slept? But there was no point. If his grandfather ordered it, then it was done.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel awkward in his own room, the two ghouls only feet away as he considered what to do with his free time. His tutoring sessions were canceled for now and normally, he might have turned on a video game or finished painting one of his superhero figures. But none of that mattered now. He felt both restless and incapable of doing anything that brought him joy from…before.

As he eyed his computer distractedly, the two ghouls began whispering to each other in ghoulish. His ears perked up, but he pretended to fiddle with his computer screen while he strained to hear.

[…tell…him…] Burgundy whispered.

[We must…]

[…will not…happy]

Though he’d lived among the ghouls his entire life, his ear for ghoulish was sub par. He turned to look at them, but their eyes were still glued to the far wall. They stood stock still as if they hadn’t just been whispering.

“What are you two whispering about? Something you wanted to tell me?”

Their eyes didn’t even flicker as he addressed them. He crossed his arms and sat back against his desk.

“You’re gonna ignore me now?” he asked wryly.

Burgundy twitched, then began whispering in ghoulish to Bloodstain. The other ghoul whirled on his partner and began speaking in a scolding tone—at least, that’s what Terry thought it was. Whatever it was they were saying, his patience was gone.

“Spit it out,” he demanded.

Bloodstain turned back to Terry and bowed deeply. Waist still bent, his grating voice filled the room.

“This one,” he said with a wave toward Burgundy, “suggested you want know some information. While agree, not servant’s place to say.”

Terry sat up from the edge of the desk, his interest sparked. “Information? About what? Go ahead, you can tell me.”

Bloodstain was still bowed at the waist, but Terry couldn’t miss the subtle flick of the ghoul’s eyes toward his partner.

“It about your bonded servant—”

“Crunch?” Terry rushed over to the ghouls, pulling Bloodstain up from his bow. “What about him? Is he okay?” He felt his throat catch as he remembered the ghoul shielding him with his body.

How had he forgotten about Crunch? That settled it, he was a terrible person.

Bloodstain hesitated, his jagged teeth quietly grinding as Terry stared into his eyes. After a moment, the ghoul looked to his partner and Terry had the impression they were in an uncomfortable position.

“Please,” he said, grabbing onto Bloodstain’s arm. “I need to know. Is he—Did he…?” The thought of his friend dying to save him was too difficult to put into words.

I can’t lose anyone else…

When it was obvious Bloodstain didn’t want to answer, Burgundy bowed his head. “That one is…evolving…”

Terry’s eyes went wide, then narrowed.

“What?”

“That one badly maimed,” Bloodstain interjected quickly. “It decided he better serve—”

“Take me there at once!” he demanded, using his best impersonation of his father’s tone. His voice squeaked in an undignified manner and his skin flushed with doubt. But the undead were conditioned to following orders and didn’t balk at his demand.

“Yes, my prince.”

He strode through the lower depths of the catacombs filled with a fury that burned away thoughts of his mother, Sol, or the eternal night that extended over the city.

They were going to recycle Crunch! After he saved my life!

The living and the unliving servants alike sensed his mood as he passed them. He had rarely walked the halls of the palace without his parents, whose presence tended to overshadow his own. And he had preferred it that way; he was much more comfortable in their shadow than casting his own light.

That wasn’t his reality anymore and he was still coming to terms with it. His mother was gone and he wasn’t speaking to his father. It was time to forge his own path.

So he sped through the hallways with the expectation that anyone not named Fairway would scurry out of his way.

Which they did.

Not that he enjoyed the feeling of instilling fear or anxiety in those who served faithfully. But this was Crunch’s life hanging in the balance. Weighing that against someone’s feelings was no contest at all.

When he arrived outside the ‘Evolution Chamber’ as it was officially called, he was met with two slabs of towering meat standing on either side of the door leading into the chamber.

“Move,” he said. Then, because he was uncomfortable being rude, even to undead servants who were generally oblivious to tone, he added quietly, “…please.”

The slabs of meat in question were the hulking undead known colloquially as patches. They were crafted from the discarded parts of both human and undead, and imbued with a wraith formed from the fallout of a distant war. They were twice as tall as Terry and just as wide. He remembered these undead hulks from his mother’s casket viewing, but had never interacted with them personally. As far as he knew, they mostly stayed in the catacombs except for certain occasions.

Probably because they smelled bad. Like, really bad.

His eyes were facing forward, waiting expectantly for the patches to step aside. When it became clear that they had no intention of doing so, Terry took a handful of steps back so he could gain the appropriate leverage to look up into their eyes.

“I said, please move.”

Their faces were covered in black, steel masks—to shield the identity of their donor’s face, perhaps—so all Terry could see were their eyes. They were mismatched, as if they had been taken from four different people. The hulk on the left had one brown eye and one blue eye. The other had a hazel-green eye and a blue eye.

Did they take a set of blue eyes and split them between the two? That seems…wrong. Like separating twins at birth.

But his idle thoughts drifted away as those four mismatched eyes set upon him. They were too small for their bodies and would have been funny looking if they weren’t so intimidating.

He found himself taking a half-step back as they regarded him silently.

At his side, he felt Bloodstain step forward.

“Your prince give order—”

Terry cut the ghoul off with a raised hand. Something niggled at the back of his mind—some feeling or premonition. Though his interactions with the patchwork caste of undead were limited, he could feel some subtle expression of their thoughts—was that their auras? he wondered briefly.

Whatever it was, one thing was clear: they were not impressed.

“Listen, I—” He faltered, unsure how to proceed. A part of him wished that he had just let Bloodstain handle the situation for him. The undead guards wouldn’t have an open brawl in the palace catacombs and no matter how icy the patchworks acted, they would never harm the Emperor’s grandson. They would let him through, eventually. But would it be in time? What if the liches were dismembering Crunch right now—or whatever it was they did in the Evolution Chamber? “That ghoul in there, the one about to be recyc—uh, evolved. He’s a friend. I know the unliving believe strongly in community, sacrificing themselves willingly for the larger group. And I know that a damaged ghoul would better serve the Emperor through evolution…but I just lost my mother and…”

I can’t lose my friend, too.

A voice sounded from down the hall, grating on his ears like two blades scraping against each other.

“My prince? Why you here?”

Terry whirled around to see Crunch standing at the end of the hall, flanked by two liches. He was missing an arm at the shoulder and his left eye was still covered by melted skin. But Terry would have recognized the ghoul just by his grating voice.

“Crunch?” he cried, racing past Bloodstain toward the ghoul. He closed the distance in a flash, throwing his arms around the undead’s waist. Crunch seemed unsure how to react at first, then awkwardly patted him on the head.

It wasn’t exactly a hug, but it was the closest physical contact he’d experienced since his mother’s death.

After a moment, Crunch delicately extracted Terry from around his waist, though the boy could tell that Crunch was happy to see him.

“This one honored, my prince,” the ghoul said in halting English. “But should not be here.” He cast a reproachful look toward Bloodstain and Burgundy that made Terry furrow his brow.

“And why’s that?” He crossed his arms and scowled, mimicking his father’s expression when the man was displeased with the servants.

“Evolution sad for human…prince lose much already.”

“You are not being recycled.” Crunch’s single eye blinked at the word. “You’re my friend and I’m not going to let you die.”

The lich on the left spoke up, its voice a sibilant hiss. “We are the unliving, my prince. We do not die. We only evolve into higher life forms or return to the Underworld. For us, that is not death, but a homecoming.”

“Even so.” Terry leaned in, lowering his voice despite knowing that the undead in the hall could hear his every word. “I still need you, Crunch.”

“This Blessed has been damaged,” the second lich interjected. “His function is compromised.” Crunch’s teeth grated together audibly, but he said nothing to dispute the lich’s words. “To better serve the Bonesplinter clan and our protector, the Emperor, he must be repurposed—”

Terry gripped Crunch’s wrist, imploring the ghoul to hear his words. “I need my bodyguard, now more than ever. Your prince needs you. I need you, Crunch. “

Crunch slowly extricated his arm from Terry’s grip, taking a step back. The boy’s shoulders slumped and he could already hear the ghoul’s polite reasoning as to why he had to be recycled. He was already preparing more reasons for Crunch to stay, but instead of arguing, the ghoul bowed deeply at the waist.

“As my prince commands.”

With Crunch at his side, he felt a little bit lighter. Not happy—he couldn’t imagine a time when he would ever be happy again, though plenty of people told him that time healed all wounds—but there was a slight loosening of his grief, that ball sitting in the center of his chest unclenching ever so subtly.

That slight relief was shattered when he went down to the dining hall for breakfast.

The room was bustling with activity. Human servants were coming and going through the kitchen entrance, clearing off plates or refreshing the food on the buffet table against the wall. Seated at the long table dominating the center of the room were at least a dozen of Terry’s distant relatives—and some not so distant.

At the head of the table sat his Aunt Julia with her two children—Maxina and Marcus—nearby. She was middle-aged, the corners of her eyes just beginning to wrinkle. She possessed the trademark green eyes of the Fairways, but had light auburn hair where his father’s was raven-black. That auburn hair was tied back in a severe bun, pulling the skin of her forehead taut. Supposedly, she had once been a stunning beauty. But next to his mom, she might as well have been a ghoul.

He had always found her tight features off-putting.

She wasn’t really his aunt, as her father had been the Emperor’s youngest brother before he died. That made her his father’s cousin, but he had always referred to her as Aunt.

Which made Maxina and Marcus like his cousins, though they were just young enough that Terry had never played with them growing up—and had never wanted to, really. They were crybabies and were rude to the servants, which he didn’t like.

But even worse than that, the three of them had been some of the loudest grievers at his mother’s casket viewing, when he knew for stone certain that Aunt Julia had always whispered nasty rumors behind his mother’s back.

Something about being unpowered had stuck a bone in Aunt Julia’s teeth and she had never forgiven Terry’s mother for that fact. He had even heard rumors that his father and Aunt Julia had been betrothed once upon a time…until she failed her Awakening.

The thought sent shivers up his spine.

Now, watching the distant relatives all flock around Aunt Julia made him want to throw something. They were acting as if she was replacing Terry’s mother, like she was the princess-apparent. He couldn’t be around them—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He backed away, starting to turn, when he finally processed the conversation they were having.

“I always thought she was a Topeka mole sent by Sol,” one of the distant relatives hissed. “Who would have thought she’d die protecting the city?”

“Please,” another said with a sarcastic tone. “The little tart got caught in the collateral. She was always leaving Wichita—in the dead of night or in a body bag.”

Blood rushed to Terry’s face and he whirled back, frozen with indecision. A part of him wanted to charge in there and tell his family off. But another part of him recognized that those were his adult relatives. Who was he to scold adults—even if they were saying vile things?

He was frozen in the doorway, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

Am I a coward for not defending my mother’s honor?

He knew what his mother would say. They’re ignorant and silly. Arguing with ignorance is like yelling into your pillow. It might feel good at first, but did you really accomplish anything?

He’d just back away. They hadn’t noticed him yet. It wasn’t worth it. Just turn and walk out. No sudden move—

“Little Terry?” a voice called out. “Is that you?”