[07 - ORION'S FEAT]

♁

I book into an inn operating on its last legs in the rundown little town. It is an overstatement to call it a town; a present-day village is more like it. 

I become easy prey to the natives, but their extortion is implementable to a step, plus I'm too tired to argue. The hellish drive across was all black dirt roads until here, and I strained my eyes to last me a night of dreamless sleep. I pay them extra to fix up my ride so that it is the last thing I want to worry about. 

I can't process a hazy thought of protection after staying in the truck for all these weeks, so once I enter the bland room, I latch the door, lay out a bowl of water for Appa and fall straight into the mattress. That's it—I'm out for the night. I can't be arsed about the dirt and gunk all over me. I have been navigating around the dense Yucatán jungles on fractional naps, and this is the first bed I have laid on in forever. It's not the lavish orthopaedic mattress I am so used to sleeping on back at home, so my desperation forces me to fantasise. 

As I blink awake, it feels like I've slept for a mere minute. I haven't moved from the position I fell asleep in, and I have zero memory of how I ended up here. I roll over on my back and sigh. 

The clock on the wall reads three, but it doesn't display whether it is night or day. The lamps are all bright enough to illuminate the room, so I lumber to the curtains to push them aside. It's still dark out. Early morning—which means I've slept for all of six hours. New record.

Stuck in this sleepy town, I have no choice but to bide my time. I plug out some lamps from their sockets, charge my electronics, and head downstairs to grab some breakfast that I scarf down without noticing what it is. I get the side-eye from some unassuming visitors, and I see that I forgot to shower since I got here. I've been utterly dehumanized by the rainforests. 

As such, I don't rush my bath at all. I earned this shit. I take a rejuvenating soak in my body wash, massage my joints, and lather until my fingers start to prune. I stand there in the jet of hot water, motionless and luxuriating like it's my spa day. Even as I towel off, I reconsider the second shower option. Never again will I underestimate the significance of a bath. All those times I procrastinated have led me to this. 

My terror rises again when I slip on some fresh clothes. My baby is out there in the wild, fighting for her life, risking it all. Do I deserve to put my feet up while she goes through god knows what? What sort of a reliable parent does that make me? I no longer have it in me to take comfort in my safety. I should be out there, waiting for her. 

I crush my fingers into my hair, a hysterical sob constricting my chest. "Oh hell, Mira."

Have I done this all wrong? Am I better off on the beach? The remorse won't subside, even as I compensate for my impulse with convincing explanations to stay. Mira needs me strong, and the forest doesn't furnish that. I have to put myself first to care for her. 

The room is too small to offer me a diversion, and Appa watches me like a hawk. It unnerves me to no extent when he gets like that. It's like he knows what I'm going through, only speechless to tell me to man the fuck up. 

"Let's go outside," I say to him and give his head a nice scratch. "Good boy. Good boy, Appa."

He woofs his excitement and chases his tail for a moment. Then he's scratching his claws at the front door, ready to be let out. 

To escape the confined space, I hang out by the corridor and let Appa roam around the floor. There are not many guests, and I estimate around two others here. I look over at the derelict expressway and truck-lined carpark, reassured that there are clear demarcations for both. This place must appear on the map; a low-risk rest stop.  

A black fog of memories creeps up on me when the peace brings discomfort. No cars, no passers-by, no noise. I shakily drum my fingers against the railings to distract myself, but it doesn't work. The unbearable images of Mira crying in the god's arms continue to flash behind my eyes. I can't stand it—then again, I had chosen to tread the glass cliff. No one here to blame but me. 

A grateful interruption appears at the end of one of the exit stairwells, all suited in black. He is poorly dressed for the climate and milieu, and immediately something feels off. Untimely. Familiar. 

The stony man is staring off like he's programmed to do so, at the opposite end. He stands like that for a long time, unmoving. I'm too spooked out of my wits to investigate.

Appa is the last thought in my mind as I turn back to the room and lock the door. What even, I think. Black suit? Wired comms? In the middle of buttfuck nowhere? Whatever is about to go down, I want no part in it. 

I rush to collect my rucksack off the floor and locate my truck keys. I'll find Appa on the way down. We'll drive around town for a bit and come back for recon. I glance back at the door, surprised that I haven't heard anything in the last two minutes. Even more nerve-wracking. 

"You haven't changed one bit, Kia."

The instant hysteria that vices my brain once I place the heavy tenor is exceptional. Like I'm conditioned to respond to his voice this way. My barrier of togetherness crashes down when I see him. I can't react, can't doubt, can't breathe—I am rooted in absolute horror. 

A smile spreads on his face, wide and incapacitating. Of course, it's him. All the indications point to him. I've been too neglecting to believe he's been on my case since I stepped foot into this motel. I never expect him to show up on my doorstep. 

He casually adjusts his sleeves and plucks open a few buttons below his collar, riveting his celadon eyes on me. You don't expect to face such a disarming shade on such a morally grey person, with those flecks of green that you'd associate with the gentleness of nature. Whereas, I saw greed. Avarice. Sickness. 

"What did you think? That I'd simply let my wife drop off the grid for two months?" Orion asks lightly, amused. 

I fight for command over my trembling lips and whisper, "Ex-wife." 

"Mm." He wrinkles his nose. "Ex-greatest investment, perhaps."

I'm too overwhelmed to ask him to go fuck himself. 

Slowly, notes on my ongoing crisis piece together in my head. My control returns with a need to plan my way out of this; get him off my scent. I only hope that he's still in the dark about everything else. 

I can't hate Orion Carter to the core. I still love him dearly, and he always has my best interests at heart, but there is an enormous liability in being his. What he stands for as a human being is appalling, so unfailingly addicted to achievements at my expense.

Orion steps closer, the nearness suffocates me, and he catches my left hand in his. He lifts it to beam at the direly exclusive Cartier diamond that nestles my ring finger since the day he proposed to me on the terrace of his Midtown loft. I remember how the golden daylight had dispelled a thousand reflections from the timeless stone, too extravagant to belong on my hand. It is one of the few memories that appeals to his comforting prospect. I'm mortified that I haven't taken it off. 

Orion kisses the rock, keen eyes fixed on me. "There's still hope for me, my love."

Gosh, that aggravating nickname. It never fails to get along my skin like a caress. And I hate that he can, after all this time, have that effect on me. Ten years of knowing someone that passionately does that to you. 

He searches my face for something. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," I say tersely.

He kisses my knuckles this time, lips curving a little. "D'you want to lie down with me? For old time's sake?"

I am still wary of his motives. "What are you doing here?"

"Easy: I miss you. Increasingly so." 

I made a derisive noise in my throat. "Oh, and you brought your lackeys with you for that?"

"Obligations and such," he brushes off. "See, I had some legal papers that need your signatures, but suddenly you've sold your flat in Kyoto and vanished." He makes a sad moue at the ring. "And being your distraught husband, I hire some eyes who can't work for squits. So I had to break bad to track you here. In the depths of Mexico."

"Ex-husband," I correct, and I have a split-second alibi at hand. "I'm chasing a tip from an old Mesoamerican archive. I had to go off-road for a bit."

This almost convinces him. "Is that right?"

I nod quietly.

He lets go of my hand to cup my face until his fingers are an open weave behind my head. He's got the look of a tormented trickster. I already know what's coming.  

"And I also found you to, frankly, ask you, just one last time..." His expression abruptly blackens, and a hard urge touches his eyes. 

"...where our baby is."

His words have sucker-punched all the wind out of my lungs. A beat passes as I struggle to answer him. As blunt as it is, he remains quiet and watches me. I can't accept the reality of his question when the truth is sordid.

I try not to show anything on my face when I answer his question outright. The smooth lie comes easy, especially after so much practice. 

"I told you before—"

He raises his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking a higher being. "If you spew that shit or so, help me, god, I will burn this place to the ground."

My tone is mechanical. "I lost our baby."

"The fuck you did," he laughs darkly. "The fuck you lost the child I blew through two years of our—"

"Miscarriages happen, Ri. It's not like we're new to it," I stand to reason and shrug. Here, in front of him, feels like a purging act. It's dead in the water for me, and I've got nothing to lose. 

"The first IVF trimester is critical. I said this a great deal, didn't I? You put so much pressure on me, on carrying through this, and I physically couldn't handle it. You were—"

"Oh, come on, Kia. It wasn't like that." His blunt frustration makes him drop his hands from my face. 

I point an accusatory finger at him. "You were obsessed."

"I was making a breakthrough. So close to perfect," he asserts in a rush of breath. 

"Do you even remember the shit you said to me? How you treated me? How you completely degraded what I'd done for you?"

"It was twelve years of my research," he hisses at me. "I gave my everything for this. The next step of human evolution. The quantum leap formula. And you have no fucking idea."

The same old shit, over and over again. I've heard this line, the exact words, on repeat. It's like a busted glockenspiel running different routines. He hasn't changed at all. I bet he's still making his midnight trips to that underhand submarine lab of his. 

"You couldn't separate your work from me," I whisper bleakly. "And you lost your reasoning. A sociopath who fully violated my privileges."

"Violate?" he repeats in disbelief and makes a disgusted noise. "Goddamnit, Kia. I respected—still do respect you! I would never—"

"Well, you did. You fucking did. You used the fuck out of me. And you ran roughshod over our marriage in one fell swoop."

Orion grits his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut, controlling his impulses. He mutters out a quiet curse.

I fiercely wish, more than I am ever capable of, for him to give up and leave. His custody of Mira is lawful but unrighteous. He was the kind who, at the chance, would turn his baby into a guinea pig for the progression of science. He was willing to gamble with my life, his once wife, in his quest to perfect his mad science experiments. 

I have given some thought to the enormity of the falsehood I am weaving, but Orion, being who he is, raises the stakes. I have to protect Mira even if it is from her own father. And gosh, the fortuitous timing! 

"Fine, okay. I admit. We both lost something good for us." There's a heavy implication in his voice, anguish for what he's lost. He restrains a morose twist of his lips. "And each other."

The sheer yearning to comfort him was incredible. I involuntarily move closer to him but control myself. I have to protect the circumstances. Timings, timings. 

Orion thankfully raises his hands in surrender. "I didn't come all this way to fight, Kinara. Will you at least drive back to the city with me?"

I immediately refuse him. "I have some pressing matters here."

He reaches back for me in painstaking inches, as if he can tell when I'm spent. He grips my waist with both his hands and brings me close. I reflexively circle my palms around my wrists but don't refuse him. 

I shake my head. "I can't do this again. Let me go."

"But I miss you."

"Tch, stop it. We're over."

"Please, please, please. Let's go back. We'll book into a hotel a thousand times better than this."

"I'm staying, Orion."

A formidable beat passes, and he sighs.

"Then I'm staying, too." His light eyes are adamant. "You can't expect me to leave you out here all alone."

I moan. "No, you can't—"

He interrupts me by setting his forehead over mine, and I shut up. I have to pull away, I have to say no. It's so odd to have him this close after so long and simply put the rest down to experience. I know this is probably the worst of choices, but it feels good to have someone hold me after all this time. It's not easy to climb out of a divorce, especially with a man you've taken shape with. I like that we can lapse back to a conversation, just like in old times. 

"Kia, my love," he murmurs, stroking my nose with his. "I've got your back."

And it's the last thing I expect to complicate my issue.

♆

The seahorse plush toy that Namor offers to Mira has her more disconsolate. She sobs harder, reminded of her mother, and he has no choice but to take the toy away.

Now, she won't talk anymore, and it's almost a worrying silent treatment. She will linger in his memorabilia hut, loosely inspecting the artefacts that bestrew the room. Not that she is refusing to obey, but she just doesn't speak to anyone. Even Attuma, on his king's instructions, communicates in her language, hoping that at least this would get Mira to talk. Instead, she throws him a curveball, remains quiet and nods wherever necessary. She is offered a medicinal epazotl concoction to treat her difficulty breathing, and she does not protest drinking it.

In the meantime, Namora was starting to be a thorn on Namor's side. She had reason to believe that when you fall sick with an incurable disease, you are punished by the gods for your sins. She thinks that the mother's evils were a reflection of her baby's ailment and that treating her was a waste of time. For that reason, she refused to go anywhere near the aboveground cave systems, unwilling to meet the wrath of Chaakh. Due to her reluctance, even Talocanil soldiers shy away from standing guard near the caverns.

Namor is not in a position to impose his disappointment on his people. He shelters a surface-dweller, something that is a bloodless coup in the kingdom. They've been a secret and probably will remain a secret, and staying away from Mira seemed like the only option that kept the status quo. He bred this hostility in the Talocanil for centuries and is facing complex impacts now. Contesting it would make him a hypocrite in their eyes.

So as a king, K'uk'ulkan takes to powerplay to resolve her apprehension. Her reluctance would cause upheaval among the people, and weaken his ascendance. He makes it clear who calls the shots in this realm: the one on the throne.

"Those who are willing to bend the ear to whispers of the human child will have hell to pay," he addresses his nation, weapon in hand. He means war. 

He stares straight at Namora's grimace as he speaks. "I will count your words as heresy. The baby falls under my protection. Denying her would mean denying your realm."

His decree will do the necessary. The inconstancy between his people and Mira—he can't stand it. He fears for his nation and his family, but it isn't the same as the unease he had for the baby. This was his incapability to solve this—the terror of confusion. There must be a way to mend her dire condition, even if it is the last thing he does. 

Once Namor returns from his triumphant visit to Talokan, he hears a quiet conversation from within the hut. His eyes widen in surprise. The resonant voice of Attuma and eventually, the shy dulcet tone of Mira. It startles him for a second.

"...you can open this?" Attuma asks. His English is a little sluggish, but Mira doesn't question him.

"Mhmm. Like this." Namor listens to a faint click, probably from the pendant gifted by her mother. "It's a photo. That's my mommy."

"And that's Mira."

Namor can hear her smile. "Yeah, when I was a baby."

"You're still a baby."

"No, I'm not! I'm so much taller and faster!" 

"Your mother is beautiful. She paints this?"

Mira giggles. "No. You have to use a camera."

He makes an appreciative sound. "Is that the paint?"

"No!"

This time she's flat-out laughing. It's a pleasant sound after all the deafening silence for the past few days. Jealousy heads his huff; why is Attuma the first person she talks to?

"The camera is like a black box," Mira tries to explain, "and when you go 'click', it takes the picture and you can see it on the camera."

"A box," he hums. "Takes a picture. Magic."

"Yep."

He harrumphs. "I want the camera."

"I'll ask K'uk'ulkan to buy you one."

But, of course, he was the one who seemed to be around Mira the most. For the past three days, she hasn't had anyone else come by the cavern, and as a social creature of habit, it could start to break through.

Their unified laughter dies out when Attuma notices Namor wavering by the beaded curtains. He rises off the jute cot and bows his head. Namor steps in to join them.

"K'uk'ulkan," he greets in a fluster. In chagrin, he tries to keep his voice casual. "I uh, came to see her."

"Your English is getting better," Namor appreciates. "All for the little plankton, huh?"

Attuma shakes his head in disappointment. "I know."

Observing their exchange, Mira darts her gaze between them. She bumbles to her feet on the slab and bends from the waist for him. Attuma fights a smile at this.

"K'uk'ulkan," she echoes.

Namor grins at her and arches his head in acceptance. "Mira." He moves aside and shows the pool fronting the hut. "You've been inside too long. Would you like to take a stroll?"

"Okay," she nods and crawls back to the floor. Her pace is gradual, unsteady, and challenging. It's as if she can't endure the weight of gravity. He catches Attuma's eye.

"It's the water," Attuma clarifies his doubt. "Her symptoms have gone down since the medicines and rebreathers. But I have no idea how to remove the water. It keeps... spreading."

A phantom limb kicks at Namor's ribs as he oversees Mira eventually crosses the threshold and feels her way down the stairs. She squats by the pool, searching for the fish. He doesn't want to hear another word that will not gain a solution and only forfeit. 

He leaves Attuma in the hut and treads off to crouch down beside Mira. She steadies herself by using Namor's knee as her crutch. 

"When are you going to take me back to my mommy?" she mumbles.

"There's still time for that. Now tell me, Mira... where do you live?" he asks conversationally. 

She hesitates while she's busy making ripples in the water. "A big house. In Kyoto."

He manages a small smile. "Do you like it there?"

She shakes her head. "It gets too quiet. There's no one around to make friends."

"Why not?"

"I'm still learning Japanese." She's sheepish about this. "I can't run or talk as fast."

"What about your mother?"

She shrugs in dissent. Of course, she wouldn't know. She is barely aware of the condition she has.

He leans closer curiously. "And who stays with you in this house?"

She pouts a little, thoughtful. "Me, mommy... that's it."

Namor and Attuma share a conspiratorial look over his shoulder. He is listening intently, too. His astray survey mission with the mother had cracked the minute he laid eyes on her. Kinara. The prettiest name he's heard. 

"What about your father?" he questions in a murmur.

She acts like he hasn't spoken, now engrossed by the tons of bioluminescent glow worms suspended from the ceiling. 

"Mira," Namor says to get her attention. And when he does, he softly persuades again. "Mira, where's your father?"

More silence greets his request. But eventually, after serious reflection, she vaguely answers. "I don't know. Mommy doesn't say. She gets angry when I ask her."

"Did she say who he is?"

She shakes her head. Her hand leaves his knee to rub at her sleepy eyes. 

His patience is wearing thin. "Who is he?"

She flinches at his tone. She looks away, uneasy.

"Have you seen him?" He looks back at Attuma, frustrated. "She's seen him, I know it."

"My king, please," Attuma warns. 

She shakes her head, softer this time. "I don't know."

He speaks through his teeth. "But have you heard Kinara speak to him?"

Distracted again, she points to the water. "I want to go down there."

"Mira!" he snaps brusquely, seizing her elbow in an iron grip. There is only so much toleration he can muster, and he's just about had it. No knowledge, no clues, no nothing—how far is he supposed to fare? 

Sensing this, Attuma shuffles nearer to him. Namor scowls at him. 

"K'uk'ulkan, please release her," he cautions under his breath. "She doesn't know."

When Namor looks back at Mira, her eyes glisten dewily when watching his face. He opens his arms and reaches for her, lifting her back into his arms. She resists at first, visibly upset, then limply perches over his forearm. 

"I'm sorry," he tries to apologize. He wipes away her welling tears with a thumb. "Don't cry. It's going to be fine. Here, see."

He plucks out a pink orchid from one of the vines that hang around the hut as embellishments. He pushes it to rest behind her ear. An instant grin brightens her face. 

"I won't ask about your father again," he promises.

Not to her at least. If anyone had answers, it would be the father himself. 

∞

ORION'S IN THE HOUSEEEEE! can i get a whoo-whoop?