Negative Film

by Leonard Petracci

  “And why is that?” I asked, not liking her tone.

  “Because you’re the one who’s going to get me back,” she said with a smile.

  She gestured behind us to a part of the subway that we had given its own room. An enclosure covered in dust, since it had been weeks after the last time it had been disturbed, when I had given up trying to maneuver the tunnels and rips of space into place and had left the portals of Peregrine’s teleportation project in a dark static leading to nowhere.

  ***

  “Well, what all do we know since our new favorite friend has given us nothing to work with?” asked Darian, leaning forwards on the couch.

  “Not much.” I grimaced. “A few clues and far between. The cops want Lola, but for what, we’re not too sure. She probably only has a vague idea too and wants us to confirm it. And the cops don’t care much about me anymore, but they never really did—only the Hunter did.”

  “We’ve got a meeting with Roland soon!” Lucio added. “Waiting on the word from Olef. Should be a nice surprise for him, a chance to make some more memories.”

  “But before then,” I said, turning to face Darian, “there’s something else we need. The police mentioned they were looking into a myth. And now, with you, we can too.”

  “You’re thinking of what?” asked Darian. “You lost me already.”

  “Not a problem. But what I do need to know is if you can still use your Morpher powers.”

  “There’s still some left. I’d say about two days before it starts wearing away. Morpher powers rely on skill and those fade quicker. So whatever you’re thinking, it needs to happen soon.”

  “Think you can do it to me too? Or rather, us?”

  “It’s difficult, but I can try. You’ll need to stay close to me—go too far away and it’ll melt right off you,” he answered, testing the power by rubbing his fingers on his nose and extending it a half inch. When he let go, it sprang back into place, wobbling slightly, but still able to be altered.

  “Good. And fortunately for you, Lucio can fill in the gaps where your power falters. Now, for the first time in weeks,” I said, then laughed and puffed out my chest, “I have a plan.”

  Chapter 20

  “SC, my powers are an art, and art can only go so far,” complained Lucio, running his hand over his face. “What am I supposed to do, convince everyone that we’re Igor and his pals? Make them think we're an experiment gone terribly wrong?”

  Lucio and I stared into the fast food restaurant bathroom mirror, where the three of us were crammed while Darian had worked. We’d locked the door, much to the annoyance of the other customers, and checked to make sure the stalls had been empty.

  Darian took a step backwards to admire his creation. Or rather, his monstrosities.

  “Darian, I’m fine with ugly, but Lucio has a point. Can you make us a bit more normal?” I asked, squinting one eye to try and make it similar to the other. Asymmetrical was the kindest way to describe our faces, and most would run off screaming at the sight of us. Lucio’s nose was lopsided and looked to be broken in multiple places. My ears were mismatched, one so small it might as well be missing, and my hairline raced up and down across my forehead like a half mowed lawn. Even the cheekbones seemed out of place, as if two faces had been squashed together and were fighting over prime real estate.

  “Hold still, one second. It’s a lot harder doing this to someone else, but I never was very good at it, even on myself. I chose to look like Donny because he was ugly in the first place, and old skin is much more forgiving to work with,” said Darian, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he took his thumb and ran it along my jaw to straighten it. The bone complied like clay, but where it moved, it was smudged, as if it had been melted into place.

  “Yeah, that’s worse. I’ll stick with Frankenstein,” said Lucio, backing away before Darian could touch him too. “I have just the idea to make this work. On second thought, Darian, give me a few scabs. SC needs a burn or two. And you can turn back into Donnie.”

  “What’re you thinking, Lucio?” I asked as Darian molded my face again, producing an unsightly scar under my right eye, singing away an eyebrow and leaving a rash on my right cheek.

  “You’ll see, you’ll see. Alright, we look good enough for the script to work. Ready? I’ll give you the rundown as we walk over. SC, you’ll just need to be quiet. Darian is going to do the talking.”

  We left the bathroom into the fast food restaurant, spotting Slugger as he shook a carton of fries into his mouth, the box stopping in midair as he stared in surprise. Then he busted out laughing as the employees looked at us in horror, one of them retreating behind the counter as we passed.

  “Oi, Darian, you think you could give me a makeover as well? These two would sell for a decent price in a museum!” He kept laughing as Lucio stalked past, frightening off two customers on the way to the door. “Never have I been more happy to be on backup duty. I’d be surprised if you make it two minutes inside the school like that, though!”

  He gestured across the street, where our target waited, a fenced-in building, one similar to the school we had escaped just a few weeks earlier, With a painted sign in front of it.

  Rehabilitation 1C.

  “Alright, Slugger, that’s enough. You wait outside and stay hidden. If we need help, you’ll hear it,” I said, as Lucio spoke with Darian, who now bore the resemblance of Donny once again. “Screams or explosions should do the trick. But our goal is to get in and out, with no disruptions.”

  “But if you’ll be needing a disruption, you’ve got the right man,” he said, then ducked behind a parked car, watching us approach the gate through the windows.

  “Confidence, Darian, I need confidence from you. You’ve got to sell it,” muttered Lucio as a guard spotted us and walked to the entrance. “And, SC, act like it’s the worst day of your life. Darian, hands on our necks, we’re your property here. Don’t let him split us up.”

  “Got it,” we whispered back, and I turned my gaze to the ground while Darian shoved us forwards.

  “I got two here,” he shouted to the guard. “Personally requested by the headmaster himself. Straight out of the police station. You should be expecting us, no?”

  “Don’t think—” started the guard from the other side of the gate, then his face relaxed as he pulled at a distant memory. “Ah, yes. I remember, a Flamethrower and a Sandblaster, no? Looks like they’ve been at each other’s throats.”

  “More than that, you should see 3rd street. Half the cars don’t have paint, and the other half are charred. Impressive considering both are low powered. Rehabilitation is the only hope for them. We can still make good citizens of them.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. Headmaster said that he wanted you to see them off to class too. Third classroom on the right, they’ll be expecting you.”

  “I’m sure they will,” said Darian, pushing us through the gate as the guard opened it and hiding his smile. “I’m sure they will.”

  He kept his hands clamped down on our necks as we entered the building, this facility far more musty and aged than our own. And true to the guard's word, we found our destination at the third door to the right. Darian knocked, the metallic door letting out a series of three raps, then entered without waiting for a response.

  The instructor paused mid-lecture, annoyance flickering across his face as we entered. Darian spoke before he had a chance to protest, directing Lucio and me to two empty seats at the back of the class while the other students recoiled.

  “Just arrived back from the hospital,” announced Darian in Donny’s voice, gesturing at us both. “The headmaster sent me to fetch them, and being the head of the district, I thought I would personally see to their well being.”

  “Of course, of course,” responded the instructor, his eyes lighting up as he remembered our faces. “Class, this is precisely why power usage is forbidden outside of class hours. By engaging in a fight, these two have injured themselves so b
adly that they’re hardly recognizable. Robert and James, finally back.”

  The class stared, their expressions far more confused than the instructor’s, as Lucio had time only to implant our memories in his mind.

  “I don’t remember a Robert or James,” sniveled a kid beside Lucio, his head cocked sideways.

  “And I don’t remember having to sit next to a piece of shit,” retorted Lucio while the instructor turned bright red.

  “District Head, I apologize, they’re not usually this misbehaved,” he stated, looking to Darian. “I assure you, order is a priority in my classroom.”

  “Perhaps,” Darian said slowly, his voice full of doubt. “But I’ll reserve that for my own judgment. I’ll be sitting in on this class to make sure these two become assimilated once more. I wouldn’t want them to cause trouble. And, instructor, I’ve heard tales of your ability to make students fascinated by the lessons of history. Perhaps you can demonstrate this in your lesson so I can include it in my report. We’re looking for highlights from each of the facilities.”

  “Of course,” replied the instructor. “A slight lesson plan change, then, but for the better. Remember, class, the ability to adapt ensures survival.”

  “That it does,” Darian said, taking a seat on the window sill. “That it does. Thank you, Linns. Carry on.”

  Chapter 21

  “A lesson of history. Hmm, but there are many of those—one could argue that all the lessons are from history. But which one fits?” Instructor Linns scanned the class, searching for inspiration, then halted on a girl at the front. “Ah, yes! Rose, just last week, you asked about the Amazon. Many mysteries there, of course, enough to cover an entire semester! But in terms of battles and history, I can only think of one major tale.”

  “I did?” asked Rose as Lucio shifted uncomfortably, altering his gaze to fixate on her. “Oh, that’s right, I did!”

  No one else noticed the bead of sweat that trailed down Lucio’s cheek as he focused—in the past five minutes alone, that had been three targets for memories—the guard, Linns, and Rose. Each had to be perfectly planted, since the slightest suspicion had the potential to oust us. Already, the entire class of students knew that something wasn’t right, but they wouldn’t speak up until after the bell. And by then, we’d be gone.

  “The Amazon it is!” said Linns triumphantly. “Today, class, we learn the importance of raw, natural force. Of pockets of power. Class, in a typical war, what is it that wins the battles?”

  “Strategy!” exclaimed a boy to my left, and Linns nodded.

  “Power numbers and types!” chimed in a girl, and Linns picked a third student towards the back for the final addition.

  “Technology,” came the answer after a moment’s pause.

  “Yes, correct on all three,” said Linns, pacing, “That’s how a normal war is fought. But at this one battle, this one incident, there was an upset greater than any we’ve seen in centuries. Class, nearly one thousand years ago, there was an empire just north of the Amazon. They had all the signs of an advanced civilization—the ruins of their cities show us their prowess in metallurgy, in writing, and agriculture. Compared to their neighbors, their population numbers were astronomical. And when it came to their military, they were undefeated—they wielded fire, and they wielded it well.”

  On the board, Linns drew a rough map, sketching the Amazon then the empire above it, and shading each in with a marker. He dotted in a few cities, and blobbed a few of the other surrounding countries, along with dotted trade routes that wove in and out of triangular mountains.

  “They were known as the Thyrinians and there were none who would oppose them. None on their continent, at least. As their enemies fell, the Thyrinians grew greedy. You see, they had attacked in every direction but one—the south, into the heart of the rainforest itself. In the past, it had been overlooked, but they believed there to be treasure at the heart, protected by a small tribe perhaps a thousandth of their size. Rumors of a city of gold, of rivers of diamonds, of the fountain of youth. We know this from the few records that survived after their attack.

  “Class, as you are aware, powers are dictated from birth location. And the more pure a location is, the more unadulterated and at its essence, the better that power can be shaped. To this day, we don’t know what power that small tribe had found—but we do know its effects. The Thyrinians learned it too well.

  “They drove the main force of their military directly into the jungle—thousands of troops, experts in combat, absolutely unrivaled for decades. Armed to the teeth and heavily shielded. They had all the attributes you mentioned—technology, brilliant strategists, and strong powers. And they were certain that they had won the battle before it started only to run with their tail between their legs.”

  Linns drew an arrow from one of the major cities that curved directly into the Amazon, then marked the end of it with an X.

  “And here, you can still find their bones. Not just their bones—but every animal in the vicinity. Birds, rodents, and reptiles alike. No vegetation survived—to this day, nothing will grow within a half mile of the site or the surrounding cone that retraces the Thyrinian’s army’s steps back to their city. Straight from the rainforest to their capital city walls no horse will walk, and the city itself is preserved in what appears to be a massacre. Tens of thousands dead, soldiers and civilians alike, like a scar forever carved into the earth.”

  Linns marked the board with a wide line, detailing the path of destruction, shading it in with black.

  “To this day, we don’t know what power that small tribe possessed—but we do know their vengeance. Many have tried to find them, though few have returned alive. And even fewer unscathed. But if I had to predict, I’d tell you that they found a natural site—one unblemished. One with untold powers. And when they harnessed it, that tribe became unstoppable—that it was the Thyrinians who never stood a chance, and were children knocking at the door of a monster.”

  Linns paused, then cleared his throat, casting a glance at Darian for approval.

  “Now, there are other theories about what may have happened here. Many suggest a plague or a natural carbon dioxide release that settled into the lower lands and suffocated the Thyrinians in mass. Some think it may have been a religious sacrifice, or that perhaps a fight broke out within their own army. Or that their chefs may have mistaken the fungi in the Amazon for something edible. But the tablets translated tell a different tale, and the sheer devastation implies that the fall of the Thyrinians was no accident. That they had tampered with a force of nature herself.” Here, Linns’ voice fell to a whisper, and he leaned forward. “And she had wiped them from the face of the earth forever.”

  Chapter 22

  The bell rang and Darian stood to speak with Linns as the class shuffled towards the hallway.

  “You can be assured,” he was saying in Donny’s hoarse voice as we passed him, “that I’ll pass on my compliments. A well-taught class, Linns. Exceptional, and I expected no less. I knew it was a fine idea to keep you on the staff after the, erm, fiasco.”

  We hesitated near the door waiting for him to finish, and the boy who had sat next to Lucio shoved us aside as he exited.

  “Weirdos,” he spat over his shoulder while his friend laughed.

  “Oh yeah?” retorted Lucio as Darian’s disguise failed to hide the red flushing to his face. “Well, at least I didn’t piss the bed and beg my friends to keep it a secret. That would be embarrassing.”

  “What—I never—” started the boy, but his friend burst out laughing.

  “Oh, I forgot about that one, Doug. Ooooh, the lunch table is going to love that story! How could I forget you cried for two whole hours! And your teddy bear; do you still miss Mr. Fuzzles?”

  They erupted in an argument as a sly smile crossed Lucio’s face, and Darian escorted us from the classroom and down the hall. Students filled the corridor like ants, parting around us to rush to their next destination, their eyes focused ahead.
And though they didn’t bear the same eerie focus towards Good Citizenship that Siri had tried to instill in us, there was something off about them. Their movements seemed too robotic, their expressions forced. Their laughter hollow. Their mannerisms distinctly different from in the classroom.

  “I don’t like this,” whispered Darian, and another student brushed past me, his skin making contact with my arm. But instead of warmth from body heat, it felt cold—almost like metal or ceramic, clammy. Mechanical. “We got what we wanted, now we get out. Let's go.”

  He gripped our collars, pinching a tad too hard directing us to the exit door, while the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Something else was wrong, something with the order of the halfway. Something that fit too well—perhaps it was their perfectly ironed clothes, clothes that surely should have at least one wrinkle in them this late in the day. Or how every locker seemed perfectly clean, devoid of papers or trinkets or personalization. It was as if we had entered another world when we moved into the hallway, like sinking underwater to a muted reality.

  And when we were three-quarters of the way to the door, I realized what was wrong.

  Their pace. Or rather, their march.

  Each student moved to the same motion, their heels hitting the ground at the same time, their stride matching. Even those at their lockers stepped in place, their feet rising and falling though they had nowhere to go. And now that I recognized it, I could hear it—a soft pattern, not sharp like a soldier's movements, but like an undercurrent.

  I realized that we were the only ones to break the pattern, who did not fall in line with the rest of the crowd.

  “You!” I heard a shout from behind us, the voice of an adult, as Darian’s pace sped u., “You, who are you? Mind intruders, litterers of thoughts!”

  The hall stilled, the pace cutting off like a drum that had stopped beating. There was silence, and then there were voices. Voices that all spoke at the exact time, the same words resonating, washing over us from all directions.