by Dorian Dawes
"Say I believe you," she said, sliding the folder back onto the table. "I've seen some weird shit. My friends almost died because of this magical society garbage. What makes you think I want to continue to be involved with it in any further capacity?"
Ying removed his sunglasses and leaned forwards. "Ms. Han, magic is real. You know it. You're skilled with it, and I think you want to use it to help people. Right now, there's little protecting people from people like yourself, those with the skills and knowledge to wield the esoteric nature of the universe to their own malevolent ends. That's why the OAD was created, to stop people like your friends from getting hurt, from getting mixed up in occult crimes. We want to stop the horror from happening."
It was a good sales-pitch all right. Something still stank.
"Why did you bring up Syracuse? Winterchild? What do you think I know about that?"
Both men shifted uncomfortably. Tombs leaned forwards and said in a low hushed voice. "A former associate of ours recently departed with sensitive documents, documents relating to the Winterchild Project that I believe he may have leaked to a friend of yours."
"I wouldn't know anything about that," Helena lied.
"Then how do you know about Winterchild?" Ying shot back.
Helena leaned forwards. She didn't like it when men tried to intimidate her. She didn't care much for Bartleby's cryptic bullshit, but at least he wasn't a bully.
"Anyone can find information about that sleazy government experiment," she said. "Like you said, any radio DJ or Reddit conspiracy board probably has some vague notion of what happened."
Tombs folded his hands gently across his lap. "Did you know your father was involved and working with the Syracuse Corporation on the project? Dr. Seong, I believe?"
Helena fucking froze. "What do you know about my father?"
Ying smiled. "That's classified information, but I'm certain that once you're on board the OAD will be happy to share with you the progress we've made on the case. We might even bring you on to advise."
Helena leaned forwards. She could barely hear them now. Her mind kept replaying the last moments before he'd driven out to Arizona to work on that project, nearly a decade ago. She kept thinking of how much she'd cried that day, clinging to his leg screaming at him not to leave. He'd ruffled her hair and called her 'princess' and squeezed her shoulder and did all the things good dads were supposed to do, but he still left. And then he never fucking came back.
"I need to think about this," she said, interrupting them in the middle of their bullshit sales-pitch. "Can't you just leave me a card or something?"
Ying and Tombs exchanged satisfied expressions. They each stood, putting their sunglasses back onto their faces. If they noticed her tear-stained cheeks, they seemed not to care.
"Don't worry," Tombs said. "When you're ready to join us, we'll know. Glad to have you on the team, Helena."
She gave them both the middle finger as they showed themselves out of the door.
Soon-Bok returned with only one tea cup, almost like she knew how well that meeting would play out. She sat it gently down in front of Helena and rubbed the back of her head.
"Mom," Helena said, "do you think Dad's still alive?"
Soon-Bok scrunched her face and knelt down beside her. "Helena, sweetie. What's happening? I'm a little freaked out right now."
Helena shook her head. "It's stupid. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Each apology was more tearful and hysterical than the last. She buried her face in her mother's shoulder and remained there, being held while every last frustration and hatred at the world she'd been thrust into burned in each tear that ran down her face. Her eyes were blood-shot and full of fury even as she wailed and shook like a helpless infant in her mother's arms.
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About the Author
Dorian Dawes is a self-described social justice witch and full-time gender disaster. They also like to write things. Their work attempts to bring a diverse queer perspective into the sci-fi, fantasy, and horror genres. When not writing they can be found watching horror movies, playing too many videogames, or hiding from the existential horror of it all beneath a black, fuzzy blanket.
