Preparing for War (solo)

((ooc: Takes place after Heartworm.))

"Negative b plus or minus the square root of--"

At the Mansion, classes had begun again. Oh joy. Even Slate was bored; he'd forgotten that during the Winter, their studies in the Mondragon Labs library with Katrina had taken them far, far beyond the ninth grade mathematics that they were signed up for. Therefore, Slate was reading a book on world mythology. Their eyes skimmed through its pages with interest.

Calley had read it already. He didn't know why Slate was reading it again. And skimming, at that--since when did Slate skim? For his part, Calley was keeping their body slouched down in the back row of the room. This teacher was a substitute--their real Math teacher had gone missing during Registration, and no one really expected to see him again. No one who was honest with themselves, anyway. He'd been good. The sub was okay. But the sub was a sub, and he was just happy to keep them quiet and listening; he didn't care about correcting posture or getting a student who consistently aced his assignments to shut his mythology book. So Calley had no fear of paying no attention. While Slate quite avidly used their eyes, Calley used their left hand. He stuck it into the front pocket of the oversized hoodie they'd purposefully worn to class. And he made a mouse.

The fur rippled from his fingertips and settled in a warm ball in the cup of his palm. The pocket was dark and smelled a little like mildew--he sniffed at it, his little whiskers fanned. His human form likewise sniffed, drawing an odd look from some of the students around him. It didn't matter. There was an itch on the back of his hand; his mouse self easily pushed itself between two fingers that moved out of its way, and scratched it with a paw. Ahhh... that was the spot.

Over the past week, with a slight break to get their arse knocked unconscious by Garret, they'd been experimenting with this new aspect of their power. Splintering, they'd started calling it. The mouse splinter settled down back into the palm of his hand. His hand felt the mouse. The mouse felt his hand.

They'd been experimenting, and they'd been learning. One thing they'd learned was this: as long as the splinters they made stayed in contact with whatever form he considered his 'main', then they were a part of him. They were him.

"A negative under the radical? Now what do we do with that?"

The mouse and the scrawny teenage boy both heard the words, and Calley's mind processed the noises. Two sets of hearing. Two sets of taste, smell, touch. It was the vision that was the most interesting: two sets of vision, from two entirely different angles, from two entirely different types of eyes. He was curled up in the dark interior of his pocket, in the cup of his own hand, viewing things in black and white. It made him appreciate the Technicolor that was going on all around him, through his human eyes. He wondered if this was what LSD felt like. It was strange, but then again, so was being able to read three books at a time. It was strange, but it felt so natural. Calley was starting to realize something about his genetics that had never quite hit him before: he'd been born for this. Literally.

He took his hand out of his pocket. The black and white vision turned off like a blackout, leaving a part of his mind feeling like he'd carved it out like a jack-o-lantern. Just a small part, though. A small, mouse-shaped part. He set his left hand on his desk, and counted as the watch on their wrist ticked. Tick one. Tick two. Tick twenty nine. Tick thirty.

He put his hand back in his pocket, and touched the mouse. As his consciousness flooded it, it jerked in--he jerked in, in both his bodies--a shaky breath. That was another thing they'd been learning.

If he wasn't touching the splinters, they were nothing. They were just a shape that retained body heat for awhile. They couldn't breathe; could only keep up a heart beat for a maximum of twenty seconds. Twenty seconds. Could they do it in twenty seconds?

I found it.

Found what?

Look.

The mythology book was open to a picture of a serpent. Slate brushed their right hand over the picture. In their pocket, the mouse raised its head at the same time that the teenager leaned forward. The mouse fanned its whiskers. The teenager smiled.

Ouroboros, he recognized it, the tumblers falling into place in his head with a click. Slate sat back smugly; which of them shifted their human form to the edge of their desk like they were ready to get up and run a marathon was up for debate. The snake that bites its own tail. You're a genius, Slate.

Thank you, Slate preened.

They forced themselves to slump down again, as too many heads tried to see what was so interesting. Mythology was interesting, sure; but they didn't really want anyone to strike up a conversation about just how interesting it was. They knew already. Mythology was downright inspiring. Chimera. Enfield. Griffin. Manticore. They'd spent months getting ready for this. They'd been to every zoo in the area. Every aquarium. Every avery. Heck, every petting zoo. They'd practiced the basic shifts in Mondragon Labs itself, feeling like they were going to burst out laughing the whole time. Wolves, porcupines, foxes, scorpions, horses, elephants, cheetahs, antelope, tigers, leopards, snakes, elk, frogs, bats, crows, hawks; they'd been preparing to kill Hunter using his own training rooms. They'd done everything they could with the chimera combinations; everything that wouldn't get them outright caught. There were still kinks, but one thing was for sure: Hunter Antonescu hadn't ever seen anything like him before. It had been nearly fifteen months since they made the mistake of breaking into Hunter's apartment. It was the kind of mistake no one should make twice. Chimera, enfield, griffin, manticore; basic shifting, chimeraing, splintering.

And Ouroboros. The snake that bites its own tail. The teenager's shoulders shook with silent mirth. In his pocket, the mouse scratched contently behind one ear.

We can do this, can't we? There was no need for Slate to answer. There was one last thing they'd been learning. It was the best thing of all. The mouse in their pocket?

It didn't have a collar.

We can do this.

They ate their fill for dinner. They slept deeply that night. In the morning, they left Slate's gray scarf folded on their bed like a promise to return.

Fifteen months later, Calley went to break into Hunter's apartment one last time.

((ooc: Continued in Declaration of War.))