Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2)

by Sundin, Jesikah

  She smiled with downcast eyes as her cheeks warmed. It was a look of––what? Fillion stared, perplexed. All the girls in New Eden exhibited a shy response to attention that mystified him. It wasn’t flirtatious but sincere, an aspect of femininity he didn’t understand. Modesty, he realized.

  A man came forward next, ushering a woman and three small children toward Fillion. The older man bowed and extended a folded cloth. “Welcome home, Corlan of Seattle. We are the Kinneck family.” Fillion nearly choked on the word “home,” and he coughed to cover up his response. “My dear wife sewed a tunic for you today. She is happy to tailor to your size if too large.”

  “Oh.” Fillion accepted the neatly folded garment and brushed a curious finger over the fabric. “Thanks, Kinneck family.”

  With subtlety, Fillion looked over the family’s clothing and blinked back the shock. The Kinneck family gave him their best? They should have sewn new garments for themselves. Or at least for their children. Their clothing was frayed, dirty with stains, and thin from constant use. Resources were limited, something he knew before coming into the dome. Have you ever grown clothes from seed? Fillion thought of Leaf’s earlier words before embarrassment shut down all reasoning.

  Families and individuals continued to come forward with introductions and gifts. The offerings confused him as he struggled to comprehend why they would give up precious commodities and items for him. He had never known want, never received a homespun gift. Each item was a testament to their labor, to their survival, to their interdependency. Leaf leaned toward him from time to time, explaining the tradition and custom of a gift or why so-and-so gave it over so-and-so. Information swarmed Fillion’s already buzzing head.

  A pile on the stage grew and displayed garments made from linen, hemp, and wool; a dark, nearly black, woolen cloak with a large hood; wrought iron candle holders and hand-dipped candles; a pillow stuffed with wheat hulls. An older man and woman offered a wool comforter stuffed with feathers, a luxury item he guessed by the stares of wonder and delight—but no jealousy. People were genuinely happy for him to receive this item. He also received soap; a personal grooming kit with a steel razor; a small knife with a carved bone handle that attached to his belt; a leather pouch, also to attach to his belt; linens for bedding; a wooden chair; a mattress cover they referred to as ticking, stuffed with straw; and hemp rope for his bed, which made him quirk an eyebrow. What was the rope for?

  The receiving line finally ended, and he never wanted a cigarette so badly in his life. As if this day wasn’t hard enough. To him, humility parroted shame. It was as if he was supposed to feel guilty for his modern, affluent life. He didn’t choose to be born. He didn’t choose any of this. Now he understood how the homeless must feel––ashamed of their dependency, but moved by a stranger’s care for their needs.

  “New Eden Township, you have welcomed our son, Corlan, in a way that leaves me speechless,” Connor said, holding in emotion as he finished. “I am proud to belong to you.”

  Son? Fillion snapped back to reality and he clamped down on the urge to explode. It was all a lie. A game. He examined the gifts and his stomach clenched as his mind attempted to make sense of what just happened. The gifts and gestures were real. The people were real. This room was real. But Connor’s show? A cold shiver traveled down his body.

  The Fire Element turned to him and continued in warm tones. “You shall reside in the open apartment next to The Forge. After the feast, the matriarchs will see to your comfort this evening.”

  Despite his anger, Fillion resisted the urge to snicker. Mack would make a bad joke right about now. Leaf and Connor looked at him expectantly and Fillion realized he was the closer. “Shit,” he breathed. He looked over the community, absorbing their hopeful faces. These were his employees. Everyone in this room belonged to his inheritance. His eyes scanned the crowd for Willow, but couldn’t find her.

  Fillion shifted on his feet and raised his shoulders higher, forcing a light tone as he said, “Thank you. I’m humbled by your gifts. It’s a memory I’ll tuck away and never forget.”

  The community stood in unison and lowered to one knee as they bowed, even the children. Except a small pocket of individuals near a back corner. They stood and glared at him. A sardonic smile pulled on Fillion’s lips as he tipped his head in reply. With casual movements to appear natural, he looked toward Leaf to see if the noble noticed. But the new Earth Element was also on a knee with lowered head. Fillion wanted to die this instant. God, he couldn’t escape fast enough. Then, he wanted to laugh. The mock-aliens bowed before their new leader. It was too rich. And terrifying.

  One by one, people rose and returned to their seats, plates of food, and conversations. When it appeared OK to disappear, Fillion turned to Leaf. “I’m going for a walk.” Not waiting for a reply, he went straight to the head table, grabbed his leather travel bag, and marched toward the exit.

  The cold air hit his flushed skin in a rush and his body began to tremble. Lanterns lined the path and Fillion pulled out a joint, opened up a lantern and, with shaking hands, lit up. He took a long draw on the joint and closed his eyes. The predictable habit brought a small measure of comfort. Laughter seeped through the large wooden door, and he opened his eyes.

  What were his escape options? Beyond The Orchard was the forest, a perfect place to hide until it was time for the matriarchs to see to his comfort. Shaking fingers steadied the joint in his mouth and he enjoyed another drag.

  In long, quick strides, head down, he walked through The Orchard and entered the forest. Everything was drowned in darkness except for the orange glow of his joint, exactly how he liked it. His mom would say he was afflicted with nyctophilia. But it was a matter of the soul not the mind. The black air didn’t possess expectations or judge those who walked in its presence. It absorbed everything and reflected nothing.

  He flicked the ashes and stopped to snuff them out. With a sigh, he began walking again when he slammed into something. No—someone.

  “Oh shit!” Fillion dropped to a crouch as the collapsed form came to a sitting position. The silhouette took shape as his eyes adjusted. He leaned in closer to get a better look and his eyes widened.

  “Willow—”

  “What are you—”

  They stopped and stared at each other in silence for several seconds, each tick as mentally audible as the heavy rhythm beating in his ears.

  He whispered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” He rolled his eyes at himself. Obviously he didn’t see her. Fillion moved to sit next to her on the leaf-littered ground. “Are you OK? Did I hurt you?”

  “No, sir. I fare well. Thank you. I am astonished by your sudden presence, nothing more.”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “You can hardly blame the night’s lack of light on your intelligence.”

  “Nice.” God, she was a brat and he laughed. This was the first time she had spoken to him since this morning. Alone, together, his senses marinated in the lyrical sound of her voice and his pulse responded. Again.

  “I see the gift ceremony finished. I had left mine behind and went back to fetch it before my brother noticed my absence.” She placed a small jar in his hands. “This is a comfrey compound and should soothe your injuries. Place a small dab on each wound tonight before you sleep.”

  “Thanks.” He brushed his thumb over the clay jar. “Here, let me help you up.”

  Fillion stood and extended his hand. She wrapped her fingers around his and he pulled until she stood before him, inches away. They locked eyes in the limited light and Willow tightened her hold around his hand. He blinked back sudden shyness and tried to steady his breathing. What the hell was wrong with him? No girl had ever rendered him completely useless. Willow released his hand with slow grace, her fingers trailing his until they no longer touched. The absence made his hand cold, but the rest of him filled with pleasurable warmth.

  “You are shaking,” she whispered. He bit the inside of his cheek and remained quie
t. He couldn’t think, let alone speak. “We have both suffered a most grievous day,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Not the most inspired reply, but the only one he could manage.

  “I shall not delay your escape a moment longer, sir.”

  Willow curtsied with a sad smile and then ran off. He watched over his shoulder until she vanished into the black air. And then he breathed again. Would she always haunt what remained of his sanity?

  He resumed his walk and looked for a lighter, groaning when he remembered they didn’t exist in the Middle Ages. “I hate this day,” he muttered. “And I’m still talking out loud like a homeless person.” He was seriously mental.

  Being played by his dad killed him. Being enclosed killed him. Not being there for Lynden killed him. Living a lie killed him. Being out of his element killed him. The gifts from the community killed him. Connor’s false humility killed him. Willow touching him and then running away ... instant death.

  Emotions came to a raging boil and he kicked a rock his shoe discovered. “OK dad, I officially died!” he shouted to the trees. “I'm dead! Do you hear me? I’m dead! Congratulations!” The last word trailed off in a hoarse whisper as he slumped to the ground and leaned against a tree. Angry tears burned his face. His fingers found a small rock and he threw it as hard as he could.

  Fillion buried his face into his knees until the tears gave up. Like him. The breeze rustled the leaves, a soothing sound that eventually lulled him to sleep. His head, drugged by exhaustion, rolled to the side and then snapped up. What had jabbed his head and shoulder? Fillion whipped his head from side to side and studied the darkness. How long had he been in the forest? And what the hell was poking his head? He lifted his fingers to explore and groaned when feeling the Crown of Honor, thunking the back of his head against the trunk of the tree, earning him another poke. He loosed an angry breath. Damn, it was cold. The night’s chill blanketed him and his teeth chattered, pissing him off once again.

  With slow movements, he grabbed the jar, stood, and brushed off his pants before hoisting the travel bag over his shoulder. Fillion looked around the forest until he oriented himself in the direction of the Great Hall and began a death march back to the community. He had an appointment to keep with the matriarchs.

  ***

  What game doesn’t have rules? Is it even possible to imagine chess if there were no rules to the game? ... All games are this way, in various degrees, and larping is no different.

  Rules are the invisible barriers of a larp. They hem the game world in while keeping everything else out. They are the catalyst of collaboration toward the goal of group pretending. Rules give a framework to everyone so that pretending in the same space is viable...

  [The] integrity of group pretending is based solely on what everyone assents to. When a group agrees on what is possible via rules, options become available in the pretend space where there were none. If there are no rules there is no balance.

  — Dave Funk, “LARP Definition,” LARPing.org, 2013 *

  ***

  Sunday, October 4, 2054

  An ethereal blue light bathed Fillion’s skin as he lay in bed with one arm tucked behind his head. With his other hand he swiped, dragged, and tapped at holographic screens until his arm cramped with fatigue. Mind over matter, he kept telling himself. He successfully hacked into the device and went to work. His arm and hand moved on autopilot as his mind continued to process all of the events of the night.

  The rest of the feast had passed in a slow and torturous blur, like everything else Fillion had encountered in New Eden. The Elements were pissed, but they plastered on plastic smiles for the crowd. Willow had sat next to him and stared at the table, pushing food around on her plate. The emotions visibly evaporated off of her body in a hot steam. Understandable. They both had died inside this day and could do nothing about it except fester.

  She only acknowledged his presence when he poured her a glass of wine. His near drunken state found courage to whisper in her ear, “Drink up and drink fast.” Yeah, he was a goddamn poet. Her eyes lifted from the table and shifted toward his. Their faces were millimeters apart and he stilled, taking in her image. The low-lit room amplified her beauty, and his eyes had trailed over her face, resting on her mouth a few seconds, before meeting her curious gaze.

  Self-control was never harder. But he slowly inched away and returned his focus onto his half-eaten plate of food. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she gracefully reached for her goblet and sipped the wine as quickly as possible and still remain lady-like. When she placed the cup back onto the table, he filled it up again without a glance her direction.

  Eventually, Skylar stood and announced he was “retiring.” So, Fillion used the buddy exit strategy and did the same. He thanked The Elements for a nice evening, wanting to gag on each word. Connor volunteered that the apartment was to the left of The Forge, and then Fillion staggered out of the Great Hall.

  It was weird having a place of his own. He didn’t know what to expect when the matriarchs assigned to ensure his comfort arrived, either. He soon realized they were assigned because they had the longest time in the outside world and, therefore, had experience “hosting” guests. Whatever that meant in New Eden. Several times he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes.

  The apartment was sparse. But they introduced every piece of furniture in case he was blind and didn’t notice the only chair in the living room. Or the bed—no, cot—filling up most of the bedroom—no, bedchamber. And he figured out what the ropes were for. Disturbed, he fetched the ropes from the living room at the head matriarch’s request, unsure of where this was heading. He snickered quietly to himself when he strung the bed frame to hold the mattress—no, ticking filled with straw.

  They excused themselves not too long afterwards and he was once again left alone with his dangerous thoughts and emotions. Apathy began to numb some of the anger and pain, but it was always short-lived. He needed to stay focused. The Cranium was vulnerable now that he had wiped out the security key. But that’s as far as he could get. His eyes burned from strain and exhaustion and refused to stay open.

  The contacts screen popped up with a tap, and he scrolled down until he found Mack’s info. The line opened up and he closed his eyes as the outgoing tone hummed in his head.

  “Dreaming about me? I think you miss me terribly, bishounen,” Mack said. Fillion opened his eyes to his friend’s mischievous smile and random spikes of blue, green, and white hair.

  “Nah. I have a new lover. He’s way cuter than you, too.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’m not done using you, though.”

  “That’s all right. My lack of self-esteem makes me user-friendly.”

  Fillion rolled his eyes. “You’re pathetic.” Mack flipped him off, followed by a long string of swear words, and Fillion replied with a tiny, humored smile. “OK, not so pathetic. I need your brain right now. Mine is at maximum capacity.”

  “Sure thing, mate.”

  “I need to lock my door.”

  “You want me to mail you the key or do it for you remotely?”

  “Remotely. I’m about to shut down and go into sleep mode.”

  “You’re such a machine,” Mack said with a wink and flirtatious grin.

  Fillion smirked and ran a hand through his hair. Sometimes he wished he was a machine. He would factory reset and reprogram his life.

  “OK. I’m in.” Mack flashed Fillion a wry grin. “Here it goes.” His friend’s face relaxed in concentration as he began to swipe commands. Fillion opened up the minimized screen as a layer and watched as the new secure key downloaded in rapid fire. “Shit,” Mack sighed when the download stopped. “Forgot a bit of protection.” There was a brief pause, then the download started up again. Fillion struggled to remain focused as sleep tempted him with darkness and nothingness. Several minutes later the minimized screen refreshed to a new user interface. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”


  “You need to work on your rhythm,” Fillion said. Both stared at each other with straight faces and then broke into laughter.

  “You’re an ass.”

  “Keep saying that. Maybe one day it’ll be true.”

  His friend grinned. “Get a hint.”

  “Ignorance is bliss and way more fun.”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  Fillion yawned. “Brawl with my dad.”

  “Seriously? Shit. Who won?”

  “He had police backup.” He strained to focus. “How’s Lyn?”

  “Relieved and pissed to see your mom.” Mack looked away.

  “At least she’s aware enough to have emotions.”

  Mack’s face grew serious, a look his friend rarely exhibited. “She’ll start medical treatments and rehab tomorrow. I’ll be there all day. I’m in the parking lot right now.” Fillion nodded and swallowed back the rising emotions. “They found the guy. DNA matches with the skin under her fingernails. The biometric stats led them right to an apartment near the waterfront. Your mom officially pressed assault charges. The police found my DNA on him, too, but let it go when I explained the situation.”

  “Damn. What a mess.” Fillion tensed as a slew of emotions barreled through him. “I’m glad Lyn doesn’t have to worry that he’ll find her and finish the job.”

  “Yeah, I thought the same thing.” Mack studied him a half-second. “He didn’t know who she really was. I think he shit his pants when he found out.”

  “Like it matters,” Fillion ground out, then yawned. “Sick bastard.”

  Mack pinched his eyebrows together again. “Hey, I looked up your ghost and couldn’t find a record anywhere on the network you mentioned. I’ll keep hunting, though.”

  Fillion nodded, then slurred, “I don’t mean to use you and leave you, but I’m falling asleep.”