Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[10] Quentin - Negotiation

Quentin was uncertain of the sensation that flowed throughout his body at that given moment; could it have been shock, that a potent and significant individual such as the mayor of the city himself had chose to visit the police department rather than grieve the loss of his daughter? Or was it wonder, filling his mind with the fog of inquisitive thoughts, words grouping themselves into sentences to express the perplexity that had promptly arose due to the situation? Could it not have been both of these, intermixing like how the steady escalation of the high waves would, once again, crash into the vastness of the ocean, being one with its body after a brief parting of the blue?

It was anomalous of the mayor to involve himself in a murder case, but then again, the case being currently spoken of had been brought forth into existence due to the death of his only daughter. As a mayor, it was inadvisable to be entangled with the knots of a murder case, not to mention the likes of Quentin and the others. But as a father, he most probably would take any sort of action if it entails the lifetime imprisonment of his daughter's killer. Which is why Quentin had come to realize that the mayor of the city did not arrive at the police department as the leader of the city, the guide and compass of multitude of individuals that dwelled within Everhill City.

He appeared at the solemn station as a father of Beatrice Marriyon.

The man was seated upon the lone chair that was the only one of its kind in the room, which Asphodel has relinquished occupation at an instantaneous speed to settle himself betwixt Quixote and Avada, and his face displayed nothing but the agony of a defeated father, as though his prosperity of being the land's leader had blindly led him to a path of exposing his daughter to the dangers of what lurked within his city. Although it seems as if the mayor had received a decent and sufficient amount of sleep last night, his presence emitted that of a tired individual, body hunched to a slight degree, expressing how it could scarcely tolerate and carry the weight of his dejected soul. His hair, usually kempt in photos and during the brief moments whenever Quentin's eyes would somehow manage to catch sight of the mayor passing by on the road as he sat at the back of his car, window open half through, was now a disheveled mop of hair, further accentuating the dire impact of the conundrum had on him both as a father and mayor.

This wasn't the same individual that aided Everhill City and its residents through the disordered aftermath of a rabid typhoon, who assured its people of help, light, and guidance. This, indubitably, was not that mayor who appeared at the very beginning of a program he had proposed and ensured would take place, planting saplings and seeds at the park alongside various of community workers and volunteers in order to enhance the state of the location and maintain the beauty of the nature of Everhill City. Maybe he had been that individual, Quentin being present during the planting of trees and flowers at the park to be able to witness the shine in the mayor's eyes, the joy immensely evident upon his visage, but the remnants of his greatness wasn't a legacy of wealth and prosperity that illuminated the city in ardent glory, but was rather a shattered spirit sinking into the depths of regret, self-loathing, and tribulations.

For a fleeting moment, the mayor's exhausted entity altered into that of Quentin's father, the image so ephemeral in Quentin's eyes that it surprised him to a considerable degree, which he desperately attempted to conceal with it being a success. Quentin's father was incessantly in a state of drunken stupor and fury, and he hardly ever beheld the man possess a sudden change of behavior, even if it were only for a day, but there were moments when he could no longer protect himself with liquor and anger from the melancholy of losing the love of his life. Spirit fragmented, eyes exhausted, face downcast, as if he were deliberately taking a sojourn in the past for the sake of the distant memories, in which the life of his wife flowed through her as it had so back then. Quentin could see his father amid these sporadic times of forlornness on the mourning mayor of Everhill City as he sat in front of five juveniles.

They were so identical, but the only difference that lingered was the mystery of how would the mayor deal with the sudden loss, as Quentin's father had resorted to alchohol.

He hoped he would not stray to a duplicate path.

"I know that Detective Gomez had informed you five of what happened," the mayor began, clearing his throat to be rid of the sorrowfulness in his voice. "I had just been told that you have chosen to decline in helping with the case, and I completely understand as to why. You're teens, have responsibilities as a student and child, and would rather not wish to be involved in a murder case. But I am here, begging that you at least reconsider your decision. My daughter... I can't just let her die without bringing her justice. And I won't be able to achieve that without the help of you five."

Desperation was prominent in the mayor's voice, sounding as if he was intertwined with the outstretched tentacles of darkness, gradually pulling him down into nothing but the pitch blackness of the under, and his words were the only thing that could aid him in being able to grasp the light that slowly blurred by the distance.

Quentin was, as he was at the very beginning, baffled. "I don't understand, mayor. You have Detective Gomez here, the entire police department. Why would you need our help?"

"Also," Avada added, "a little tip. The best way to actually earn someone's help is to not snatch them away and lock them up in some suffocating room with no information given." She pointed to Gomez accusingly, although slightly hesitant at her actions. "These assholes kidn*pped us, locked us in, and then suddenly came in barging into the room and dropped a f*****g bomb above our heads about how we should help with the case. Like, are you asking for our help or are you expecting us to?"

"If I did that to someone, then I wouldn't be surprised if they would refuse to lend a hand," Quixote spoke. "You guys are f*****g jokes."

"How else would you have done it then?" Detective Gomez snapped, the annoyance quick to settle upon his features. "You ran when my colleagues found you. We had to chase Soul through an alleyway, witnessed her almost be the cause of an accident because she wasn't f*****g looking when she crossed the street, and two citizens were in bruises because she used a damn pan against them. And we caught Asphodel walking out of a*****e after he had just robbed it with guile. We know that the instant you see us coming your way, you'll make a run for it, because you're guilty and are on the verge of being caught."

"Hey!" Soul exclaimed. "Those boys tried to tackle me first. It was self-defense."

"And I didn't run." Avada crossed her arms right in front of her chest, defiant. "Quentin didn't, too."

"You would've if given the chance, Avada. But you knew your-" Gomez immediately halted with his words, the unfinished sentence hovering between both him and Avada, the remorse quick to emerge on his face. In spite of the incompletion of what Gomez had articulated, Quentin did not fail in espying how it had greatly left a negative impact upon Avada, her shock morphing into that of a snarl of a threatened beast, for she knew, and was especially certain, of what the detective had wished to say to her face. Detective Gomez cleared his throat, the tension thickening swiftly, akin to how tenebrous, ash-gray clouds would spread across the vastness of the sky, floating overhead the myriad of cities, and he spoke in a relatively gentler manner than he did earlier. "The point is, we didn't have that much of a choice."

"As I don't, as well," the mayor begged. "I will do anything if it means to have the five of you participate in solving the case."

"Nobody's asking the correct question here," Soul remarked, her statement the cause for all of the questioning gazes in the room to pin on her.

Quentin mentally hoped, with a considerable amount of fervor, that she didn't intend to spout out some sort of appalling nonsense which could further escalate the possibilty of having them in more trouble than they currently already were. He was frequently nervous with whatever Soul wanted to express, as she discarded considerations and the proper method of rightfully maintaining a conversation with the lack of verbal assault, and Quentin often attempted to at least subdue the harshness that is her, but it wasn't the fact that he failed in being successful with the task at hand. Rather, it was that his soul, his body, they betrayed him at a constant. One glance, one smile - as she always did towards him, yet the mischief and venom would never go unnoticed - and every single horrendous aspect of her, which were what mostly comprised of her, were perceived by Quentin's eyes as inconsequential details next to the ones that sparked a tiny light of goodness within her.

He has yet to witness these aforementioned embers of kindness, but Quentin was sure that Soul was not rid of it completely.

She continued, "why do you want our help? Why us? Or maybe..." Her eyes glinted maliciously and she raised an eyebrow, as though challenging the man seated in front of her, "you don't have full trust in the police department?"

"That's absurd," Detective Gomez blurted out furiously.

"You're a detective." Soul built a facade of innocence, wide-eyed. "Should you not be skeptical of the mayor's actions in refusing to wholly hand you the case?"

"Soul," Quentin warned in a whisper, placing his hand upon her shoulder, the size of it threatening to gaze at on the body of such a frail-looking girl as her. "I'm sure the mayor has his reasons."

"And it is what's true," the mayor spoke up, and Quentin almost emitted a sigh of relief when he espied no hint of anger in the face of the man. It seemed as though the mayor had a far more superior patience than Detective Gomez has in terms of dealing with delinquents such as themselves, most especially Soul who often harnessed malignance through her words. "I can see through your actions, Miss Soullianne. Trying to turn me against the police to have you removed from the situation."

"Well, seeing as there are no options left for me to be led towards that outcome..." she tilted her head slightly and rolled her eyes.

"You do have an option to deny," the mayor informed. "But all I ask is that you reconsider, for I am here to negotiate." He addressed to the five of them. "What is it that you five want? Money? A clear record? Scholarship?"

"This is bribery!" Avada exclaimed.

"It isn't," he calmly denied. "I am giving you what you want or need in exchange for your services. It's the same as Detective Gomez or any of the police officers. They obtain their salaries every month and in return, they solve cases, arrest criminals, keep the city in constant state of safety. It's a job, but not an illegal one, which you all are familiar with, if I'm not mistaken. I am seeking help, and I am entirely grateful if ever you choose to aid in unraveling this mystery, but I know that you are struggling children. This case would become a temporary burden, so I have opted to offer each of you a reward to at least ease the pain of having to solve a difficult case alongside Detective Gomez and many of the others in the department."

"What about our parents?" Avada inquired. "Will they know that we are in this?"

"Yes-"

"No!" Someone yelled in alarm, a voice that Quentin had heard, but not frequently, as though listening was what the owner had chosen to do rather than to expound their opposition, akin to how Quixote, Avada, and Soul had done so in the past few minutes. It was Asphodel and his sudden outburst of disapproval startled everyone in the room, like how a ghost would go unnoticed until the very moment when it would decide to scream or whisper into the ear of an incognizant guest, earning a terrorized screech from them. Asphodel began explaining, "I can't-my parents can't know. I'm not joining, but if ever I change my mind, they can't know about this."

"Why's that?" Gomez quizzed.

"They're..." Asphodel's countenance expressed his discomfort in undeniable clarity, yet Quentin had also caught sight of his attempt in concealing it from them. He hesitated to continue. "They're not exactly supportive parents. They would much rather prefer that I focus myself on the bible and other programs related to the church. If they know I'm deliberately involving myself in this, they won't ever let me out of the house again."

Quentin stole a glance at the small boy, the youngest individual among the many within the room, and his gaze could not help but pin themselves on the Band-Aid stuck across the bridge of his nose, the bruise on his forehead shyly peeking from behind the strands of his unkempt hair. If Asphodel were a teen leading a life of normalcy, the concern of his mind as of the moment no doubt directed towards video games, school work, and friends, then it would be deemed unfair for Quentin to instantaneously assume that Asphodel dwelled in a household of sinister coercion, toxic abuse, and boundless expectations from the individuals that he would refer to as parents. But Asphodel was not a teen leading a life of normalcy, for he was far more sunk into the depths of illegal deeds, just as the five of them were, too. Quentin did not know Asphodel to a personal level, had only been acquainted with him now due to the situation which had been borne afterwards Beatrice Marriyon's dumbfounding death, but he possessed an inkling in regards to the small boy's resolute refusal of having his parents become aware of his involvement with the case.

Asphodel was afraid of what would become of him if his parents were to know. They have inexhaustible power over him, not to mention carry an impact as to how Asphodel would lead himself into choosing options. It was a sickening thought for Quentin; having complete and utter control over one's child, as though they were birthed to be manipulated and molded in order to become an identical image the parents had produced within their minds. A carbon copy of their expectations, of their wishes, desires, and ambitions.

Only humanized.

"If that is what you want, Mister Asphodel, then I shall respect that," the mayor said. "But do know that it will greatly impact your performance, if you ever do decide to agree with what I am proposing."

"If you keep lying to your parents about where you're going everyday, they'll begin to grow skeptical," Gomez warned. "Eventually, they'll find out and you'll be in deeper trouble."

"How 'bout make up an even more better lie that would align with his parents' wants?" Quixote suggested.

"Elaborate," the mayor urged.

"Just make up some dumb lie about how Asphodel is going out more often and will be home less because he's been called by the church to offer his services. Something like that. Or Gomez can just go and say that he'll be borrowing Asphodel for a while because God told him so."

Asphodel frowned, obviously in opposition. "That's using God's name in vain or using it to do immoral deeds behind my parents' backs. I must honor my father and mother. That is what's written-"

"Yeah, well, you've been forging and stealing and doing immoral deeds way before this. Why are you suddenly sprouting holy s**t in front of my face?"

"If Gomez decides to lie to Asphodel's parents," Quentin began, "how he will be needing him for some sort of church program or whatever, then that'll mean he's in Gomez's care. If something happens to him, his parents will ultimately confront the church, who then would deny, before heading towards Gomez, who will be blamed and accused for not protecting and watching over Asphodel properly."

Soul cackled just as Quentin crossed his arms to express his disapproval of her unsolicited glee regarding possible unfortunate events in the near future. "Don't you guys ever forget that the murderer is still not captured. They might crawl into your room at night and kill you to keep themselves shrouded in thick mystery."

"Do not fret. I will make certain that your safety is ensured," the mayor reassured.

"That's a lot of promises, mayor." Soul's lips stretched wide into a devilish smile. "You're not an invincible man, you know."

"I, myself, know that more than anyone else, Miss Soullianne. More than you."

"Okay, but why are we talking as if we already agreed to do this job?" Avada asked impertinently.

"Can you wipe my criminal record?" Quixote directly asked the mayor, earnest.

He responded, without daring to pause or even hesitate in his words, "is that what you most desire to obtain?"

"No, it isn't. But I want to know."

"I am unable to do so, but I have various of connections. They'll be successful in carrying out the task with triumph."

"Then I'm in," Quixote declared.

"You sure about this, Quixote?" The worry in Quentin's voice was undeniable, but he, too, was certain of his decision in aiding with the unraveling of this mystery. There were clues to be sought out, puzzles to be deciphered, a murderer to be captured and thrown behind the thick, rusty bars of prison. Quentin had nothing to lose if he involved himself, for his father cared little for him and his education had never crossed his mind to be a priority in life, but he did have something to gain.

"I am, Quentin."

Finally convinced, he transferred his gaze from Quixote towards the mayor, and with much seriousness, announced, "I'm in too, mayor."