Chapter 32: Come Back (Part 2: Finale)

Going down the second hill, the academy building visible behind the capsule platforms, Milo tripped and fell on his front.

"Oww!"

The flail’s spikes dug into his stomach, and he scrambled upright.

His hands went to the sweater and the sweater alone, not even checking what bruising might’ve occurred.

He sighed in relief. There was no hole in the fabric.

As for the conclusion Milo hoped others would reach, it was that Aldous overshot his finishing blow.

Since the elusive ghost had gotten away on the first night, the search continued into the next. Who cared if the errand had been permitted; the Warden’s ego would not handle a loss, so he would sneak out whether he was told to try again or not.

Due to sleep deprivation and fatigue, the Plague’s Host got the better of him. A desperate Aldous wrecked his own flail, and the blood loss folded him soon after.

Each step made the chains of the flail ring.

That’s a problem.

Under the sweater, Milo settled the chain over one shoulder, as Aldous had. He hunched to trap the links against his chest and drew his stomach away from the spikes. A boy limping home with a stomachache and nothing else.

Now, the worst was supposed to be behind him.

Exhaustion had been stacking all those days, and with no adrenaline left, the route back hit harder than the whole fight.

He stopped to get his breath back.

"Cenotaph?"

[ The first claimed Host of a trait grants its Section. ]

[ Every later Host of a claimed trait grants one Cenotaph: a single fixed ability outside the Tree. ]

[ The Shroudwalk granted the Section. ] 𓂃🖋

"I have no Cenotaphs."

[ Correct. ] 𓂃🖋

At some point in the hobble, he noticed he had started humming the stewardess safety demo himself.

"Tu-du-du... look for the signs glowing green in the aisle, count up the rows to the exit while..."

He pressed his lips together.

...

"Hm... The Gauge?"

[ The Gauge: 0% ]

[ What is claimed still wants to happen. ] 𓂃🖋

"Zero?" Eyes on the building’s concrete, he barely saw the text. "What happens at a hundred?"

[ Consultation is a Day Development. ] 𓂃🖋

"Thank you. I love you. I will consult ya."

Milo reached the academy gates and veered to where he had escaped from, the night’s dew slicking the iron under his palms.

After scaling the gate with his Iron Turnhook, he planted himself on top and took out the flail. Only afterwards did the grille on the ground register.

Hadn’t it been farther left?

He looked along the fence, checked the windows, and looked down at it again.

No one was there.

"Bent Path?" he whispered.

The paper materialized again, the ink assembling into words with a dry scritch-scritch!

"Faster... faster!"

[ Bent Path ]

[ The head may bend its arc after the swing begins. ] 𓂃🖋

"Fast Hold?"

[ Fast Hold ]

[ The Flail cannot be torn from a living grip; it leaves the hand only when released. ] 𓂃🖋

That was how Aldous pulled off all his moves.

Milo looked up.

And that was also how he would enter.

With trembling hands, he took his sweater off and wrapped it around the flail’s head. He straightened the chain out and inserted the tip of the turnhook into the gap between the metal links.

"Thanks, Aldie."

He rose to his feet, the iron bars pressing into the soles of his boots as his body swayed.

A fall from here would break his legs at worst.

Four meters, plus a flail that could bend its arc after the swing began.

He gave the sweater a last tug, and lunged at the mouth of the ventilation.

Hands up, he drove the hook into the rim and flung the flail farther in until it faded to a bare outline; the cotton-wrapped weight sailed into the black of the duct.

Thwack!

Despite the sweater, the echo ran down the duct.

Normally, metal would’ve slid on metal, but with the hook jammed in the links, Milo was free to worry about the whole construction collapsing rather than about himself alone plummeting down onto the grass.

He climbed the chain up to the lip, arms shaking at the last stretch of hauling himself into the tunnel.

Like nothing had happened, he made for the bathroom. The metal dimpled and popped under his elbows and his knees.

Before the drop, he gently worked the sweater off the spikes and checked it over. Luckily, the count of holes remained at zero.

The plates were slicker than expected, though. His knees slipped on the metal.

As the bathroom floor came up beneath him, he threw out both hands.

Thud!

Milo landed in a handstand.

Rattle-Crash!

The Iron Turnhook and Flanged Flail dropped down beside him.

...Plop!

His exposed back came down flat.

The cold of the tiles spread under him, and he lay there, fulfilled and victorious.

"But this doesn’t end here..."

Groaning, Milo sat up by a wall and reached for his items. After yet surviving inspection number three, the sweater went on, flail following suit.

He stood a little at a time, keeping the chain pressed against his chest.

The hook openly rode in his grip, as there was a story for that one.

When he limped over to the sinks, far more light than he anticipated poured down his body.

An attempt to close the door he’d broken rolled fresh noise along the walls.

Schrrrrr!

Wood peeled off the frame. Unless he wished to conjure another bang, ajar was as closed as it would get.

Milo faced the mirror.

Twin caves looked out from under drooping lids, his stare fixed on a distant patch of nothing in particular.

"Oh..."

His jaw had given out, the mouth hanging open, so he brought a hand up and shut it manually.

A full inhale set off more bruises than he could count.

"Milo?"

Milo jumped, the flinch snapping his head out to the corridor and onto the person in the doorway.

Long pink coils shadowed the girl’s eyes and nose. The frown underneath was small, and getting smaller.

He was preparing an excuse, but she beat him to it.

"Come back," Layla said. "Please."

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⋆˚࿔ Coming right up: "Out of Sight" ... ⤵︎ [!]