Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Obigor does not whine for food, but he does give us both reproachful looks as food-laden forks pass over his head. He and I have suffered through a lot of things together. This is just one more weird thing we never saw coming.
The food is good. Really good. Order knows how to cook. That surprises me, though it probably shouldn’t. He is a very competent creature.
“Is this your mom’s recipe?”
“I don’t have a mother,” he says. “Or a father. I, like my siblings, was hatched.”
“Even spiders have mothers, though.”
“I’m not a spider.”
“You’re a hero?”
“Alright,” he says, setting the forks down. “Time to answer your questions, detective.”
It tickles me that I’m apparently interrogating him while bound and prone and slightly covered in pasta sauce, but hey, whatever works. Order sits back in the chair, his upper hands clasping together, second pair of hands below that, and third below them. His index fingers of all six hands steeple as he begins what I can only describe as a lecture.
“At the end of the Second World War, scientists were working on all manner of new technologies in the effort to end the bloodshed.”
“Like the Manhattan Project.”
“Like the Manhattan Project,” he nods. “All the projects were top secret. The Manhattan Project is now public knowledge because the nuclear bomb was deployed in such a way that its existence could not be denied. Our existence, the creation of my siblings and myself, that was a different matter. That remained a secret. It was so secret that not even the military were aware of it.”
“Wait. Does that mean you are almost eighty years old?”
“No,” he laughs. “I was a later hatchling. The first generation of heroes is dead, but some of them found that they were able to procreate in different ways. Some with each other. Others with human females or males.”
“I feel like I’m being set up to hear something extremely gross,” I say.
He looks offended, and I immediately feel guilty.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean you’re gross. I just can’t imagine giving birth to a spider baby.”
I’m making this worse, actively worse with every single thing I say. I decide to stop talking.
“Our kind is unlikely to survive beyond another generation, in large part due to the sentiments you expressed, but moreso because our initial mission no longer exists. We were made to be super soldiers. We were made chimeras, imbued with the powers of other creatures. It was our creator’s desire that we be able to function in environments that normal humans would immediately perish in. My skills, for instance, are designed to be deployed in mountainous regions, or areas with low access.”
“Spider things,” I murmur. “So your creator. He was inspired by mostly insects, it seems?”
“There are a great many powers contained in the insect kingdom that, when harnessed by creatures with human size and intellect, make for fearsome foes. Justice is able to fly. I am able to climb vertical surfaces…”
I am tempted to ask him to show me that trick but this is not the time. He is telling me something he has no doubt never told anyone, sharing properly. I like this side of him. I love it when he opens up to me and lets me into his world a little more. It’s also kind of hot to hear him explain things in his formal, slightly stern way. I don’t think he means anything by it, it is just how he is.
For a little while, it is almost like this is a romantic getaway, very secluded and absolutely intimate. Order talks and I listen. He tells me about a big old factory that is actually their ancestral home, as it were, subterranean layers that descend deep into the earth and provide the conditions for storing and gestating new hero eggs. It sounds like an amazing place, and I am starting to get quite excited to see it.
In the midst of our conversation, a little white-tipped ginger paw establishes itself on my knee, and Obigor looks up at me with his perfectly round little eyes. He’s very polite about it, but I know exactly what he wants.
“Obigor needs food. I guess there’s no senior dog food in this vault, and you didn’t give me a chance to get his special food out of the car.”
“He can have leftovers.”
“No, he can’t. He’s an old man. He gets pancreatitis if he eats anything too high fat.”
Order looks at me, then back at Obigor. “I will make him something low in fat with appropriate protein and vegetable content.”
“He needs his proper food,” I insist. “It’s very expensive, and it’s formulated specifically for his breed and his age. He might get an upset tummy if we change the food. We have to get out of here tonight.”
He sighs at me. “You are testing my patience.”