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(WLTK) B1: Chapter 6 - "Billy's New Crib."
🕑 Added 2024-05-03 03:14:17 +0000 UTC————————————————
Thursday, September 22nd, 2253
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Jeremiah hefted one of the boxes with a grunt. For its modest size, it felt deceptively heavy. He glanced over at Mr. Roger, who was casually balancing another equally large box in one hand as if it weighed nothing. At least these were the last of the deliveries that had clogged the hallway all morning.
When Mr. Roger mentioned he’d “ordered a few things” for Billy, Jeremiah hadn’t expected to wake up to a barricade of shipping boxes — nearly two dozen, in all shapes and sizes — stacked high outside his door. He had no idea where he’d store it all.
It seemed Ms. Merry shared his concerns. She stepped out of her apartment, took in the mountain of boxes, and frowned. But instead of turning her attention to Jeremiah, she marched straight over to Mr. Roger’s door and rapped sharply.
After a moment, Mr. Roger answered, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair a bit rumpled.
He yawned, peering down at Merry. “Good morning, Merry. What can I do for you?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
Merry crossed her arms, her frown deepening as she jerked her thumb back into the crowded hallway. “David… what happened to ‘just a few things’?”
Roger followed her gesture and, upon seeing the boxes, his face lit up. “Ah! Excellent! They’ve arrived! I was starting to wonder if they’d gotten lost.” His booming chuckle filled the hall.
Merry arched an eyebrow and shifted her weight onto one hip, arms still folded. “Uh huh… And where exactly do you expect Mr. Bridge to keep all of this?” she asked dryly.
Roger froze mid-laugh, caught in her glare. He rubbed the back of his neck with one massive hand. “Well, uhhh… Young Billy doesn’t need most of this yet,” he replied, waving a hand as if to dismiss the problem. “Some of these are just hard to come by, so my friend sent them in bulk. But don’t worry, I’ll hold onto what’s not needed right now.”
“I can’t possibly impose like that, Mr. Roger, I—” Jeremiah began, but Merry cut him off with a warm, bright smile.
“Oh, of course you can, Mr. Bridge! Especially since this big oaf roped you into such a big favor,” she replied, her voice turning pointed as she looked back at Roger. “Isn’t that right, David?”
Roger grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. “Absolutely! Don’t worry about a thing, boy. This is the least I can do. My apartment’s big enough for a few extra boxes.”
Merry stared him down for another moment, then finally sighed and relaxed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Good. Now get these out of the hallway soon. I don’t want them blocking the way for the other residents any longer than necessary.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Mr. Roger and Jeremiah replied in unison, saluting her.
Merry gave Jeremiah an encouraging smile as both men turned to the task of sorting boxes. “So, you’re going to keep him, then?” she asked gently.
Jeremiah felt his cheeks warm as he glanced away. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered softly.
That first night, Jeremiah was still uncertain whether agreeing to keep the tiny octopus was a good idea. He’d spent hours in bed, turning over doubts and worries, wondering if he’d made a mistake. But over the days that followed, Billy had grown on him. Watching the little creature play in his bowl, Jeremiah found himself growing attached. Especially now that Billy was brave enough to sometimes crawl onto his hand.
It was… nice.
Nice in a way Jeremiah had almost forgotten existed over the last few months. The dark thoughts and sour moods still circled his mind, but it was difficult to dwell on them while watching a palm-sized octopus wrestle a ping-pong ball in its tank. For a few moments, life felt simple again.
Merry beamed at him. “I’m glad to hear that. Take care of that little one, you hear? Or you and I will be having a talk!” Her words were mock-stern, but the warmth in her tone softened them. Jeremiah grinned, snapping off another playful salute. “Understood.”
About half an hour later, Jeremiah and Mr. Roger finished hauling the last of the boxes into Jeremiah’s apartment.
Their job done, Jeremiah gazed at the modest stack of boxes that Roger wasn’t storing next door and froze.
What… now? he wondered.
The boxes were filled with equipment, some familiar, most mysterious. He recognized a couple of filters and the bulky thirty-gallon tank, but the rest looked like pieces of a science experiment. Digging through the nearest box, he fished out what appeared to be an installation manual, flipping through diagrams and instructions he barely understood. How was he supposed to get all of this set up on his own? He still had work today. CSA jobs might be flexible, but if he didn’t show up at the hall early, he’d be stuck with something miserable — like cleaning sewer tunnels.
He shuddered at the thought. The rats and roaches down there got so big that workers were actually issued sidearms before going underground.
Lost in worry, Jeremiah flinched when a large, gentle hand landed on his shoulder.
“Why don’t you head off to work, lad?” Mr. Roger said, smiling down at him. “Don’t worry. Ol’ Roger will have this all set up by the time you get home.”
Jeremiah looked up, frowning. “I can’t just—” he started, but Mr. Roger cut him off with a chuckle.
“Shoo, now. Off with you! Leave it to me.”
Before Jeremiah could protest again, his own door closed firmly in his face.
He stood there a moment, staring at the wood as if it might change its mind, then sighed and shook his head.
Guess I’ll just have to grab breakfast on the way, he thought, turning down the hall toward the day ahead.
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Later That Night
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Jeremiah groaned softly as he dragged himself up the last few stairs to his floor. His legs throbbed, each muscle protesting with every step, and when he reached down to rub them, his back twinged in sharp complaint.
At least it hadn’t been sewer duty, he told himself, though the assignment he’d ended up with wasn’t much better.
Beast corpse removal.
Some fool of a mage had tried to summon a magical beast without a permit or the right safeguards. Like most of those stories, it had ended with the mage dead and the monster loose in the city, rampaging until the local Heroes put it down. That left a mangled, three-story-high carcass sprawled across a major intersection, stinking and steaming in the morning sun.
That’s where the CSA crews came in. Hundreds of workers had spent the entire day butchering, sorting, and hauling away the creature’s remains. It had taken until dusk just to clear the bulk of it; the thing’s weight alone was staggering, several thousand tons of muscle, bone, and magical tissue.
Sure, the city could’ve paid one of the stronger capes to just throw the corpse out to the wilds, but, as the site manager loved to say with his infuriating smirk, “That would be a waste.”
Every part of the beast would be turned into profit. The meat, still glowing faintly with magic, would fetch a fortune at the city’s high-end restaurants. Its skin and scales would be processed into luxury goods for those rich enough to flaunt such things, while the super-dense bones would be snapped up for industrial projects or arcane construction. Even the blood and entrails would be barreled up and carted to alchemists or Fae crafters — people from Glamourmax Corp and similar places — who’d turn them into potions, cosmetics, or strange trinkets for the right buyer.
Not that Jeremiah or any of the other exhausted, gore-soaked workers would see a single credit of that profit.
No, the capes who’d brought the creature down would get their share, and the city would claim the rest. “For reparations,” they’d say, and to cover damages, with the leftovers supposedly going to public projects. But everyone knew where most of that wealth ended up: greasing the pockets of politicians and bureaucrats at the top. It was simply the way of things in Prima City. Or Nexus as a whole.
The powerful few, perched high in their ivory towers, loved to call themselves the protectors and champions of the people. And, to be fair, some tried to live up to that. People like Sarah, who’d put their hearts into helping others, or Maximus, who was always fighting some new threat or another. But even then, corruption and nepotism crept in like rot. There were always those who chased power for its own sake, smiling wide and shaking hands in public, only to bleed you dry in private if you let them.
Some didn’t even bother to hide it. Like the cowls, the so-called ‘Villains’, the media loved to blame for everything. But the truth was, they weren’t the only ones who left their mark on the city, for better or worse.
Jeremiah’s thoughts drifted to Sarah and all the so-called “evidence” that had supposedly been found against her. Most of it had been complete nonsense. He knew that deep down. Yet even so, none of it had appeared out of thin air. Someone, somewhere, had to have been pulling the strings.
His grip tightened on the stairwell’s handrail, knuckles blanching as he climbed.
He paused at his apartment door and drew in a deep breath, willing himself to relax. The lines around his eyes softened, though a faint frown lingered. Over the last few weeks, Jeremiah had gotten better at pushing away the storm clouds in his mind, but every so often, they caught him off guard.
Another steadying breath. He unlocked the door and pushed it open — then froze in surprise, eyes going wide.
“Hey, Jerry boy! Welcome home!” Mr. Roger called from Jeremiah’s couch, a clear glass of water raised in greeting, as if toasting him.
Inside the glass, Billy floated serenely, waving his tiny tentacles in Jeremiah’s direction.
Still a bit confused, Jeremiah slipped inside and closed the door before turning back to the unexpected guest.
“What are you still doing here, Mr. Roger? Was there a problem with the tank?” he asked, scanning the room for signs of trouble.
Mr. Roger’s booming laugh echoed through the apartment. “No, no, my boy, no trouble at all.” He nodded toward Jeremiah’s sleeping nook, gesturing with the hand holding Billy’s glass. Against the wall, where the headboard might have been, stood Billy’s new tank, perched on a sturdy platform.
The tank was a miniature world — clusters of coral and tumbled stones, tangled aquatic plants, and at its heart, a detailed model of a sunken ship. The keel was split in two, the stern blasted open, as if by some ancient sea battle. Scorch marks and algae decorated every surface, lending the wreck a sense of history. Tied to the mast was a little wooden sign that read, ‘Billy’s Room.’
Jeremiah had to admit, it looked incredible.
He turned back to Mr. Roger, who was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m just visiting the little guy,” Roger said, giving the glass another gentle raise. “Call me a sentimental old fool, but I miss the lad already. It’s good to see he’s in such good hands.”
Jeremiah arched an eyebrow at his eccentric neighbor, but only shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
After all, who was he to judge, especially after Roger had spent the entire day assembling Billy’s new home?
“Thank you, Mr. Roger. I really appreciate you taking the time to do all this,” Jeremiah said sincerely.
“No trouble at all, boy. Like I told you before, I was the one who asked you to take Billy in, so it’s the least I could do,” Roger replied. He set Billy’s glass down on the coffee table and rose to his full, imposing height. “Well, now that you’re home, I suppose it’s time I head out. Take care, Jeremiah — and goodnight.”
Mr. Roger smiled, waved down at Billy, and headed for the apartment door. Just as he reached for the handle, he paused and turned back. “Oh! Before I forget. Keep Billy in his bowl for one more night. The tank needs a few hours to finish cycling before it’s safe. You can move him over tomorrow morning before you head to work.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Got it. Goodnight, Mr. Roger. And… thank you, again.”
Roger gave a final grin and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Left alone, Jeremiah let out a long breath and sagged against the wall. Mr. Roger and the rest of the neighbors had been nothing but kind. But after a day like this, all Jeremiah wanted was a hot shower and a chance to collapse into bed.
He crossed the room and picked up the glass where Billy floated, peering at the little octopus through the water. “How about you, little guy? Ready to call it a night?” he asked quietly.
Billy gazed back through the glass, head cocked to one side, his bright blue-white spots glowing faintly in the lamplight.
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Billy was a smart octopus.
He knew this for certain because Uncle Roger had told him so! Uncle Roger had never been wrong, not once in all the time Billy could remember — and Billy had known him his whole life!
That Billy’s life was less than two months long didn’t really matter. For Billy, that was ages!
Wait, what was he thinking about again? Oh, right! Billy was a smart octopus. And like all the smartest octopi, he was very good at paying attention to things. Watching and listening were how you learned, and learning was how you grew up big and strong. At least, that’s what Mama used to say. Billy didn’t really know how learning would make him strong, but if Mama said so, it had to be true.
So Billy tried his very best to learn new things every day. Like the fastest way to eat his shrimp. Or the best way to defeat the Evil Rolling Orb. Or figuring out what the nice shrimp man meant when he made noises at Billy. That last one was really hard. Words were… complicated.
But every day, Billy watched, and listened, and tried. And every day, he learned a little more.
It was because Billy paid such close attention that he could tell something was wrong tonight.
Uncle Roger had finished building Billy’s new room today! It was supposed to be the happiest day ever!
So why did the shrimp man feel so sad?
Not that the shrimp man was never sad. Billy remembered the first day they met, how the shrimp man’s feelings had been heavy and cold. But over time, the sadness had faded a little. Now, though, it felt thick again. Almost like that first day. It made Billy feel heavy inside, too.
And that just wouldn’t do. Not at all. This was supposed to be a happy day!
Billy puffed himself up and gave a little squirt of water, sending sand swirling around his bowl.
But… what was he supposed to do? Billy drooped, letting his arms fall limp.
He thought hard, trying to remember something important. A memory flickered — something Uncle Roger had told him, back when he was a tiny hatchling. Something about making choices that mattered. “One day, you’ll understand, Billy,” Uncle Roger had said, “and when the time comes, you’ll know what to do.” But Billy wasn’t sure he understood, not really.
Still, he knew one thing for certain: he didn’t want the shrimp man to be sad anymore. If there was something Billy could do to help, wasn’t that the right thing to do?
Billy hesitated, uncertain. Uncle Roger had said that if he made this choice, things would never go back to how they were. That it would last for both of their lives. That was a big thing to think about.
Billy gazed through the clear wall of his bowl, staring at the sleeping form of the shrimp man. Even in the near darkness, Billy’s excellent octopus eyes — why did humans have such tiny eyes, anyway? — could see the tightness in the shrimp man’s face. As he watched, a tiny tear slipped down from beneath the closed eyelid.
Billy stared for a long, long moment.
Then, with sudden resolve, he pushed up from the sandy bottom, stretched his arms high, and reached for the rim of the fishbowl.
