[Name: The Crest and its Killers]
[Genre: High Fantasy]
I stared at the messages on the fiction chute’s terminal window while checking the alley for anyone who would interrupt the process.
[Originality: 99.86%]
Pride flowed through me as I read the number so close to 100% originality. That meant precisely what Papa deserved—that there was nothing quite like The Crest and its Killers across any medium—film, books, television, plays, etcetera.
I removed his urn from my bag and held it so he could see. “Look, Papa,” I said. “It’s not ‘rehashed garbage.’ Not at all.” I wished he had been there to laugh at that or to hold my shoulder and tell me it didn’t take much to defy the giants. You just needed to tell a different story.
More messages continued scrolling.
[Word Count: 204,687]
[Narrative Complexity: 94.45%]
[Character Depth: 91.20%]
[Plot Consistency: 96.00%]
[Market Appeal: 38.75%]
The most intriguing of the stats before me was Market Appeal. At 38.75%, it put The Crest in a niche audience. Papa would have liked that, knowing only a few people would have appreciated his work.
[Estimated time to reach mass-market popularity: 28.7 years]
I didn’t care much about this stat, though it was pretty high, given that some shows could “reach mass-market popularity” in a few weeks or even days. I’m not sure Papa would want to reach mass-market popularity if he had the opportunity, so this number suited him.
“Guess it’s an acquired taste, Papa,” I said, clutching his urn.
[Estimated production time: 2 weeks]
This number was larger than most shows and further correlated with the rest of the stats. If it were ever adapted, The Crest would need lots of unique art, characters, plots, lines of dialogue, and effects.
The next figure—the one I had been waiting for—took its time to appear.
[Appraising…]
I clenched Papa’s urn, still unsure. The previous metrics had been hopeful, but fiction’s value decreased daily.
[…]
I braced myself for the worst news.
[…]
[Value: 486,000 PHP]
I read the number and froze. I kept a firm grip on Papa’s urn while attempting to understand what I was reading. I blinked and reread.
[486,000 PHP]
It was almost 100 times more valuable than the books I had looted from the capture drone.
I started thinking of the ways this could be spent. I could pay for the rest of Janice’s journalism tuition. We could move out of our and into an upscale apartment in a safe neighborhood. I could even buy a car, which would secure more income for me in the future.
[Submit? Y/N]
My heart raced. The chute’s ‘Y’ button seemed twice as large as the ‘N’ button, magnified by excitement. Without thinking, I smashed ‘Y’ to confirm, nearly dropping Papa’s urn.
I steadied myself as more messages appeared.
[Deposit Fee (1%): 4,860 PHP]
[Final Value: 481,140 PHP]
God, even the deposit fee was sizable. I could have lived off that alone for a week.
Weather-beaten silver hardware keys occupied most of the space next to the chute’s screen. Previously, I had used my phone to sync the details to my account. But seeing as I didn’t have one anymore, I used them this time to input my bank account details.
A raindrop brushed my arm. Papa’s urn felt cold in my grip. I know it was impractical to operate the chute with one hand, but I wanted Papa to be near me for this moment. I wanted him to see how valuable his work was.
His work.
Not mine.
[Checkout? Y/N]
My finger hovered over the ‘Y’ button, but I hadn’t pressed it yet. I couldn’t. My mind had finally slowed down, and I found a chance to gather my thoughts.
What the hell was I doing? Papa hated the Giants even more than I did. What would he say if he were next to me? I could almost hear him calling from Beyond, telling me this was selling out and that I should find a way to live that doesn’t exploit me. Then again, was there any way to live without being exploited?
It could even be said that I was exploiting Papa right now. I hadn’t created The Crest, I inherited it—and I would cash it out. What did that make me? Was I really doing this for him, or was I doing it for myself because I didn’t know how to make it alone?
The mud behind me squished. I looked behind and saw a man standing there. He was staring straight at me.
“Just a second,” I said. “I’m almost done here.” I could always come back later and make up my mind, though I could feel the way I was leaning.
More footsteps crunched the ground as the man stepped closer.
“Okay, okay,” I said, a slight fervor leaking into my voice.
I pressed the ‘N’ button, and the lid shot open.
I instinctively placed myself between the man behind me and the open chute, where the papers comprising The Crest lay inside.
The man had stopped walking, but I could see his shadow casting behind me and onto the chute. I quickly grabbed the papers and shoved them into my back. Some crumpled, but I could always rewrite their passages to preserve the meaning. I would go back and ensure I had everything, before submitting again tomorrow.
I turned to go.
“Jayson,” said the man.
I stopped and looked behind me.
The man stood in darkness now, as if intentional. It wasn’t Reggie or Andrei. He was a bit taller than both, older. He reminded me of someone.
“I hope you’re not thinking of giving that to the Giants,” he said.
I didn’t know what he was getting at, but I knew I didn’t want to be here any longer.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Alright,” I said, and walked away.
“Jayson Bernal Vargas!” the man called, with the authority of a father figure.
I stood quite still then, turning around again.
The man had stepped closer to me, though still kept his distance. He splayed his hands out in front of him as if to show he was unarmed.
I had entertained, briefly, the possibility that I was speaking to my father’s ghost. Now, illuminated by the light, I could see this man’s body was not transparent. His skin was moreno, and his head was shaved. Most of all, though, was his resemblance to my father. It was uncanny.
“What if I told you that you can get way more than 400K PHP for that?” the man asked.
I was simultaneously trying to reconcile the man’s words with his appearance and familiarity. Where had I seen him before?
It hit me then.
I had seen him on Facebook and in my Messenger conversations when I tried to contact him, only to receive silence. He had ignored me. Now, he was here.
I cleared my throat. “Uncle Nestor?”
----------------------------------------
The urn was solid black, not gilded or adorned. You would not distinguish it from other curios if you saw it in your Lola’s display cabinet. I set it downstairs on the folded blanket Papa had lived and died under.
“A man needs to be the strongest presence in his family,” said Uncle Nestor, sitting cross-legged in front of Papa’s urn. “That’s what my brother said to me once.”
I thought he would go on rambling, but he didn’t. He lifted Papa’s urn and placed it on his lap with the care of a friend holding your child.
A black suit and tie composed his ensemble, of which the rain had dampened. I thought it would be the kind phantom guides would wear when they escorted you to the afterlife.
We hadn’t at all during the brief walk over here. “W-what are you doing here?” I shivered, the rain’s cold still seeping through me.
In the light now, Uncle Nestor’s features start to differentiate from Papa more and more. He was built where Papa was lithe. My uncle’s skin was leathery, and a silver tooth glinted back at me when he smiled.
“You’ve grown,” he said, eying me.
Years came back to me. I didn’t know what to think. This was the first time we met. “I…” I swallowed. “I was going to tell you about him.”
“I already knew.” Uncle Nestor, still sitting, scratched his bald head. A scar slashed against the side of his temple. “Jayson, I’m sorry for ignoring you.”
The admission took a moment to register. Many moments.
Anger flared up, almost stopping my mouth from opening. “Sorry?”
Uncle Nestor nodded. “I am.”
“Are you? You ignored every message I sent you.”
“I know, Jayson, but-”
I didn’t let him continue. “What? You were busy? You’ll pull that excuse out after all the times I tried to reach you?”
“I’m your uncle.”
“Yeah? You’ve been doing a shitty job with it.” I let that point sink in. I meant every word of it. “You knew Papa had Alzheimer’s. And you just… let him be? You left us alone?”
Uncle Nestor clenched his mouth tight. “Jayson… I need to tell you something you might not want to hear.”
That caught me off guard. I tilted my head up.
He sighed. “It wasn’t my fault that we—the rest of the family—didn’t contact you. Your father told us not to.”
I squinted, my face warming to a fury. “What?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s true. You don’t have to believe me, but it is. Kenneth… he didn’t like me at all.”
I felt my story changing, my rage adapting to continue to fend off the sympathy Uncle Nestor no doubt wanted to gather from me.
I squinted. “He said you hated us.”
He shook his head. “You know, Jayson, it takes a strong man to reach out when they think they’re hated. I appreciate that, even though I couldn’t respond out of respect for my brother.” He looked around our home. “I don’t hate you or your sister. Far from it.” He looked toward me again, scanning me. “It’s just nice to see you, you know? I haven’t been this close to you since you were a child.”
It was news that he had even met me before.
I still couldn’t believe it, though. I had so many questions. Looking at the suit he was wearing now only made me sicker and more spiteful. “We are poor,” I said, “in case you haven’t noticed. You left us poor.”
This appeared to strike a nerve.
“It’s not because you were poor. We were all poor. We came from the same poor family, for God’s sake! But your father? He died poor.” Uncle Nestor shook his head. “But he didn’t have to. No one has to. If you are born poor, it’s your parents’ fault, but if you die poor, then you have no one to blame but yourself.” Uncle Nestor glanced out the front door, then the walls. He stopped and seemed to listen.
Then, he looked at me.
Perhaps it was a solemn scan of a lost and doomed young man. Maybe it was pity, disappointment, or disgust. I had endured stares like those before. I didn’t need to endure any more of them, especially from a family member that abandoned us.
“Wait,” I said, remembering. “What did you say about…the book.” I didn’t want to tell him that Papa had written The Crest and its Killers. Not yet. “That I can make more from it?”
Uncle Nestor nodded. “If you want.”
Of course, I wanted it. Who wouldn’t want to escape poverty? “How?”
He sighed. “If I tell you, Jayson, then you have to promise never to tell anyone.”
I smirked at that. “Why do I owe you anything?”
An exasperated sigh left Uncle Nestor’s mouth. “You don’t, Jayson. I know we’ve been a shitty part of your existence, and believe me when I say I am truly sorry for that.” He searched his pocket for something. “But also, believe me, things are going on that will make whatever fiction you were dropping in that chute look like chump change.”
486,000 PHP as chump change? “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.” He rose, clearly impatient by the whole conversation. “So, Jayson? Are you going to nail me to the cross for listening to your father’s words, or will you see what this is all about?”
I frowned. “You know, maybe half a million PHP isn’t a lot for you, with your suit and tie and mysterious wealth. But for me? It’s life-changing. It’s enough to support Janice and me for a long time and to continue being independent from the rest of you.” I rose, too. “So, honestly, Uncle? You can fuck off.”
The man shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” He finally found what he was looking for in his pocket and withdrew a thick wallet. He pulled a wad of 1,000 PHP bills and threw them on the floor. “Take care of yourself, Jayson. Give my regards to Janice.”
“Hey!” I lunged forward and grabbed the bills. “I don’t need your pity pesos!” I rose and held them out to him.
Uncle Nestor shrugged, turning around. “You need my ‘pity pesos.’ You’re right; half a million PHP is a lot, but it won’t last forever. You could have much more.”
He seemed so insistent now. “How are you so certain?” I asked him.
His demeanor of defeat from before strengthened. “That’s The Crest and its Killers, right?”
I didn’t move.
He sighed. “Jayson, I’m your father’s brother. I knew about that story long before you did. I just… didn’t know he completed it.” He studied my expression. “There was a time before you, you know, back when your father was coherent. He told me all about the characters in that book, the places they would go, the plot lines, the scenes. I wonder how many of his ideas translated to the final product.”
I felt utterly disarmed. Tranquilized, even. Despite this man leaving my family, we did have something in common—Papa.
“So yeah,” he continued, “I don’t know exactly how much it’s worth, but I’m telling you, if that’s the same story my brother was telling me about decades ago, then it’s going to be worth more than anything the Giants will give you for it.”
My earlier thoughts outside the chute returned. What would Papa have wanted? Probably, he wouldn’t have liked me selling The Crest to the Giants. Even less, I hoped, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Janice and I starve.
“You really are serious?” I asked.
Uncle Nestor nodded. “I have not lied to you at all.”
A silence settled. Outside, a trike revved to life. Where before, you could hear children yelling and playing in the alley, now, not even birds.
I could have taken a long time to think about this, but I wasn’t sure Uncle Nestor would give me a second chance. I wasn’t sure, if I said no, that I’d ever see him again.
“If I accept,” I said, “I want to know everything.”
He nodded. “You will.”
“You promise?” My voice rose, but I didn’t back down.
He looked away for a moment, his jaw tightening. “I…promise.”
His words were hesitant, as if he was still hiding something. Maybe I couldn’t expect him to reveal everything now. But I swore, eventually, that I would get all the answers.
“Alright,” I said. “Okay.” I pulled my hand back, along with the bills.
For a time, he did not speak as if regretting his decision. Then, he asked, “Where’s Janice?”
“She’s with her… friend.” I wasn’t going to snitch on my sister just yet. She likely didn't want anyone else to know if she had kept her boyfriend secret from me.
“Okay. Okay. We’ll get her later. We’ve already been here too long.”
We?
Uncle Nestor turned to the door. “Ernesto? Quin?”
Footsteps clattered outside the plastic covering that was our door. Two men entered our house, though I couldn’t tell which was Ernesto or Quin. They were taller than both of us.
I flinched at the sight of the holstered pistols on each man’s waist, thinking they had come to expel me from the family record and this had all been some elaborate setup for disappointment. Instead, the two men nodded to me.
“Grab your things,” Uncle Nestor said. “We’re not coming back.”
I thought he meant we would be gone a long time—not forever.