Volume 1: Proscenium

Issue 4: Under a Sky of Gold

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

The minutes which passed since Inspector Ramirez left the apartment felt like a small eternity. I kept still, half-way expecting him to return at any second. I waited a while longer. Once I thought it had been long enough that he wouldn’t come back, I summoned the swarm to me. They re-emerged from their hiding spots under the couch, chairs, and table. The Queen let go of the stray worker, allowing her to rejoin her sisters. I turned off the AC, collected my laptop, and retreated to my bedroom. A trail of bees followed me through the hallway. They trickled into my ears and mouth. I felt a prickling sensation as they crawled back under my skin.

Like most of the apartment, my bedroom tapestry was a cream yellow. There was little of note in the room itself. A couple of succulents occupied my desk, alongside a Rubik’s cube where only the red side was solved. On the wall, there was a corkboard with various post-it notes displaying deadlines for homework and tests that were no longer up to date. My bed was neatly made. Old comics took up most of the bookshelf.

I opened the window and searched the fresh air for pheromones. While I detected some wild bees relaying flower locations, there was no trace of my scouts. They were still at Chapel High, presumably. Although pheromones allowed me to communicate with them over a distance, I was out of range at this point. I wouldn’t know if they had found anything until either they had completed the task and returned home, or until I went back to school. Whichever came first. But just in case, I left the window cracked open.

I sat down at the desk, where I turned my laptop back on. For a while I just stared at it, not sure what to do. I settled on Minecraft, but ended up constantly backtracking because I forgot what I was trying to do. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when my cell phone rang. An hour? Two?

I reached for my pocket with the same feeling of dread as if I were in trouble or expecting bad news. “Incoming call from Mom” flashed across the screen. Had the police inspector decided to contact her after all? I let it ring for a few more moments. Then I picked up.

“Hey, how’s it going?” my mom said. I couldn’t tell if there was a crack in her voice or a disruption of the signal.

“Fine, just working on chemistry.” I laid down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a faint crack next to the lamp. “How’s Oregon?” I didn’t really care about the answer, but I wasn’t in the mood to elaborate on my own day.

“Good,” she said. There was a pause where we both seemed to wait for the other to speak. She broke the silence. “Learning lots of interesting things.”

“I bet.”

Another silence.

“So, I have some bad news…” Her voice trailed off.

“What’s up?” I fidgeted with the edge of the blanket.

“I got an email from school… About your teacher, umh, Mr. Howells.” She paused. I waited. “He passed away earlier today.”

“Oh.” I was relieved that she couldn’t see me—I didn’t know if I had it in me to feign surprise. Instead, I relived the memory; entrails emerging like fleshy snakes from his torso, his vapid stare permeating through me. With a shudder, I suppressed the buzzing. “What happened?” I asked. If they had found anything by now, maybe the school had said something more about it. But I had my doubts.

“They didn’t really say, except that the police are working on it. You won’t have any classes tomorrow, either.”

“Oh.”

Before I could think of something appropriate to respond with, she continued, “Mr. Howells was your algebra teacher, right?”

“Biology.”

“Right. Of course… I’m sorry, Florian. Do you need us to come home? We can leave early if you’d like.”

“No, I think I’ll manage. It’s only a few days, anyways.”

“Are you sure?” She said it a little too quickly. Maybe I was reading into it too much, but if I didn’t know any better, the pitch at the end of her statement almost came across as relief.

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay. You know I’m just a call away if there is anything. Anything at all.”

“I know.”

“Alright. Anything else you want to talk about?”

“I was kind of in the middle of something, if we can talk later…”

“Yeah. Sure thing. Did you remember to check on the greenhouse?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Thank you. We miss you.”

“Miss you too. Tell Dad I say hi.” I hung up without waiting for a response.

I didn’t follow up on my promise to check on the greenhouse. While my parents were out of town, it was up to me to water their plants. But the plants could afford to wait another day, I decided. I wanted to rest, more than anything. Ever since the swarm possessed my body, I had gradually lost my ability to sleep. Eight hours turned into four, and four into two… Every night, sleep became a little bit harder to come by. And yet, I didn’t tire much at all. Not even tonight. But I still craved the mental break, more than ever. Maybe it didn’t matter. The memory of Mr. Howells was enough to keep anyone up. I got out of bed.

Normally, I spent my sleepless nights catching up on homework or playing video games. But now, I found myself unable to focus on anything but the buzz eating me inside out. I returned to my desk and typed away at the laptop. Over the course of the evening, the San Francisco Chronicle and a few other newspapers made a statement concerning Mr. Howells’ passing. Perhaps the school wanted to get the announcement out to the public before rumors started spreading, I speculated. The reports were about as detailed as my mom’s description of the events. There was no new information. I navigated from my bookmarks tab to the official PowerWatch site. If powers had been at play, maybe the local superhero news outlet would have information on it. But there was still nothing. I wasted the hours of the night refreshing the same gossip forums and news sites, waiting for something to happen. Every half hour or so I went to the window, checking if my scouts were nearby.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

They didn’t return until early morning. I had just entered a sort of half-sleep when a trace of pheromones roused me. Alongside the first rays of sunlight, bees filtered through the slitted opening of the window. After a long night’s work, a couple dozen scouts drifted sleepily around the room. They settled into my hands and hair. Their pheromone whispers chanted, bones, bones, bones, over and over.

I got up to my feet. Where? I asked them.

A bee crawled in circles over my palm. I tried to interpret her dance, as each movement guided me through Chapel High. She started at the school entrance, but as she twirled through the hallways, I lost track of her. Did she stop at the library, or was that the gym? I couldn’t tell. Then, the quiver of her thorax signaled a sharp turn. Sky of gold, her pheromones told me. Death underground, the swarm echoed.

Sky of gold? Did she mean the sun? But if she meant the sun, why not just say so? Maybe it signaled the time of day, when the sun was particularly golden. Sunset or sunrise? Then, had she found something—these bones—outside, or nearby a window? That wasn’t helpful at all, and the second half of the message didn’t clarify much either. Death underground. What was that supposed to mean?

Underground? I echoed.

Bones under wood. The word “bones” resounded throughout the swarm.

The response raised more questions than answers. Bones? Whose, Mr. Howells’? And wood as in trees? Maybe flooring? Either way, bones were a more tangible clue than a sky of gold. My initial unease dissipated into an unexpected excitement. Usually, the bees only buzzed about flowers, birds, the weather, or other bees—nothing which interested me. This was new. Although I didn’t quite understand it yet, this could be a possible clue as to whatever happened to Mr. Howells. As my thoughts returned to the biology teacher, my excitement simmered down.

Anything else? I asked.

Humans throughout hive. I guessed they were referring to the police officers investigating the “hive,” as they dubbed the school. One lightning quick, the scouts added.

Lightning? I asked, not sure what to make of that.

Moved many zooms. Very fast. Faster than the Empire.

Possibly Mr. Howells’ killer, I wondered. Threat?

No. Among sisters. They didn’t mean sisters literally, but in the sense that the “lightning quick” person was the same kind as the others in the building, namely the police officers. So, a human being. But the “lightning” description still set them somewhat apart from the officers. Maybe a powered individual, then. But someone who would be assisting with the investigation. A hero?

The realization reinforced my suspicion that Mr. Howells’ murderer hadn’t been just a regular person. Based on what I had seen—not to mention, the bees’ murmurs of death and bones—I was less inclined to think it was a person at all.

If a hero was involved, who matched the bees’ description? From what I had gathered on the news, around forty heroes operated in the Bay Area, whereas the number of villains was at least double that. Out of the local heroes I was familiar with, one with superspeed came to mind: Neon-Racer. However, Neon-Racer was a part of Starlight—the most prominent superhero team in the Bay (not to mention the country). I scoffed at the idea that Starlight could be at my high school. I had to narrow down my options.

Did they wear any colors? I tried.

The pheromones became fuzzier. Talking about colors with the bees could be tricky. The range of their color vision was different from that of people, moving into the ultraviolet spectrum. It was like listening to static—there were recognizable fragments, but nothing meaningful. After running into similar communication problems in the past, I had looked through some of my mom’s entomology books, where I found my answer. Bees actually had five eyes—two compound eyes which took in their surroundings, and three simple eyes on their forehead. The latter were used to navigate by the sun. In terms of colors, they could see blue, green, and ultraviolet, while people saw in blue, green, and red. If I couldn’t understand what they were saying, it was likely referring to ultraviolet or red.

Show me, I commanded.

At my instruction, the scout in my palm took to the air. She soared towards the bedroom door, then climbed through the keyhole. I opened the door and followed her through the hallway. She led me to the kitchen. The bee circled over the stovetops a couple of times, before drifting towards the window. There, she collided with the glass, letting out a staccato buzz for each hit. She aimed for the reflection of my mom’s orchid sitting on the windowsill.

Focus, I said.

The bee backed away from the glass. Recomposing herself, she floated towards the orchid. Here, she said upon landing on a petal.

I leaned closer to inspect the flower. It was a picture perfect, smooth, vibrant pink—not a single trace of wilting or miscoloring. So, I had been right; pink, being on the red spectrum, wouldn’t be seen by the bees in the same way as me. In other words, the hero had been wearing pink… Could it be?

I snatched the orchid’s smallest petal. It occurred to me that my mom wouldn’t have liked what I was doing, which made the sensation of it breaking off its branch more satisfying. The petal itself was surprisingly soft to the touch. I took it with me to my room. The bee hitched a ride on my shoulder.

I pulled out one of the many comics from my bookshelf. The title read “Rise of Starlight: Issue #47.” Situating myself at my desk, I opened it at a random page. I found myself in the midst of an action scene. One of Starlight’s members, Tarantula, crawled across the panels in their eight-legged mech suit. Valkyrie soared above them, moonlight glinting from her armor. Her broad wingspan slowed her down to a graceful descent, as the team approached the enemy lair. Although I hadn’t reread this particular issue in a while, the movements felt familiar to me, as I had read through scenes just like it countless of times.

I skipped ahead a few pages, until a streak of pink caught my attention. The artist’s style accentuated the color even more. It belonged to Neon-Racer’s energy trail. She slammed into an unsuspecting villain, Nightingale, who was outfitted in a plague doctor’s mask. I put the flower petal down on the page, interrupting the otherwise action-packed scene. The orchid’s color was barely a shade lighter than Neon-Racer’s costume. While I hadn’t actually needed to look at her to recognize that fact, I was still in disbelief. A part of me couldn’t grasp that it was her; that a Starlight member had come to my school. Yet, there was no one else in the area that I could think of who better matched the bees’ description. No one else in a pink suit whose speed could be described as lightning.

“Well, damn,” I said to no one in particular. Only the bee on my shoulder seemed to be listening, as she flitted closer to my ear. The other scouts drifted aimlessly around me.

I wondered what to make of their reports. Although I wasn’t sure what “sky of gold” or “death underground” was supposed to mean, the bees had found something interesting; a hero was involved with the investigation. Meaning, whatever had taken place at Chapel High, was larger than I ever imagined. Even if I hadn’t solved any mysteries, the swarm had given me more information than I dared to hope for.

At the same time, the knowledge that a hero took part in the investigation both unnerved and relieved me. It suddenly made things more serious. But, a hero like Neon-Racer was more equipped to handle the situation than my bees. If anyone could solve what happened to Mr. Howells, it was Starlight.

I hoped.