Volume 5: Instar

Issue 9: Across the Line

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

Bōsō lunged toward me. Spindle’s bond remained hovering taut between us, shortening as he closed in on me. I saw my own reflection in the visor of his helmet—the beekeeper’s costume concealing my surprise. With two quick steps, he placed himself in front of me. The helmet’s circuits pulsated with his ragged breathing. Only the blade which extended from his wrist separated us now, glowing a neon violet. I could hear Stagehand and Spindle scrambling around me… But even in that instant, I knew it was too late for either of them to reach me—even my own swarm wasn’t fast enough.

The moment lasted a split second. Then, he lashed out. Up close, I could hear the beaming blade produce a sound—like a faint, electric hum. I searched the air for my bees, feeling them bristle inside me. But, before my signal could reach them, his blade struck down.

Its violet light pierced my chest. The only pain I could compare it to was the claws of the monster in the theater. But, even so, it was distinctly different. Whereas the monster struck out recklessly, Bōsō’s blade hit me with surgical precision. It seared through my chest, until I felt the tip burn through the other side of my back.

My bees sizzled in response. A burning pain unfolded from the point of impact. The sugary smell of burnt honey hit me as my waxy flesh melted around the glowing light.

Instinctively, I peered down at my chest. Honeyed blood trickled from the blade’s slit, seeping through my suit and skin. It had burnt through my costume, leaving the frays singed around it.

At the same time, Spindle’s bond continued to pulsate between Bōsō and I. Pain seared through my chest. I gritted my teeth as bees continued to rush toward the injury.

But, to my surprise, I also heard Bōsō let out a pained groan. At that moment, the blade dematerialized. It evaporated in an instant, leaving a gaping hole through my flesh.

It had all happened in a matter of seconds, but my bees already responded to the injury. Some emerged from the slit in my chest. They crawled over my skin, their mandibles starting to pick at the injuries in an attempt to patch up the hole.

Before I could collect myself and process everything that was happening, something slammed into my stomach. Bōsō’s knee, I realized. The fall took the air out of me, but—since I didn’t really need to breathe in the first place—it wasn’t exactly painful. More humiliating, if anything.

As I lay on the ground, I found myself staring up at the sky. My bees flew upwards, leaving through my wound. Compared to what I was used to, the night sky was strangely clear—and, for a moment, it appeared as if my bees danced with the stars above, forming their own constellations. The glimmering night showed a serenity that seemed ridiculously out of place under the circumstances. Yet, I fixated on the brightest star—a planet, maybe—as I fought back the ache ebbing through my chest.

I heard Bōsō’s feet shuffle back as he cursed. I realized that Spindle’s bond must still be activated—meaning, he could keep hitting me… But not without getting hurt.

I wasn’t sure how long our connection would last, but I wasn’t about to let my advantage go to waste.

Slowly, I stacked my feet beneath me. I still felt pain rushing through my chest as I moved, but the bees’ repairs had already lessened the blow.

“You… You okay?” It was Stagehand, standing above me. His mask stared blankly at me, but a nervous concern edged his voice.

I nodded, adjusting my neck as I stood up.

As my bees poured from the wound, slowly swarming my frame, I remembered how Max had blasted his fist through me. A shudder ran through me, and I straightened myself up.

Was this par for the course now?

“The hell…?” For a moment, I thought Bōsō’s voice distorter wavered—revealing a hoarseness to his voice.

Within moments, my bees clouded my entire silhouette. Through gaps in the swarm, I saw Bōsō standing a few feet in front of me, slightly hunched over. He covered his chest with his arm, as if in pain. The same spot where he had stabbed me, I realized. Yet, he remained still as he faced me.

“What are you…?” he breathed.

I quickly glanced around. Stagehand stood to my side, carefully eyeing Bōsō. Spindle appeared on my other side, wielding her baseball bat. I heard the rumbling of distant motors—presumably, the rest of the Yakuza catching up to us.

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“So, what’s it gonna be?” Spindle tapped the bat against the ground a couple of times, as if testing her grip on it. “Will you hold up your end of the deal? Or are you just gonna be a little bitch?”

While I couldn’t see his eyes behind the helmet, I saw him shift his head as he looked between the three of us. He appeared to look at each of us in turn, as if sizing us up. I glanced back down the road we came from. The rest of his group wasn’t far away now—once they caught up, things could get a whole lot uglier…

It would seem that the same thought had occurred to Stagehand. He reached his hand out, as theatrically as a maestro. Then, some distance behind Bōsō, a huge redwood tree fell down onto the road—blocking the path for the other bikers.

If I hadn’t been familiar with the telltale signs, maybe I would have thought that the tree had truly fallen. But as I watched it, it seemed like the sound wasn’t quite right—it didn’t seem loud enough, and the timing of the thud wasn’t quite right. In its scale, it was a bigger illusion than Stagehand usually pulled off. But—in the moment, in the darkness of nightfall—it was enough to catch the Yakuza by surprise. From somewhere behind the illusion, wheels screeched to a halt.

Stagehand stared down Bōsō as the tree fell behind him. Slowly, he lowered his hand again.

There was a long pause. My bees buzzed restlessly around me, waiting in anticipation for my next command. Bōsō looked back to the tree, then back at us. And, finally, his shoulders sank. “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll leave your precious high school alone.”

Spindle grinned. “Good choice.” Her voice was sickeningly sweet.

“Sure,” he hissed back. He waited a moment before continuing, straightening himself up. His tone was more measured now, “I just hope you have fun with Dragon’s Teeth.”

Spindle, Stagehand, and I looked at each other at the same time. Was that some sort of threat? Was he implying that Dragon’s Teeth—yet another major gang—was nearby, or somehow involved with all of this?

Before any of us could say something, Bōsō’s helmet produced an electric sort of laughter. “Oh, you dumbasses don’t know anything, do you?”

“Care to enlighten us?” Spindle said, sounding less confident this time.

“Reticle is right under your noses, and you’re really too stupid to notice?” he mocked. “If you think that what we’ve been up to is bad, you need to look into the Dragon’s Teeth.” He retreated toward the red motorcycle, where it lay on its side behind him.

I wasn’t too familiar with Dragon’s Teeth—beyond their leader, Qilin, I wasn’t really sure who was in it. But, based on what Bōsō said, I could only assume that this “Reticle” was also a part of it… Another villain, presumably.

“Wait, what are Dragon’s Teeth doing? Where’s… Reticle?” Stagehand pressed. He veiled his voice in an illusion. As he did, he sounded far away—his voice seemed disembodied somehow, like I couldn’t really pinpoint where it came from. At the same time, the illusion of the fallen redwood vanished—revealing the bikers waiting at the other side.

Bōsō picked up his motorcycle. Straddling it, he turned to look at us. “Just fuck off back to Chapel, and you’ll find her eventually.” Then, with a snicker, he added, “Or, she’ll find you.”

Without another word, he took off. The bike turned back, leaving a trail of light behind it as it zoomed down the road. As the distance between us increased, Spindle’s bond flickered, then faded away. The rest of the Yakuza exchanged some bewildered glances between themselves, then looked to us, before they finally pursued Bōsō.

Stagehand, Spindle, and I remained in place. As the rumbling of motors grew more distant, I ordered the bees to retreat. They flew back under the veil of my hat and started to file in through my mouth and ears.

“Mission accomplished.” Spindle was the first to make a move, heading back to the Pontiac.

“For now,” Stagehand said, his tone lacking her optimism. The determination I sensed earlier had vanished.

“Oh, cheer up. We won!” she replied, taking the driver’s seat.

We headed back into the car. Once inside, Stagehand picked up the conversation, “Maybe. But why would Dragon’s Teeth be at Chapel High? And the Yakuza? Two gangs outside of their turf, moving into a high school just to sell some drugs? There’s something weird going on… Like, weirder than just monsters and puppeteering plants.” Then, he paused, as if catching himself. “Or maybe the monsters are still weirder. I don’t know anymore.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you. If Dragon’s Teeth really are at Chapel, we should look into it. But we just dealt with one problem. Let’s at the very least get some sleep before jumping onto the next one,” Spindle said.

As tempting the idea of sleep was, I knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I felt a twinge of envy, and tried to focus on the bees instead. They moved through me, busying themselves with their new task. While they had already patched up my superficial injuries, I could still feel a dull ache as they rebuilt the waxy walls of flesh Bōsō had sliced through. My mind raced with the prospects of another gang presence at the school. This would mean new investigations, more spying…

Stagehand interrupted my thoughts. “How are you holding up, by the way?” He looked back at me.

“I’m okay.” Pain lingered in my chest, although it was steadily growing weaker. The only real trace of the attack was the slit through my suit. “At this rate I’ll have to invest in a sewing kit,” I murmured in an attempt at a joke, but it sounded less funny when I said it out loud.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he replied.

I nodded, and cast my gaze out the window. The sky had turned pitch black, while waves rolled slowly over the rocks. An exhaustion washed over me. I searched the sky for dwindling stars, and listened for the sound of engines… But there was no sign of the motorcycles. Just the hum of my worker bees.

I wasn’t sure what came next, or what any of it meant. What were, not one, but two gangs doing at our school? How was it connected to Mr. Howells’ death? To Max’s outburst? I didn’t know. And I couldn’t let my guard down, at least not until we had looked into Dragon’s Teeth.

But, for a moment, I let myself just listen to Spindle’s mixtape, and watch as the city lights shimmered from beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.