[CANID RECAPTURE PROCEDURES PG. 12 PAR. 8: PACK NEUTRALIZATION]
[ACCESS BLOCKED]
[Please Submit Evidence To Prove Competency. This May Include Detailed Reports, Witness Testimonials, or Footage of A Job Well Done]
He doesn’t know their names, so he can’t call for the dogs as they become blips, then mistakes—black dots in the distance, staining the earthy green of a dense forest. Some dogs are too large to crawl beneath the gate, but they bark in either jubilation for their comrades in captivity or jealousy, Finnian assumes.
He quickly yanks six of the shoddy leashes off the wall and dashes across the gated green patch. He unlocks the gate, then slams it shut and takes off after them. A wide plain separates the federal building and the forest, meaning the dogs have been running for some time, but he hopes they’ll stop to play.
Jamie’s words echo as he runs. Inventory. Inspection. Just keep ‘em alive.
It has been a long time since Finnian ran this far and for this long. It isn’t long before his bounds across the field become a hunched jog, then a walk, then a hobble. This is the only pace he can keep, but he forces his burning legs to take one step after another.
It’s hot.
But the dogs ahead look like they’ve slowed down, so he keeps walking, even as the stitch in his side feels like a knife twisting deeper. He can see the pack’s separate shades, and he sees the last of them—a little gray tail—vanish into the bush, no longer a black dot, but a dark earth tone amongst verdant shadows.
The dense forest isn’t as dense as Finnian thought it was because behind the tree line is another clearing, this one with clusters of quaint gazebos that sit on indigo grass like lily pads.
The dogs, five in all, play across them but never go into the actual forest behind it. Even as he approaches, all they do is run from the gazebos furthest from him and keep playing.
“Come on,” he groans. His throat and lungs are on fire. It’s so hot. “Get over here.”
He runs on red bricks that have been laid out as bridges between the gazebos. The dogs run too, and as he switches his focus to one, the others rest in the shade. The celebratory yips from the kennel room can still be heard, as can the winding cadence of cicadas.
“Get. Over. Here.”
He’s moving just to go through the motions without any real dedication to capturing the canines. The sweat running down his face stings his eyes and blurs the world. His glasses continuously have to be adjusted until eventually, he stops moving to put them in his pocket.
When he goes to take another step, his lunch almost comes up. Then a wave of exhaustion washes over him. It’s hot, and he quickly notices how soaked his clothes are. It feels as though he’s being boiled. Dizzy. He attempts another step, but the ground shifts beneath him, tossing him to the side.
The dogs rest beside his unconscious body. Some are so calm, they take a nap. After a while, they shepherd themselves back to the kennel, as it is what they know to do before night falls.
[CUSTODIAN INJURY CONTINGENCY PLAN PG. 23 PAR. 3: HEAT STROKE]
[Access Authorized]
[Thank you for your service, Custodian Octavia Brigard]
Finnian wakes on a hard, cold surface. A thin sheet has been placed over him, providing little warmth, and it smells of honey and incense. On the screen embedded in the wall, there are diagrams, though he cannot make them out. Smoke dissipates as he moves. A woman stands, figure obscured, diligently studying the schematics on a laptop connected to the screen.
He faintly recalls her face but not her name. She briefly spoke during orientation before Jamie pulled her off the microphone, but he remembers how gray her hair is—too gray for someone no older than her mid-thirties.
“How long was I out?” Finnian asks.
“Most of the evening,” she mumbles without looking away. “It’s a bit after midnight now. You’re back in the kennel room—don’t worry.”
Disbelief wakes Finnian fully. Each dog is in its kennel, calm and quiet. Even as the pair speak and move around, the dogs don’t make a sound.
“Thank you…”
Standing there, the woman makes the kennel room feel more like her personal command center. She’s upright, and the space is meticulously organized with precise placements of inky notes, smoking incense, and tattered books. Her name still struggles to surface in his mind, but in this delirious moment of exhaustion, he knows she is someone to listen to. Just as one knows they are in a forest, he knows this is someone in control, and everything is to fall in neat order under her eye—including him.
Her name comes to him.
“Excuse me,” Finnian huffs, forcing himself up. He’s on the kennel room countertop. “Ma’am, are you Octavia?”
“That I am,” she replies, her southern drawl thickening with the exhaustion of a late night. She looks at him for the first time, and her smile is genuine, even though it struggles to reach her eyes. “Sorry for not carrying you back to the dorms, but I lost track of time. If you feel better, you can leave…”
Her voice trails off as she changes the diagram to one showing wiring. She quickly grabs a pair of earmuffs and a screwdriver. After tightening a screw, she raises the device like a baby or trophy. “Finally.”
She dons the headphones, then stands in front of Finnian. “Speak for me.”
“I think I was supposed to prep some dogs for you… but I never got around to it.”
“Perfect.” She takes off the headphones and sighs with clear relief. “Didn’t hear a word you just said, thank the Lord.”
She quickly returns to the laptop. The screen switches from a technical drawing to a checklist on a notepad. In bold letters, she checks a slot that says, “Sonic Residue.” Other boxes include words like emotional impression, incorporeal leftover, and potential resurrection. She checks and unchecks many of the boxes, stressing, until she remembers his presence.
“Sorry,” she says. “I can never sleep the night before a gig. I hope you don’t mind me using your room.”
Stolen story; please report.
“It’s not my room,” he says.
“Think so?” she asks. “The [Animal Handler] before you was quite protective of their territory. A little trait I’ve noticed amongst y’alls types.”
He shrugs. “I’m not an [Animal Handler].”
“Oh.” She nods, then looks around a bit. “Guess I’ll be prepping these dogs too. No problem, I handled the room during the interim before your hire, so I’m pretty comfortable.”
He nods. “You mentioned a job tomorrow. Is it a cleaning job?”
She nods. “It’s a rough one. The [Hunter] likes to leave big messes. Looks good for social media.”
“A big mess? Do you need any extra hands.”
“Always do,” she says, but quickly looks back up. “But we’ll be alright. You should stay here.”
For a moment, her southern serenity is lost. She stares him down with a severity that comes from making it to your mid-thirties in a hard profession. A look which says, you’re not an option, not even a tool to be considered.
“I’d like to help,” Finnian says. “I’ve been stuck here for the past week. I applied so I could be out in the dirt and help people.”
Her stern expression harshens. Finnian stands from the countertop, weak from both her gaze and the bout with unconsciousness.
“Explain to me your qualifications.”
“What—”
“Your qualifications,” Octavia says. “What can you do?”
This was what he was ready for. Sanitation, from federal to county, requires a certain degree of grit, adaptability and willingness to switch roles on the fly. And even though they are only County Sanitation, their hazard pay when in the field was still remarkable.
“I’m a quick learner. Adaptable. Great with people—a real go-getter, and a team player.”
She nods slowly. “Okay, but tell me what you actually do? Like in the field?”
He stares at her blankly, and she returns to her work. Bouncing back and forth between assortments of documents, gadgets, and tools. He plays with the smile on his face. It bounces up and down between dishonest and honest, manipulating and undeluded. Truth be said, he couldn’t do much and she most likely knew that.
“Well—”
Without hesitation, she whips a manilla folder from the pile of papers. Several papers scatter across the countertop. In the corner of one is a photo of her. On the other, a photo of Mason, and lastly, a photo of him. There are others—some he recalls from walking the halls, others from the stand-up. But she focuses on the three.
“This is you. This is me. This is Mason. Tell me if you see a distance.”
Presented before him are their [Custodian] profiles—information available to all [Custodians] ad, depending on the circumstance, even the general public. There isn’t much besides a bachelor’s degree and this job at County Sanitation. While in Mason’s, there is no degree, but tons of details are in the section marked “experience.” Both professionally and personally, from internships to volunteer work, there is proof that he can do what he says he can do. He has three specializations, but Finnian’s eyes glaze over them from embarrassment.
In Octavia’s, the gap is far wider.
So, in comparison, he is nothing.
“You state traits like adaptability and grit, but for one…” She gestures to the room, no doubt the state it was in prior. “And for two, although exceptional and commendable, adaptability and grit are only prerequisites for being [Human].”
“Well—”
“I saw your resume and asked Jamie to stick you somewhere and give you a shot, and he says you’re not into specializing as an [Animal Handler].” She shrugs. “In my opinion, that’s not gritty or adaptable-ly.”
“But…” Blood pounds against his ears, and his voice tightens in frustration. “It’s just not where I applied or wanted to be.”
“None of us are where we applied to be. None of us are where we desire to be. We have to be great anyway.” Then, as if snapping from a stupor, she looks up. Her eyes brighten in a way that Finnian has only seen from his mother. Where she would attempt to be kind after telling him everything wrong with him.
“But I’m sure you can rise to the occasion here. In the kennel room. You have a ton of potential.”
He wants to push back. “Can I just have a chance? I can prove it out there. I don’t have access to the [Animal Handler] database, so even a change of position could serve me well.”
“Again,” she says, “none of us are where we want to be. We don’t get served, we serve. If you want to serve yourself you’d probably do better as an independent [Custodian].”
When she says that, a feeling of shame rises. For two years, he had told his mother that he was going to be an independent [Custodian]. But the degree of studying it takes kept him in the house, and before he knew it, he was talking about training more than actually training. Fooling himself with delusions of self-grandiosity, going over the easy parts again and again but at the first instance of true difficulty, backing down.
Actually applying for and getting this job has been his first only attempt at breaking the loop.
A few tears fall. From frustration more than anything. Octavia quickly comes to his side.
“Woah, woah, I’m not getting you fired or anything. It’s just a suggestion.”
“Sorry,” he says through a sniffle. “It’s just, it’s been hard in here with no one helping me. No one guiding me. And I think that…” He thinks that actually specializing in [Animal Handler] could only end in failure. That even with help from the database, he wouldn’t be able to cut it as a [Custodian]. “I think I’ve just been a little overwhelmed by it all. First career and all.”
“I get it,” she says. “And I’m sorry everyone has been so busy. After the gig tomorrow I’ll come by and see what I can help you with.”
He looks at her, so selfless and offering herself to someone she didn’t know. Worse, someone who was selfish. Neither say anything for a while, but he eventually mutters, “I’ll do it.”
“Did you say something?”
“I’ll do it,” he says. “It won’t be hard for me to specialize in [Animal Handler]. I think I have enough experience to at least get access to the entry guides.”
“Oh, well if you get access to those I don’t see why you can’t come on the job tomorrow. Though, you’ll be under my order.”
He nods. “That’s no problem.”
He pulls out his laptop, giving Octavia a small, honest smile before letting her return to her work. He logs into the Custodial Association’s network, and opens the applications tab.
[Please Submit Evidence To Prove Competency. This May Include Detailed Reports, Witness Testimonials, or Footage of A Job Well Done]
He types for ten minutes, accounting for summer road trips and visiting random farms with his family.
[Evidence Pending]
[Insufficient Evidence Submitted]
He names the farms and the people and animals he has handled. He considers mentioning a few of the farms in Middle Georgia, but goes against it. He mentions the goats, the cows, and how pigs will eat anything.
[Evidence Pending]
[Insufficient Evidence Submitted]
He mentions words like murder, and capture, and humanoids but he specifies that it was never humans.
[Evidence Pending]
[Insufficient Evidence Submitted]
Lastly, he types passages that include words like mother, father, uncle, auntie, sister, brother and cousin. He refers to himself as being made into a thing like Cain, and his brother being made into a thing like Abel. On how he should’ve been a [Hunter] instead, but has chosen to go against it. And even though he has half-assed his way to becoming a [Custodian], he wants to take it seriously, starting as an [Animal Handler].
[Evidence Pending]
[Evidence Accepted. User is now Animal Handler Rank 3. User is now granted access to the Animal Handler Rank 3 Database. User Overall Custodial Rank is 4. User is now granted access to the Custodian Rank 4 Database.]
[Thank you for your service, Custodian Finnian Browne]
[User Requests to Join "Banshee Cleanup" Job]
[Team Lead: Octavia Brigard Accepts]