Chapter 03 | Ripples

A cold dissonance emanated from the concrete walls. After all that had happened, to find himself here—in this situation—felt like just a little too much to ask. Shaking his head clear, Turner watched his father turn a corner into the prison’s kitchen. His father knew how to play his emotions like a fiddle, and at this point, Turner wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it had been all to torture him. It was only by the small amount of common human respect that he had kept himself from punching other man, but Kris didn’t deserve such respect. Turner took a short breath before following the man around the corner. Kris didn’t pay much mind to Turner. A wicked grin suddenly splayed itself across Turner’s face. He would take a great pleasure in revealing the fate of the world: "There is no outside world anymore. Only ruins and broken memories, Kris." He whispered it, aiming to create an atmosphere that drew his father in. He had thought about calling him ‘father’ out loud, but the man didn’t deserve to be called a father. He could barely even be called human. Turner was perfectly fine with the casual denial of their relationship this far.

Kris suddenly stopped in his tracks. Turner also halted, his eyes burning a hole in the back of his father’s head. Slowly and methodically, his father turned around, speaking softly. He laced his voice with plain caution and perhaps even a hint of confusion. "What exactly do you mean, ‘ruins’?" Then he was all business again. He turned, and opened the door to the kitchen. "We'll... get the water and such. Then you’ll take me outside and show me what you're talking about—agreed?" Turner sighed. At least he had gotten some reaction from the man.

Inside the prison’s kitchen, a few odd water bottles sat near two full cases of water on a steel counter. The kitchen was everything that could be expected: steel shelves lined the galley, their contents mostly disheveled. The knife block lacked half its contents. Turner let the door swing shut behind him. He watched his father take a bottle from the dwindling stockpile. He took a long drink from it, and then looked at it with a small amount of concern. Then, as if shrugging off whatever he may be thinking, he tossed a second water bottle to Turner. Turner took a moment before opening it. Concern painted Kris’s voice. "How much are we taking, Turner?" He imagined it was sincere—however, that didn’t mean that he wanted to bring this man to safety.

Of course he would show him the outside, and hopefully Kris would pass out from shock so that Turner could leave him there. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but a boy can dream. The sooner Kris could be back out of Turner’s life, the better. There was no place for this callus creature. Turner took a short swig of water before answering, "Just take what won't slow you down and we can come back for the rest later. There’s still a lot of this island to search, but it’s getting late and we should head back to the mainland."

The other man spread his hands, the water bottle held awkwardly. "And what exactly awaits us on the mainland, kid?" He brought his arms back together and began searching for any containers in the kitchen, placing all of the food on the center cart. As he worked, he continued to speak, not letting Turner give his answer. "There's not very much on this island, I hope you know." He grabbed a couple of large garbage bags from under the sink. "Come and help me with this, s— Turner." He had slipped—Turner now knew that Kris knew the truth too. The facade was over—and their relationship existed once more. The other man paused briefly before continuing to pack a case of the water into his bag, then starting a thorough search of the drawers. Turner took pause, too, but after cautiously leaning back against the counter he was adjacent to, he knew it was over. Just like that: they both knew each other knew. There hadn’t really been any remaining doubts in Turner’s mind, but he had wanted to delay this moment as long as possible. Everything in his life shook and reframed itself once again.

Then he sighed. As much as Turner wanted to shun his father, he knew that the man should be brought to the Underground. And if they were to live closely, it would likely be more hassle than it was worth skirting around each other. Maybe an adult discussion would help them to put the past rest. While Turner felt surprisingly willing, he was unsure if he could separate from his seething hatred for his father. He doubted, too, that Kris would be willing to have such a conversation. Maybe in time they could come to accept each others’ presence. Neither of them seemed very interested in the other.

Turner spoke in as even and monotone a voice as he could muster, trying not to reveal the emotional electrical storm raging inside him. "What can I help you with, father?" He picked up the second trash bag and looked to his senior, ignoring the man’s quiet snickering. The man was incorrigible sludge.

The ooze of a man had the nerve to turn around with a nonchalant look on his face. He must love making his son’s skin crawl. The look was of complete active indifference. His father’s voice was almost mocking in its grating lugubriosity. "What an endearing term, Kris... Really, you still think of me as your father?" His mouth curled into a smirk and he shook his head slightly. That was what made Turner realize what felt untrustworthy about the stranger of a father: every action the man took felt premeditated and rehearsed. That was also when Turner wanted to hit his father the most. Even after being completely abandoned by him, he realized that he still did think of the man as his father.

Turner hated being called by his real name. Part of him wanted to ignore anything directed towards him with any name other than Turner—but that felt childish. But Kris was a name that he couldn’t bring himself to respect. After pushing through the sludge of the question, he turned back around and kept looking for useful objects, silently slipping a slicing knife into the pocket of his orange jumpsuit. Was that premeditated, or had Turner not been supposed to notice it? Kris probably still thought of Turner as a less-than-observant child. Perhaps Turner could use that to his own favor and... No, he refused to use people. That was something that his father did, and he needed to strive to do the opposite. People weren’t tools or toys.

"See what you can find to fill this bag. Try not to get what's spoiled." The first sentence jolted Turner back to reality. It was said with an apathy akin to the comment about thinking of the man as a father. The second was somehow even more grating, spoken in a sigh of a tone that implied that Turner was expected to make a mistake. He was being mocked, and he knew it. Was was even more frustrating was that he couldn’t think of anything to say that would prevent this man from enjoying Turner’s discomfort—and his anger, despite his effort to hide behind his mask of indifference. No effort was owed to the father, and yet—he knew the confrontation ahead was a necessity.

He took a step towards the cabinets and began to stuff any canned, pickled, or preserved food into the bag hastily and with a little too much force. Then, hesitantly, he began the real conversation—the real test of wits and tolerance. The conversation that would determine where each man stood in relation to each other. Inhaling deeply in attempt to muffle his rage, Turner chose to adopt a softer and more emotionless tone. He needed to be in control here—he had no doubt Kris would try to bait him constantly, in an attempt to anger him for his own humor and vile motivations.

He had spent the past seven years thinking about the things that he might say to his father, but none of them seemed to be the right thing to say. This was not one of them, but it had to be said to start be the baseline of his emotions towards the man: "You will always be my father, despite how much I loathe and despise you. Nothing can change that."

Turner continued to bag any food he could find. The two might be stuck together for quite some time, and if he could bring back some food, Adam might be less mad about his midnight tryst with the ocean. That secret meeting had led to this rediscovery. And while hatred was difficult to dispel, it had truthfully been incredibly lucky to reconnect with his estranged father. Turner knew it wouldn’t come easy Unfortunately nothing had ever been easy when it came to his dad.

Out of the corner of his eye, Turner saw Kris shrug slightly, and briefly stop packing. Another deep breath, and he faced his father—for the first time really locking eyes with him. For a moment, there was an honest warmth in the eyes—then it burned itself down to a cold, barren; unempathetic ember. Kris tutted and shook his head. "Ah, that hurts Kris. Here, that hurts.” The man mockingly took his hands and held them against his left breast. Though the older man wasn't smiling or laughing, Turner could tell the man was elated by his own sarcasm.

Barely removing his hands from his chest, Kris lifted his filled bag over his shoulder and shook his head once again, leaning against the counter. Turner—having had a late start in the packing—continued thoroughly search the kitchen. Though he didn’t grab any of the utensils, he made a show of opening each drawer and idly sifting through the kitchen tools. He refrained from slamming the cabinets shut in frustration—and from punching his father’s smug face. There were no pretenses to their shared distaste for each other now, and anything was fair game for their argument. This was a good thing, at least to Turner, as they could now cut down to the truth of each other to learn how to move forward. At least that was the best case scenario. If it came to a physical altercation, Turner doubted he’d be able to take the old man out. Maybe he’d get lucky and a shadow wolf would do it for him. No—he didn’t exactly want his father to die—and would likely act to prevent it. But at the same time, he’d be hard-pressed to mourn.

After letting the comment hang in the air for a decent while, he responded to it in a quiet tone that made an attempt to mock Kris, “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you have enough of a heart to fake caring about what I say."

“Come on, kid. We have nothing but time now, but this is really a ridiculous waste of it. Now—come, let’s move on.” Turner looked up to see his father exiting the room. His father had some amount of dirt in his history. He had been in this prison for a reason. Perhaps he really had been a spy. Turner considered asking about that—but decided to avoid the question for the moment. That was a later conversation. He very much doubted that he was ready for that truth just yet. But should he ever ask? It wouldn’t violate Adam’s clean slate policy since the man was family, but did he want to know the truth?

He knew that last jab at his dad would never hit home. Kris just didn’t care. Turner hoisted his partially-filled bag onto his shoulder and followed the sound of the footsteps as they echoed through the cement halls.

The path they walked wasn’t exacting winding, but it did take several turns along the way. Turner had had a difficult time keeping up with the old man, so he arrived several minutes after. His father had led the way to the release room. Hardly anyone had ever been released from this prison—considering how new of an establishment it had been, and its housing of overflow felony inmates. The locks appeared to have been broken recently—but that wasn’t the thing that shocked Turner.

He was able to play it off as leaning against the wall, but the sight of his father in his typical casual suit and tie made him stumble backwards a little. It was like being struck with a boulder with how little had changed. He looked every inch the same man that had abandoned his family seven years ago. He was casually dusting off the suit’s shoulders and pushing out the wrinkles. He barely noticed Turner enter the room. A gold chain hung on his neck, tucked under his dress shirt.

The heavy bag dropped to the ground so that he had a free hand to use to place a fist against his mouth—trying in vain to hide his laughter. His other hand pushed against the wall. His sad and soft laugh betrayed the cruel irony of his father’s appearance. Leaning against the wall for support, Turner closed his eyes and spoke. "Now that looks ridiculous, old man. Thanks for the laugh."

The sound of Kris cracking his neck made Turner open his eyes again. The older man straightened his collar, then—before he noticed that his son had opened his eyes again—traced the chain at his neck with his left hand for a moment, a muffled look of longing plain in his eyes. This was the first emotion Kris had shown other than arrogance. After almost too long, Kris reacted to the laughter. His left hand left his chest and clasped his right hand, making a loud and sudden clap that reverberated through the empty room. He sniffled a little and picked up his bag. Turner remained pressed against the wall by the humor. "This suit is anything but ridiculous, you brat." Kris closed his eyes and took a breath. He smiled insincerely with a single nod of his head. "Come, now. You can probably guess this isn't my favorite place in the world."

Perhaps the chain around his neck was of no importance, but it had seemed to cause a strange emotion in the man. Turner wondered as to what it was—but he wasn’t about to push this relationship too far yet. Confidences were not easily given, even—and maybe especially—between kin. It was obviously of great importance to him, and that just made Turner wonder at its mystery more. Turner vowed to get a good look at it at some point, but asking the degenerate would likely bring no answer beyond a humorous look and a sarcastic comment.

Finally pushing himself off of the wall, Turner mimicked his father and picked up his own bag. He walked past his father towards the door and forced it open.

The breeze held a biting chill, and the sun was peeking over the gentle ripples in the calm ocean. Adam would soon discover Turner’s absence—if he hadn’t yet already. He surveyed the dimly lit island to make sure there was no one watching. Even though the landscape was still empty, he stepped back and gestured to his father. "By all means, after you. Some sunlight will do you good." He hadn’t meant to be quite so condescending—but it fit.

Stepping towards the door, Kris chided his son with a glare but no response. He sighed heavily and walked past Turner. He paused at the doorway, feeling the ground with his feet. Hopefully it wasn’t a mistake to let this prisoner out of captivity and into his life. There was no recourse. Kris turned back with a new determination. Once again, he clapped his hands together. "Right then. If they haven't been destroyed in whatever happened, there should be a couple ferries to and from this place," he announced. Obviously—that was how Turner had originally planned to get here. "Of course, there's always the method by which you got here."

It was in that moment that Turner realized that he had lost—but that wasn’t what stung the most. His ploy at tricking his father had not only failed, but it had failed in such a spectacular manner. He knew that he was no match for his father in a battle of words or wits. He always found a way to be disappointed in his own son. And at this point, Turner held onto far too much hatred to ever win. He vowed to learn how to mask his emotions around his father.

He stepped out, following his father’s lead. He didn’t try to mask his emotions at this moment—instead letting his father know that he was resigned. "You're right, of course. The ferries likely sunk. I borrowed a dinghy from the city harbor, so we ought to return that. It can probably fit us both, or you could swim if you’d prefer." He vaguely wanted to see his father try to swim to the shore in his tacky suit—but he very much doubted that Kris would amuse him so.

Setting out towards where he had moored, he motioned for his father to follow. Kris spoke with a smile, “Perfect. You’d better be quick about it, though. The water’s never been my friend.” Turner raised an eyebrow but did not question the crypticy. It was an intriguing statement, laced a bitter edge. The difference gave him an odd sense of comfort. He had spent the past hour relearning exactly how many similarities he had to the man he disdained—and this was a relaxing change.

As they reached the shore, he gazed out over the water. His blue eyes became lost in the dark, swirling ocean water. Turner had always loved the water—he loved to be near it, to smell it; to watch the waves crash on the shore. The comfort of the gentle drift of a small watercraft—removed from time and worry—had been a draw for him ever since his father had left. But the comfort existed only in solitude. Being so close to his father as they rowed back to the mainland was bound to prevent any calming effect that he might otherwise be able to find. He would love to swim in it, of course, but not at this moment. With all of the cruel changes to the world, Turner could almost no longer trust the ocean. Shadow wolves were bad enough, but who knew what lurked beneath the brine… Waiting.

The boat was barely large enough for the two men. Kris climbed in, wearily eying the water. Turner climbed into the back. Of course—his father was going to make him row back to the city. After all, the world served his father. Still, he climbed in and took hold of the oars. As they cast off, Turner allowed himself one last look towards the island. He would come back to explore the rest anon. It was time to get back to the Underground. After all of the effort Adam had gone towards organizing them, he really didn’t deserve the stress of waking up to a missing member. Silently, he ran the oars through the water, gently breaking the dark, serene surface.

Ripples cast out as the boat began to move away from the island. Ripples. So many things depended on the Underground now. So much depended on trust. The time was nearing for humanity to take its defining stand against extinction—and who knew what that might cause. There were so many unpredictable ripples.