BLOOD DREAM (Ongoing)

8.1: Your Son Was Caught Throwing Rocks At Windows Again

Rain turned the world grey. It was a dismal day to do anything, the sky smelling heavy and air colder than it had been the past few weeks. Summer was reaching its end. Theron stared outside, watching powerlines zip by from his seat in the back of Hector's car. He sat directly behind Nora with Bard beside him. Theron was exhausted and restless, eager to resume canine form, and terrified of what the looming conversation with his mother would reveal. He gave up hope of ever talking to her again a long time ago. He barely remembered what she was like. He supposed what terrified him the most was that she would be impersonal.

They stopped on a dirt road close to the barn he invaded. Theron liked to think he didn't feel bad, but in the absence of his bloodlust and hearing about the incident from the perspective of others, he did feel a little bad. The guilt made him angry, so he tried not to think about it.

Bard checked the zip ties around Theron's wrists and ankles, then secured a choke collar around Theron's neck. Nora twisted around to look at him with a leash in her hands. "In case you get any funny ideas," she said.

Theron grumbled.

Hector looked between his phone and a cheap tablet on his lap. "I've connected the tablet to my mobile hotspot. There should be a decent signal," he said, handing the tablet to Bard. "We've been approved for a ten-minute video call with Dr. Daveau, but I only want audio on our end. Dial it whenever you're ready."

Propped up in Bard's hands, the tablet displayed a dark grey screen with a phone number and a big green button. Theron nodded and Bard dialed.

Two screens popped up. One of them was black, displaying a warning to turn on the camera. The other was a blur of grey static accompanied by the sound of a muffled click. The screen became a digitized portrait, at first too pixelated to make anything out, but gradually she took shape: silvering black hair neatly tied back, big grey glasses, white lab coat illuminated by the bright lights of a sterile room. A metal cage was partially visible behind her. "Good afternoon, Team 4. This is Solo 018: Dr. Daveau."

She crackled in the connection, her voice coming to life from old home videos and distant memories. Theron didn't expect it to punch him like it did. He stared at the grainy video of Dr. Imogen Daveau, her face bland, her eyes colourless, and couldn't speak.

"I trust there's a good reason for this. You recall I'm on a limited communications channel exclusively managed by Nikolas, so I suggest you not waste either of our time," she said briskly.

"Mom," croaked Theron.

She fell silent. Her image distorted and dragged. "Who is that?"

Didn't she recognize him? His chest thundered. "Mom, it's me."

"Theron?" The video glitched. "Team 4, turn on your video."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Daveau," said Hector from the front seat.

"Yeah, it's Theron," he said quickly. "I'm with the hunters."

"What are you doing with my son, John?"

"Sorry to spring this on you, but you must understand our current assignment requires utmost discretion," said Hector.

"They captured me!" said Theron.

"Theron, what happened?"

Theron desperately explained how he was handed over as Hector clarified that they were taking him in for processing while Daveau flung queries. All three spoke over one another before Bard, annoyed, grabbed the leash and silenced Theron.

"Daveau, I'm sorry I can't answer all your questions, but know that Theron is working with us to capture another Dire," said Hector.

"Who?"

"Sadie Nieves."

"Why?"

"She appears to be on a killing spree."

"I see." Daveau went quiet and leaned back. The video cleared up and Theron drank in her details: the wrinkles on her face, the tight downturn of her mouth. Her gaze was mercury in the light. He waited for her to turn her head and the familiar blue in her eyes to shine through, but it never did. "Let me see my son."

"I can't," said Hector.

Theron squirmed, attempting to loosen the collar around his neck. "Mom, where are you?" He didn't realize his voice was shaking.

Her eyebrows twinged. "I'm working up north, Theron. I'm just outside of the Kangaatmik First Nations reserve. Remember?"

"I—I know, but—" But it wasn't the answer he wanted. "Why haven't you talked to us?"

"I'm not allowed to speak with anybody outside of this communications channel. It's part of my NDA," replied Daveau, impersonal.

His face felt hot. He didn't want the hunters looking at him, especially Nora, when he had become so fractured seeing his mother for the first time in years. "But we need you." They didn't. They survived this long without her. She only nurtured his unhealthy obsession over Sadie; she abandoned them, she exposed them to hunters, and yet...

Daveau sighed and Theron swore he saw pity. "Your pack has everything you need. Just cooperate with Team 4 and you'll be alright."

She didn't know what they were going to do with him. She didn't know that they were lining him up for extermination! "No, mom, you don't understand. It's not like that."

"Theron," interrupted Hector.

He continued. "I need you. Kitra needs you. Frank is trying to get me killed and if I'm not there to protect Kitra, I don't know what'll happen!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Theron, that's enough," warned Hector.

"Mom, please!" Theron panicked. "Please help me!"

"Theron? John, what is going on?" demanded Daveau.

Bard took the tablet away as Hector commanded him to end the call. Maybe they thought Theron really was just going to yell at her. He thought he was going to, too, but seeing her, talking to her, experiencing her presence real and alive and remembering him, he only wanted the guidance she used to give. It didn't matter that she'd messed him up and left. He was lost, but she always knew where to point him. And hearing her pity, her worry... she must still care in some way, right? He just wanted help. He just needed somebody to help him, and she of all people would know how to help him best... right?

In the frantic struggle to slip out a few last words, Theron spied the phone number in the corner of the screen. He tried to memorize it before Bard cut the call.

"Theron, I'm sor—"

Then his mother was gone.

His throat tightened with tears, the choke collar suffocating him into hoarse gasps as Theron slumped into the seat. He shuddered and trembled and felt like the ugliest thing in the world. It was pathetic. Humiliating! Theron shut his eyes as Hector and Bard got out of the car, talking out of range, not that he cared what they had to say. Only Nora remained in the front seat. He could fool himself into thinking she sympathized for him, but it was more likely that she was just embarrassed for him. What reason would anybody have to feel compassion for Theron de Lascaux?