Havik: Inside Brilliance

Irving followed the tourists into a rustic-styled
restaurant with an electric sign
blinking The Daemon Diner. Through the
window, Irving watched the man's competitor
in the straw hat and Harry join him on
the sidewalk. She stepped a little closer to
the woman in line ahead of her. There were
worse fates than being an outsider.
Staying amongst the hungry tourists
seemed her best option. Counting the calories
in her head, Irving chose an overpriced
tourist salad with homemade Dastardly
Daemon Dressing and flipped through several
hundreds before plucking out a twenty to
give the cashier. The woman at the resister
surprised her.
“Grace!” Irving gasped. “How are you?”
Grace swiped aside a black curl that had
escaped her hairnet. Her red lips parted in
a perfect ‘O’. “Irving? I barely recognized
you!”
The pleasant surprise in her voice was
encouraging. Irving rested against the counter
covered in little cartoons of an older,
wingless daemon rendition. “Given your high
school baking endeavors, could this fine eatery
be yours?”
“Someone has to feed the tourists, thank
god!” Grace chuckled. “Before this daemon
craze, I was facing a life feeding chickens.
Poor Harry took that route, you wouldn’t
recognize him now if you two met.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already had the displeasure.”
Both women laughed, though Grace
tapped her fake nails against the counter.
“Can you blame him, though? You did announce
on election day that your networks
opposing candidate was arrested for drunk
driving, yet conveniently neglected to mention
it happened over 20 years ago.” Grace
shook her finger at Irving. “That’s pretty low,
naughty girl.”
“I don’t write the scripts,” Irving
shrugged, conscious of the heat spilling from
the kitchen.
“Of course. You’re the innocent messenger
girl.” Grace laughed again, though the words
stung. She leaned over the counter. “Seriously
though, who’s behind the story about that
smog cloud? The catastrophic conundrum
that threatens us all?”
“No one’s behind it,” Irving thought of the
reports that hadn’t been released yet. Of
the mutations. Children with organs born on
the outside—their tiny hearts beating faster
and faster until they popped from the stress.
Eight legged calves trying to stand, to suckle
without jaws. “Grace, modern science
doesn’t know the full effects of inhaling
those toxins, and what they’ve discovered is
nothing to brush off.”
“Sure.”
“Grace, I mean it! The reports—”
“—claimed it was no big deal until the politician’s
ears perked. Now it’s Armageddon!”
Grace sighed a little. “We’ll be fine. Even
if the smog is as bad as your so-called news
claims, we have the daemon to protect us.”
“Protect?”
Grace’s smile faded. “You wouldn’t know,
of course, but since the daemon appeared
Drabblewood has had no catastrophes. The
tornado that decimated our neighbors last
year miraculously spared us, and we had no
casualties during that so-called pandemic.
We’ve had nothing but prosperity, and I
doubt some leaked gas will change that.”
“Grace,” Irving started, but a woman
whose Daemon t-shirt still had the price
tag attached coughed pointedly behind her.
Irving stepped aside for the customer, noting
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Grace’s bright smile as she bid her a good
day. Grace was living her dream, and that
success would further spill into the town.
One day, getting up before dawn to feed
slop to the pigs wouldn’t be an option for
the children predestined to run these happy
little tourist traps. Grace handed Irving her
salad. Her voice fell to a whisper.
“You’ve been reporting for The Man too
long. You should come to our festival honoring
the daemon tonight! It’s locals-only, but
being born and raised here has to count!”
An insider look? Irving could picture the
headlines, the masses flocking into Drabblewood
to buy merch and support her former
neighbors. Not to mention she could warn
the community! Irving had never been one to
hesitate when an opportunity presented itself.
The successful took, and Irving instantly
accepted Grace’s proposition.
After a most average but overpriced meal,
Irving pocketed Grace’s handwritten directions
and followed the tourists-turned-meatshields
outside. Harry and the old men had
disappeared, though Irving felt unseen eyes
watching each step as she strolled down the
sidewalk. Success was not for the foolish
either, and Irving was well accustomed to
prying eyes watching for the smallest slipup.
But this was different. Drabblewood
shunned the scandals and internet rumors
her antagonists exploited. These eyes didn’t
seek airy gossip; they were hardened from
physical labor and sacrifice. Irving knew her
status in the world of spotlights and politics
would not protect her here.
Glancing around a final time, Irving
ducked down an alley she’d entered often
years ago. Back when a “weird girl” like her
who walked alone and dared to draw stick
figures laughing beside skyscrapers needed a