57. Wolves Among Gnomes
He raised his hand mockingly to his mouth. “Oh my! I did it again.”
When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell.
Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may.
After all...I can't fix stupid.
Previously: With his first victory under his belt, Wendell, Dax and Alhannah make a dash from the press conference when mysterious gnomes in black suits show up.
Chapter 57
A government only cares for its people as long as it gains more power, more control, more money, and a sufficient flow of lives offered to feed its insatiable appetites.
Appetites it was never meant to have.
Morty sat frozen in his chair like a rabbit waiting for the trap to spring.
I could see the sweat collecting at his hairline, and the way his fingers flexed and clenched on his pants told me everything I needed to know.
He was terrified.
And to be fair… so was I.
The entire kitchen and living room were packed with gnomes in black suits and mirrored glasses, their hair slicked back. If they were trying to win a 1950s lookalike contest, they were good at it.
Two suits guarded each doorway and window, while four others flanked the gnome sitting dead center in Morty’s favorite chair.
I don't know. This guy was dressed head to toe in a snow-white suit with a neon yellow tie so bright it could signal aircraft. Pale skin, polished black shoes, and a grin too big to be legal in polite society.
It wasn’t just the way he stood out. Yeah, he had the white suit among black shadows. He also had a translucent creepiness in his complexion.
But it was the smile.
Too relaxed.
Too real.
Too big.
A psychotic beaver on a recruitment drive.
He sipped at the tea Chuck had offered him and tapped the rim of the cup with one black-glossed fingernail. “This is lovely,” he said smoothly, the smile not budging. “Unusual taste. Is it imported?”
“What?” Chuck grunted from the fridge, more interested in sniffing cheeses than hosting fascist tea parties. He held one up, blue fuzz and all, and kept it, chucking the rest aside. “Oh, no. Well, it’s a unique creation, anyway. I was hoping you’d like it. Didn’t have anything fresh, but I did find some old grindings in the compost bucket. Yanked a few citrus rinds from the trash and shredded them into the bag.” He winked at the albino, completely unfazed. “That’s the zing you’re tasting.”
He slammed the fridge shut with a slippered foot and paused. “Although… the zing could be from the mold. Not sure. Dax would know. I made it for him. Loves that stuff. Think it’s revolting myself, but hey…I try to make allowances for people with poor taste.”
The albino gnome yanked a white handkerchief from his vest pocket and set the teacup down, coughing into the cloth.
We all smiled. Alhannah, Dax, Nat, Deloris, and me. As soon as Nat’s wheels crossed the threshold, the door shut behind him with a click that didn’t sit well in my spine.
“Well!” the albino gnome exclaimed, lighting up even more, if that were possible. “You’re home! So nice to finally meet you all.” He stood and made a point of shaking each of our hands. His nails looked like they belonged on a vampire fashion show.
“Ian. Ian Twofold,” he beamed. “I’m the personal assistant to our voluptuous and glorious President, Donald Stump.” That grin never faltered. Not once. He glanced from Alhannah to Dax, then locked eyes with me.
I squirmed.
“Huge fan. Really.” He looked at Nat and gestured to the open spot flanking Morty. “Please. Roll on in.”
Deloris slid in next to Morty and grabbed his hand. He leaned into her…the only safe thing in the room, and I didn’t blame him.
Chuck busied himself at the sink, muttering to himself as he dropped ingredients on the counter and kicked his beard aside. He counted the suits under his breath.
Loudly.
“If we’re going to eat, maybe I should make a nice soup instead? Don’t think I have enough to make sandwiches for all.” He locked eyes with one of the guards closest to him and mouthed, “You like soup?”
“There’s no need to feed us,” Ian replied smoothly. “Thank you, Chuck, we won’t be here long.” He motioned politely to the remaining seat. “Please. Come join us.”
Rolling his eyes, Chuck bundled up his beard, waddled over and dropped into the seat beside me. “Well, that’s a relief,” he muttered. “You politicians should be on a permanent diet, anyway.”
Ian either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the jab. His eyes flicked across our faces, that blinding smile never slipping an inch. “I’ve been sent by our illustrious leader to have a little chat with each of you.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, and his glasses slipped just low enough to reveal the pink-tinged, ghostly irises of his eyes.
“It seems Steel and Stone has been causing quite the uprising in civilian circles. I’m sure you’ve heard the accurate and comPLETELY independent and impartial reports through our respected media channels.”
Dax snorted. “Impartial, my hairy butt. Yeah, and I’m a handsome gnome.”
Alhannah elbowed him hard enough that I heard ribs shift.
Ian adjusted his glasses. “Yes, well… the reports don’t reflect the full impact this disturbance is having throughout the city. There’s been… an uncomfortable shift among the lower working class. Especially near the refineries. Surely you've heard the songs about you going viral across the city.”
"Wait," I said. "Someone's making songs about us?"
His head swayed, and I could imagine his eyes rolling behind those glasses. Ian leaned forward in his chair, his attention focused on Alhannah. "You do let him out from time to time, don't you?" He turned back to me. "Yes, songs, as in plural. The indie girl band Gear Girls has taken quite a shine to you three. He pulled out a sleek phone, swiping lazily across the glass surface. "'Steel and Stone', 'Turn of Events', and of course 'Stand Anyway', which is causing all sorts of problems…"
I couldn't believe it. People were writing music about us!?
"COOL!" I blurted out.
Dax snorted.
“My point here," Ian jumped in, " is that Centurion reports have skyrocketed. Oddly enough, near all the refineries owned by your benefactor, Mr. Bellows.”
Alhannah shook her head. “You’re mistaken. We’re funded by the people. The workers of his factories, not Bellows himself.”
Ian’s grin grew wider. He looked…disturbingly amused. “Just because he spreads his financials across hundreds of accounts and reroutes your funding through shell corporations with manager signatures, does not make him any less responsible for the destination of those credits. Does it?”
I watched the back-and-forth between Alhannah and this… thing in a suit.
She stared straight into those mirrored lenses without blinking. Only her own reflection moved in them.
The guy gave me the creeps.
He knew way too much—far too much for someone going up against Bellows, who was supposed to be one of the most powerful individuals in Clockworks City. But Ian talked as if he knew Bellows’ passwords and breakfast routine.
The surrounding suits didn’t so much as twitch. They just stood there like mannequins with body counts, waiting for permission to become violence.
Ian pressed on. “The fact is, Ms. Luckyfeller, your team has the potential to upset the political balance of this city.”
Alhannah barked out a laugh so sharp it startled Ian into a twitch. She dropped her head and slapped her knee. “You have got to be joking,” she cackled. “Trench Wars is a game, not a campaign trail. If it were, I’d already be in the President’s chair, and Stump would be doing community service for improper facial hair.”
But I caught the strain in her voice.
She believed him.
And that’s what chilled me. If Alhannah thought this Ian guy was serious, then we were in deeper than I thought.
“But the game wasn’t as popular back then as it is now... Banshee.” The way Ian said her old pilot name twisted his smile into something that belonged under a bed or in a sewer grate. “Which is why even the government and religious factions now sponsor players within the games. This event has such a pull upon the people… that your publicly expressed views and feelings are beginning to hold more sway than the leaders of our beloved country.”
Alhannah’s expression darkened. Her full lips curled into a snarl that somehow made her more dangerous than Ian ever looked. “Wouldn’t that be a shame,” she growled, “to have someone in charge who actually meant what they said…and did what they promised.”
Ian leaned back in his chair, grinning like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “I’d be very cautious, Ms. Luckyfeller. With an attitude like that, you might just find yourself banished… right alongside your traitorous father.”
She nearly lunged from her chair, but Dax caught her arm.
In the same heartbeat, two of the suits flanking Ian had their hands on small black rods under their jackets. Weapons, no doubt.
They were fast.
Real fast.
Alhannah didn’t back down, though. Her eyes burned. “Don’t you dare mention my father, vermin.”
Ian’s laugh was infuriating. “So predictable. So perfect. I can see why our lovable chunky chunk wanted me to speak with you all.” He cleared his throat theatrically. “That was insensitive of me, Ms. Luckyfeller. I do apologize for any statement regarding your father’s obvious unworthiness to live among us.” He raised his hand mockingly to his mouth. “Oh my! I did it again.”
Alhannah yanked her arm from Dax’s grip and dropped back into her chair, jaw tight.
“Now,” Ian chirped, like nothing had happened, “let’s get down to business, shall we?”
One of the guards leaned in, popped open a matte black briefcase, and held it out like a trained butler. Ian slid out a stack of stapled papers and flipped to the first page.
“The President is asking for the assistance of Steel & Stone…” He peered over his glasses at us, “...unofficially, of course.”
He flipped through a couple more pages, humming to himself. “To keep the peace and soothe growing tensions among the factory workers—until you are able to change sponsors officially.”
Dax frowned. “Change sponsors?”
“To come and work for the government,” Ian said, practically giddy. “If you win, of course.” He skimmed a few more lines, then passed the packet over his shoulder to a nearby suit. “In the meantime, we just need you to use your influence over the people. Calm them down. Let them know the government is their friend. Their savior. Their thinking’s already been done, you see. It’s just a matter of reminding them.”
“Mahan’s pink panties, his teeth are huge,” Chuck muttered beside me. He laughed and slapped my knee. “Am I the only one here staring at this boy’s face?” Before anyone could stop him, Chuck reached over and actually tapped Ian’s front teeth.
Just—tap tap.
The albino flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
“I didn’t know you could breed gophers with gnomes…”
There was a beat of silence, and then a stifled snort from one of the guards.
Even I had to stifle a laugh, though I felt a little sorry for the gophers of this world.
Ian straightened his tie with sharp jerks, face flaming pink from ears to collar. “Enough!” he barked, pointing directly at me. “You, young man, are the key to all this. We’ve been trying to take control from the Church for years, and Trench Wars has cracked the door wide open. You are hereby ordered to win the games and secure your influence over this rising rebellion!”
“Me?” I squeaked. I hated that I squeaked. “Win the games?” I gulped. “Ordered?”
“And keep the rabble scum under control in the process. You’re pro-government now, Gnolaum. Once you take the position of Grand Champion, you’ll speak on behalf of our illustrious President. Bring the faith-nuts over to our side.”
Ian’s face was glowing red now…and not from effort. He transformed into a demonic lawn gnome in a clown suit.
I stared at him.
This couldn't be real.
But it was.
And that scared me more than anything else so far.
Alhannah looked shaken…though she tried to mask it with anger. “And if he doesn’t?”
Ian dabbed at his forehead with his embroidered handkerchief. “If he doesn’t win, then the factory workers will see their hopes dashed. They’ll remain in the mud where they belong.” He said it so calmly, so matter-of-fact. “We’ll simply spin it into proof that the Church is weak. Point out the folly of their beliefs. People flock to power, not to failure.”
Then he pulled off his glasses and turned those pale eyes toward me again.
Cold.
Unblinking.
“But if you refuse… or throw the games on purpose… well, unfortunate things can always happen.”
“I was wrong,” Chuck growled beside me, folding his arms tight across his chest. “He’s not a gopher. He’s a snake.”
Ian’s grin returned like a predator sniffing blood. But this time, he looked past me, to Morty and Deloris. “It would be unfortunate,” he said smoothly, “to have something happen to loved ones. Jail… banishment…” He scanned our faces, then added with a casual shrug, “...or an unforeseen, life-endangering accident, perhaps?”
Alhannah shot to her feet. “Why, you son of a—”
“I’ll do it.”
The words fell from my mouth before I realized I’d spoken them.
The entire room froze.
I heard someone gasp.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I can’t control what other people choose to do,” I said, looking straight at Ian. “But I’ll do everything I can to win the games. And I’ll try to keep the peace. I don’t want anyone getting hurt… not because of me.”
“Wendell,” Dax warned sharply.
Ian slid the glasses back onto his face casually, then leaned forward slightly. His smile widened. “And you’ll speak out against the Church?”
My eyes locked on his glasses. I couldn’t see him. Just… my own reflection. I looked like someone out of options.
Is this what it’s come to? Even when I’m winning… I lose?
For one brief second, I wished everything could be fixed inside a S.L.A.G.. That I could just climb in, throw some punches, and smash this whole nightmare to pieces. But life didn’t work like that.
Not here. Not now.
I let my head fall forward until my chin touched my chest.
“…Yes.”
Deloris gasped behind me. “Wendell!”
“Delightful!” Ian said, practically singing the word. He shot to his feet as if this were some kind of holiday brunch. “I’ll expect good things from each of you, then! My report will say that this meeting never happened…but if it had, it was a monumental success.” He gave us all a sweeping look of smug satisfaction.
Then he turned to Morty, who hadn’t said a word. The inventor just sat there, staring at me like he didn’t recognize the person in my seat.
“And you, tinkerer,” Ian added with fake cheer, “are to be commended for your diligence in testing the energy-thingy-majigger. By our calculations, you should be able to provide substantial results before the end of the Trench season.”
Morty blinked, his face twisting as if someone had just slapped him. “Excuse me?”
“Your experiments, Mr. Teedlebaum,” Ian said crisply. “We, as your primary benefactors, require results within the next month. Or we’ll shut you down for good.” He smoothed his suit lapel and tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “All hardware and software will be surrendered as reimbursement for funding.”
“But… not everything in this warehouse was purchased with government funding!” Morty stammered, his voice rising. “I have my own computers…this building…even the shell of the Promis came from my life’s savings!”
Ian paused at the door, then slowly lowered his glasses to give us one…last…look at how evil smiled. The eyes beneath were cold, clear, and pitiless.
He looked from Morty to Deloris… and back again.
“Call it interest if you like, Mr. Teedlebaum,” he said, his tone dropping like a blade. “But we prefer to think of it as interest paid… for consorting with members of the G.R.R.”
