All eyes focus on the stage as the storyteller's performance commences.
The protagonist is a flurry of movement, and yet they do not move. They carry no trinkets. Slight traces of sorrowful colours creep amongst the bright and vivid ones swirling across their skin. One tentacle remains always limp and grounded, but is hidden by the constant movement of the other tentacles.
The stage is set, arrayed with trinkets, many of them effigies of familiar creatures. The protagonist passes through them, touching them, raising them up to the sky, yet they all return to their original position. Each moves only after they have passed (a rear tentacle surreptitiously rearranging them), drawing closer or further from each other.
The stage is once more empty, but for a kind of strange dark rectangular mirror, hung or perhaps propped, such that the protagonist is faced only by their own dark reflection.
The stage is arrayed with trinkets again, but now they are all assembled in several small close huddles. All around them is sharp metallic foil threatening to cut the gathered ones. The protagonist stands amongst them, and yet, somehow apart. But as the stillness grows all the more oppressive, and the sorrowful colours give way to fearful ones, the protagonist lifts up the trinkets, draws the groups together even as they have gathered themselves to each other.
Once more a stage arrayed with trinkets. The foil is gone. Are they perhaps in different formations than before? Closer, even? Yet here, once more, the protagonist passes through them, touching them in turn. But now they pause, they pass back again, they turn this trinket that way, carry that trinket with them for a while. They still move in their absence, and yet now our protagonist raises up that strange mirror and sees it, and their colours swirl in joyful hues.
For a moment, the room is silent.
Then it is filled from wall to wall with the searing applause and congratulation of all present.
The colours of the octopus’ body turn even brighter, and they revel in how the performance resonates with the audience. From the front row, a squirrel beams up at them.
A full house tonight.
This is why this place exists. A community centre in the Suburbs, where all are free to come along and stay as long as they like to foster a stronger sense of cohesion between all residents there and beyond. A place where none have to feel so alone.
The attendees mingle around, the catering happily arranged by Jackie, although most of the treats the buffet provides are a little hard to chew.
That evening, the radiant light of golden hour pours into the room through the grand windows that overlook the green yard outside. In the daytime, it is usually bustling with Scholars giving lectures about their most recent finds, or meetings by community groups discussing their weekly matters with one another. The space is open, and loved.
An opossum talks to a friend:
“The open-mic night – it's always good, don't get me wrong – but this one's been the best yet. Didn't realise there were so many keen performers in the City.”
“I brought Marine to a painting thing here. Not that I’m good. We all kinda got going on the fruits, you know.”
“The fruits?”
“Yeah… Fermented fruits. Those bats sure know how to party. Tried a self-portrait and it ended up coming out looking more like a forbidden Spirit than anything else.” He laughs, but abruptly stops as something catches his eye. “One second.”
Watson, the real headline act of the evening, is approached by animal after animal, admiring and congratulating the success of his Shelter conversion. He doesn't brag, but he’s evidently proud of how far it’s come from the days of being filled to the brim with perfectly lined up artefacts, doing nothing but sitting, waiting for something that was never to come.
He muses over Pebbles' performance. Getting involved in Spirit activity was never his main goal, but something about the performance resonated deeply within him. Trinkets, each lined up in perfect placing. Remnants of a human civilisation that once was, never to be again. Passing through them, connecting to them, it feels like an echo of the days when his life was spent in service to making sure his own artefacts were kept safely in order. Yet it was Pebbles who they connected to…
Still, perhaps there's something in that. Artefacts, and connection.
His thoughts are interrupted as the opossum approaches.
“Hey, I just wanted to say I really like the place. It’s like the Suburbs’ answer to the Mangrove Club, or the Carnival.” He smiles and laughs light-heartedly.
“… Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.”
“…There is something I wanted to thank you for, actually.”
“What is it?” He eyes the creature in front of him as his expression appears more serious. Small, shaggy, stormy grey coat. An opossum with a slightly crooked smile.
“Well… uh… thanks for your help with everything.“ His voice remains low. “Mum never dealt with Jimmy’s death that well. She refused to acknowledge any of it for years and years. She pushed people out in the process. But now she at least can say that it did happen, which in itself is a lot. So, uh, yeah. Thanks. You did more than any of us ever could.”
He considers his response for a while.
“No need to thank me… But you’re welcome. I was just doing what's right. What had to be done… I do hope she isn’t being pursued by a pack of jaguars as we speak.”
Both of them look up. Three jaguars are in attendance that night. But none of them look twice at Jackie.
“I reckon she’ll be just fine.”
But that glistening appreciation never leaves the opossum’s eyes.
Commence report.
Okay, so, everything seems to be going as we hoped. The new recruit is keen, curious, and I'm pleased the boss – well, colleague now, but he's still the boss – also agrees. He's a bit boisterous, though, which Watson isn't the biggest fan of, but I'm sure with training he'll shape up to be a fine detective. Maybe that's his charm? He's got a good nose for searching for things, sharp ears, fast, nimble, and was very helpful for finding the rabbit in the Plains a few weeks ago.
We've made progress in piecing together the most recent clues. A lost note in the Park. A smashed up trinket in a recently abandoned place in the Terrace. A track of paw prints leading out towards the Forest, to a sparsely populated land east of the Gossamer Grove.
The suspect may well be on the run. We're going to follow that lead, ask around in proximity of the area, perhaps dig down if we need to – Watson can. I'm sure he's got it in him. But if he gets tired, the recruit can take over that part.
Signing off.
DI Dog.