Paragon

⊰❉⊱ 44 ⊰❉⊱

I should have been using this time to plan my work for Paragon.

Instead I leant on Quinn Adams' island counter as she made breakfast. I had forgotten the process long ago–it was fascinating.

"Fletcher, stop looking at me like I'm a zoo exhibit." She said, around a bite of toast as she rummaged her fridge.

I tilted my head and scanned the contents behind her form.

"That is a lot of green." I noted, "–mortals in the early nineteen hundreds consumed more meat."

"Yes and we're still trying to fix the damage said meat eaters created." She quipped with a knowing look over her shoulder.

"What about blood drinkers?" I drawled.

She grinned and shook her head as she took her plate and mug into the next room. I trailed closely behind and admired her dinning room. A grandfather clock ticked lethargically in the corner and the long curtains kept the early morning light in check.

"I think you help the planet... You supposedly keep mankind in check after all." She muttered, glancing at her t-shirt that was still on me. Her lip curved and she took a sip.

"Paragon don't understand what collateral damage is." I stated, catching her eyes again. "You've got to start asking when fixing problems has too much cost."

"When did you question it?"

"Fifty years ago. During the Cold War." I answered, detached and looking at the university logo on her mug.

"Was it bad?" She murmured, over the rim.

"Worse than people were ever told." I answered simply, before tearing myself away from her curious eyes. "A great mortal once told me that a successful war was not one where you killed the most enemies. It was one where you did not need to pull the trigger at all."

She was shocked into silence as she processed my words. So many thoughts and questions I knew were coming to the front of her mind. I shook my head.

"There is a reason veterans do not speak of such things. Atrocities are recorded in the history books so we do not repeat them. But the mortals that must bear the memories should not have to relive them."

She shut her eyes and nodded. "I respect that. It makes me wonder all the more about how much human darkness you've had to endure, Fletcher..."

"When I get to meet mortals like you, Quinn Adams. I remember the reason why we fight at all. It becomes bearable again." I murmured, seeing and feeling the depth of her emotion in response to my words. But it was all a bit heavy for a Wednesday morning for my taste.

A smirk took my lips and I stared intently behind her. Hers eyes morphed from compassion to instantly wary.

"Where did you get that clock?"

"Why?"

"It's old."

"How do you know?"

I gave her a flat look that told her it wasn't worth answering. She half smiled and set her mug down.

"My parents apparently. I don't know the origin."

I scanned it again quickly. Antique. Early Georgian. Seventeen hundreds.

"Your parents had a good eye, Adams."

"Apparently so do you." She retorted low.

"I have a collection of countless artefacts from the past. What did you expect?"