The What

8

If you'd asked Kat a few months ago what she'd be doing with her summer, she might've thrown out a thought about a road trip to the Grand Canyon. A couple days at the beach. Maybe binge watching a couple shows, she'd really been wanting to catch up on Supernatural  before the new season started. Ironically, she almost found herself in her own episode of Supernatural, complete with the handsome men, the unfathomable monsters, and the inescapable daddy issues. It was a wonder she never became a stripper. 

No, the younger version of herself, for it felt like she'd aged years in the past two days, could never have imagined she'd be staring down at the face of her father, who wasn't her father, standing next to a man who looked like an outcast Hollister model who was too busy tying the thing to the chair to notice her mini existential crisis. 

"Kat." She jerked her head at the sound of Chase's voice. He'd put on gloves and was looking at her with.. was that pity??

"What." She snapped, "Never seen a woman go through an existential crisis before? Should I apologize for not accepting this whole new world of monsters you've thrown me into with tactful grace? I suppose I should be kissing your feet for revealing the truth to me, is that it?" She knew she sounded crazy, but she couldn't find it in herself to care at the moment.

She expected for him to snap back, or to cower from her sudden rage. Instead, the pity dissipated from his eyes in a large grin. "Glad to see you're handling it normally. If you hadn't, I'd worry about your mental health."

Pulling on gloves she mumbled, "I'm already worried about my mental health. And yours." She looked at him again, squinting, "In fact, I'm pretty sure you aren't real."

He shrugged. "Are any of us?"

She shook her head violently, "Nuh uh, I've had enough existential crises today and I'm sure there's plenty more to come so please keep such comments to yourself."

He chuckled, "Alright. Remember, don't touch this thing with your hands."

"So it's a Secuester?"

She watched his mouth stretch into a grimace with increasing dread. "Well," he began, "I think so. The eyes make me think so, but I've never heard of one making any noise. Or waking up when playing dead."

"I swear, y'all need a dichotomous key or something for all these damn creatures."

He looked at her in confusion.

"A dichotomous key? Never been in biology class?"

He shook his head. "I was home-schooled."

"Of course you were. It's an identification tool. It basically allows you to go through shared characteristics of a type of organism and based on the differences between those characteristics, you can narrow down to one species, which is almost always the one you're looking for. If you've done it right, at least."

He looked at her blankly. "Like... on paper?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't they have an app for that?"

She huffed. "Yea, but they don't always work. It's more accurate. Also, there's no way there's a monster app out there."

He shrugged. "I guess. Seems like a waste of paper."

"You're a waste of paper." She grumbled but he ignored her, leaning forward to examine the creature on the table. "So if we can't touch the thing, what do we do?"

"Wait for it to wake up." He came to stand next to her. "I need to see it's real form, and I'm hoping whatever it is has enough cognitive function that we'll be able to get some answers without too much trouble."

"And if it doesn't?"

The young man shrugged his broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest. "You're the biology major. Dissection?"

She blanched. "MARINE biology. Marine. I avoided the medical field because I didn't want to cut people open."

He looked at her sideways. "It's not people."

"Yeeuugghhh, I swear talking with you gives me the biggest headache-" She rubbed at her temples. "I'm taking a shower. I'm really hoping you're not real and won't be here when I get out."

He chuckled as she grabbed her back pack and walked toward the bathroom. She looked back at him, taking in the solidity of his corded arms, planted feet, and sun-bleached hair. He looked soaked in sunlight, his hair the color of golden wheat, his tan skin radiating warmth every time she stood close enough to him to smell his cologne. Mahogany, sunlight, and cloves. He was contemplating the unconscious thing in the chair, golden eyes piercing, probing. She shivered, and shut the door to the bathroom behind her.

As much as she told herself didn't want him to be there when she was done, a small part of her hoped he still would be standing there, that stunning gaze on her instead.