What washed up on the shore

What washed up on the shore

Finnegan's head was pounding. Eyes closed, head down, fingers massaging his temples. This assignment has seemed like such a good step up the ladder of power, prestige and society. That had been 22 years, 3 wives, 4 children and countless grasping sycophantic co-workers ago.

To open his eyes risked another office lurching vertigo wave. He risked it anyway. The ceiling of his office was bathed in a pulsing light, sometimes red, but usually an angry blue or aquamarine. The light reflected off his office door, highlighting then silhouetting the writing on the frosted glass: "Alistair Finnegan, d.TM. Director Man/Cuttle Relations.

The Cuttle were rallying in the square down below his office. Another Cuttle child had disappeared. The Runners were mum versus his repeated inquiries. It wasn't just the Cuttle reporting missing children, but many others all throughout the city, the Lemurians particularly so. The Cuttle family that had just left was the third this week pleading with him for assistance. Another letter to the Runner's Citadel was on his desk to be signed. The letter was another pleading attempt for help from the runners to find the missing child or at least to create a task force to look into it. He was sure this one would meet the same fate as the other 7 he'd sent over the past six months, which would be utter silence. The normally unflappable runners seemed bent on keeping whatever they knew to themselves and seeing raid after raid in the papers they knew far more than they were letting on.

There was a knock on his door.
"Come in." Finnegan said. His assistant poked her head through.

"Mr. Finnegan, sir. We were wondering, that was your last appointment today. Could we get home? The Cuttles out front are getting more and more agitated. We were thinking we could slip out through the basement before the Runners are called to disperse the crowd?"

Finnegan's fingers continued to work his temples. While most Cuttle speeches were far too fast for humans to understand, the individuals speaking downstairs had slowed down to make sure anyone who could understand them could follow. The result was an almost constant aurora on the ceilings and walls and all the buildings around the square. Finnegan had found out far too late in life that speaking to Cuttles was a one way ticket to headaches and at one point a seizure.

"Fine. If your work is done you may all leave."

"Can I bring you an analgesic sir? Marsh? Forthent?"

"Two fingers of Forthent then be off with you."

"Right away sir." She ducked back out the door.

The bureaucrat opened his desk drawer for a pair of glasses he'd been prescribed and put them on. Almost instantly his headache lessened to tolerable levels.

He stood and walked over to his window. Four stories down below the square was filled, tentacle to tentacle of Cuttle. There were almost a thousand of the squat four legged things. Five cuttle stood on at the top of the stairs leading into his building. Their facial tentacles pulsing light rapidly and, unusually, they were pulse speaking in unison. The light from their bioluminescent cells changing shades rapidly and able to be seen for blocks in any direction. Except for the light, there was no noise. The cuttle spoke in their light tongue and a few others translated in facial tentacle sign language for the non-cuttle who were there too.

Every few seconds the five speaking would flash something to incite the crowd and the square would burst in shades of cold blue and livid purple. Those bursts would make Finnegan's temples flare.

He was only able to catch every third or fourth word. 30 years of working with Cuttle and he still only could understand a smattering of their language. Today, however, the sentiments were coming across bright and clear. The device that had washed up on the shore was being held in connection to the multiple disappearances of Cuttle children. His office was being blamed for dragging its feet with the Runners and the investigation.

Finnegan sighed. Thirty years of working with them and he still had no clue how they thought about children. Any given Cuttle mother gave birth to several hundred slimes in any given litter, most of which ate each other in the first few weeks, leaving only a few strong, quick or clever ones in each cycle. Why they were upset over the loss of 6 was beyond him. They were the fastest growing community in the city since their embassy had opened.

Movement at the edge of the square caught his eye. Runners in heavy gear were starting to amass at the two entrances he could see and he assumed the other three entrances to the square were being blocked off as well.

"Might be time to leave as well." Finnigan said to no one in particular. He turned to see that his assistant had already left the murky green glass of forthent on his desk and had disappeared. He downed the sweet drink in one gulp and felt its warmth spread to his fingers and the tip of his nose.

He ran over the path through the archive tunnels in his mind trying to decide with other building to come up in and which one would be furthest from the Runners and whatever inscrutable actions they were planning.

Finnegan grabbed his top coat, bowler and umbrella and made his way to the stairway. His office was already deserted, gas lamps turned low and sputtering.

"they could have at least waited for me to leave."

"How did it come to this?" he wondered as he walked down the echoy marble steps. His career has been so promising when he started.