"Yo."
Plato was sitting in the Beefiary, chewing happily on a tomato-and-onion-and-pepper-and-honey sandwich. He seems to love the things. He waved, mouth full of food, and I seated myself at his side. His rat, propped against a bottle of ketchup, watched us both as it munched on a piece of bread dipped in BBQ sauce.
I stuffed a length of buttered baguette into my mouth. We all ate in silence for a few moments, watching the land roll by through one of the portholes.
"Gonna be at the border soon, I expect."
Plato nodded.
"Might have trouble gettin' across. Not that guarded, I know, but… we've got one helluva war machine. Doubt the Imperium will be happy to see another one in its territory."
Plato nodded.
"Might have to fight our way through. This whole trip gonna be worth the aggravation of maaaaaybe ticking off an entire nation?"
Plato nodded.
"Okay."
Plato nodded.
"Yep."
Plato nodded.
"So was it hard to get Fynn out of Libby's stomach?"
Plato… did not nod. Instead he went stock still, his grey face blanching to a creamy off-white. The rat, I noticed, became suddenly and sharply attentive to the conversation.
"I know it was you," I continued. "Libby said the last thing she remembers is green eyes. Then she woke up and, hell, baby's out and about. No more enormous belly, either. Kinda wonder how she burned off all that extra skin so quickly. Preeeeetty curious."
Plato set his sandwich down and stared at his plate, not speaking. He seemed abashed. Guilty, even.
"Hey, hey, c'mon, now." I patted his shoulder, pulling him in for a friendly hug. "I'm not pissed or nuthin'. You saved my wife, man! She never coulda birthed that kid through… her… thinger. Yeah. Wouldn'tve worked. Dunno how the hell you did it, not sure I wanna ask, but I'm grateful. Really grateful."
Plainly confused, Plato wriggled out of my embrace. "
?"
?"
I sat back, aghast. "What? Boot you from the caravan? Hell no. Why would I? You did a good thing. Shoulda told me you were gonna do it, even. Not… not sure I would've wanted to see it, but I wouldn't have been opposed. You saved my wife. You're part of the crew, man. You're stickin' around."
Plato considered that for a few moments. His beak curved slightly upward as he brushed some crumbs away from his mouth.
"Still," I said, after giving him some time to ruminate, "it was a weird birth, wasn't it? I mean, nobody figured he'd be so damned big. Once he came out I thought he might be a bit bigger than he is, even, but, there ya go. And the skin colour! That's probably why more people weren't questionin' how Fynn got out in the first place. Not often two vanilla parents pop out a fudgey baby, eh? Pretty strange."
Plato nodded.
I waited a few seconds, looking for any indication that might give away deeper meaning. I saw nothing of the sort, so I plowed ahead. "You, uh… you wouldn't know anything about that, wouldya?"
Plato shook his head. Negative.
Sadly, I believe him. I figured for sure that Plato would know something about Fynn's skin colour. He obviously knew that the birth would be an issue, and he took steps to correct it. Guess he doesn't know why Fynn's so big or looks like Edmund, though, no more'n anybody else on the crew. I thanked Plato again, shared the rest of my meal with the pair, and left to attend to my duties.
(De-clogging the engine, it was. We've had a massive influx of gear flies since getting the Dauphine up and running again. Little bastards love rust. Gums up the works like crazy.)
Sigh. I guess I shouldn't worry too much. Fynn's healthy, he's happy, he's running around and getting into trouble like any other kid. ('cept I don't remember doing that when I was only a week old. Another early bloomer for the Dragomir family tree. Maybe we should call him Fynn the Extra Tall?) HIs wellbeing is the important thing. Who… what… he is, that's of side importance.
For now.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Daddy
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