Ismael Ortega in…

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

By Hunter Lambright

Black lines streaked down the side of the gleaming yellow bus. Its buzz was the echoing chatter of the children inside as it rolled forward along the crowded city street. The only thing that the bus lacked compared to the bee was the equivalent of a stinger, which was why it stopped at the furthest edge of what was known as “Mutant Town,” the sector of New York most densely populated by mutants. Without protection in a potentially hostile environment, both the bus and the bee knew their boundaries.

Dressed in his civvies, Officer Izzy Ortega stood at the bus stop, waiting for his children to disembark. It wasn’t uncommon for parents to escort their children home in Mutant Town. Thanks to the boogeyman-like fear of mutants, few policemen were brave enough to dedicate themselves to truly patrolling the area, which unfortunately led to one of the highest crime rates in the city—super-crime, no less. Izzy was one of those few, having married a mutant himself, and was among the most dedicated of the bunch.

The children slowly filed off the bus, none taking care to pay much attention to the sole parent waiting for his children. Izzy had taken pains to write the letters and pay the heavy tuition costs to send his children to as normal a school as possible instead of what the Bugle had labeled “P.S. 10X” as a derogatory mark against the x-gene that the children of so many mutants either displayed or carried.

Oh, he knew it was a matter of time before either Chamayra or Esteban manifested their abilities. Chamayra had tested positive on the gene test with a three-quarters chance of holding the manifestation gene, while Esteban was a sure-shot at one-hundred percent. Ironically, that also meant that Izzy himself held some of those genes, but had never manifested them.

Esteban was the first off the bus. He caught a glimpse of his father and rushed over to him, holding up an A-grade paper. “Look, Padre! I did it! I got an A on my spelling test!”

“Bravo!” Izzy said, lifting the eight-year-old into the air. “You’re getting heavy, chico, you know that?”

“You say that every day,” Esteban said, rolling his eyes in the way only young children can.

Izzy laughed before feeling a tug on his jacket. He put Esteban on the ground and looked into Chamayra’s downtrodden face. Squatting down to the eleven-year-old’s height, he said, “What’s the matter, Chamy?”

Chamayra was nearly at the point of tears. “Ashley said that I’m a freak, because Mom’s a mutant! I’m not a freak, am I, Daddy?”

“Of course you’re not a freak, Chamy,” Izzy said, stroking his daughter’s hair comfortingly. “You want me to talk to the teacher?”

Chamayra shook her head. “That’s what I thought,” Izzy said. “Tell you what, next time Ashley says mean things about your mom, you could mention the fact that word on the street is that hers happens to be in bed with the mailman.” He paused. “And your mother never finds out I told you that, right? I mean, you’re a big girl…”

“Daddy, I know what ‘in bed’ means,” Chamayra protested. “It’s like you said. When two people love each other very, very much—”

“Whoa, there, Chamy,” Izzy held his hand up, grinning. “Not in front of Esteban!” He hoisted Chamayra’s backpack over his shoulder and gestured with a finger toward Esteban. “Let’s go, chiquito!”

The three began the trek back home, looking like any normal Puerto Rican family, yet seeming out-of-place in the district where over sixty percent of the residents possessed some form of physical mutation. It wasn’t that they had all been born here with powers; instead, they had, for the most part, flocked to the only part of the city that would rent apartments or give jobs to mutants.

Izzy’s walkie-talkie squawked at his waist, but he casually flicked the volume to its most minimal setting. “Dad, why did you meet us at the bus and not Mommy?” asked Chamayra.

“Your mom had an appointment,” Izzy explained. “Sergeant Esposito gave me the afternoon off because he knew it wasn’t safe for you kids to walk home by yourselves.”

“Hey, wow!” exclaimed Esteban. He had fallen a few steps behind his father and sister. “Look at this fruit, guys! What kind is it?”

Izzy turned and saw Esteban holding a piece of fruit the shape of a barbell that had been bent in two so that the wide ends touched. “Esteban, where did you get—” Izzy started, but he looked up to see the tree. It almost resembled the form of a man.

Esteban put the fruit to his mouth. “Wait, don’t—!” Izzy didn’t get a chance to finish his warning. Esteban bit into the odd fruit.

“Dad! It tastes really, really good!” Esteban said in amazement. He took a second bite before Izzy snatched it from his son’s hands.

“How many times have I told you not to eat something off the street?” Izzy asked angrily. “You don’t even know what this is! It could be dangerous!”

Before Izzy could chastise Esteban further, his cell phone chirped to life. “Don’t think we’re not done with this, chico,” he said, before flipping open the phone. “Hello?”

“Detective Ortega?” the voice on the other end asked. He recognized it as that of his former patrol partner, Charlie Raille. “We’ve got a nasty homicide up in the Irons. Looks like it’s up your alley, if you catch my drift. Figured you might be the closest responder, too.”

Izzy checked his watch. “Give me five minutes leeway? Have to take the niños home and I’ll be there before you know it.”

“No problem,” Charlie replied on the other end. “It’ll hold for you. See ya up here, then.”

“Work?” Esteban asked, as Izzy shut his phone. “You’re going to ditch us again, Papi?”

“Sorry, Esteban, Chamayra,” he said, as he began leading them home. “You know how it goes. When it comes to investigating mutant homicides and bringing the bad guys to justice, I’m the best there is at what I do.”

“Are you sure that’s how it goes?” Chamayra said, turning up her nose.

“Nope,” Izzy admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “C’mon, let’s get you guys home. I would die if anything happened to you guys.”

The Irons

There was an area of District X composed of apartments that still hadn’t been modernized. Their roofs and fire escapes had all rusted over, giving each apartment building a layer of orange trim around the crumbling stonework. For this reason, it was called The Irons, because of the prominence of its rusted ironworks. It was a bad part of Mutant Town, and Izzy stayed alert as he walked into the apartment Charlie’s squad car was parked in front of.

Charlie greeted him at the door. “It’s a nasty one, Izzy. Just warning you. Hope you didn’t eat too long ago.”

Izzy frowned. “Show me.”

Charlie led him up three flights of stairs and down a hallway to a small apartment hidden in the back corner of the building. The room stank of cigarette smoke, decay, and something Izzy couldn’t quite place. Charlie stood aside at the door and allowed Izzy to take his first look at the scene.

“Ah, Dios mio,” Izzy said, staring into the room.

The room had been torn apart. Ice stretched across it, dripping into puddles on the floor. Izzy realized the smell he couldn’t place was the icy smell that stung his nose, like at Rockefeller Center. Ice arced in thorny pillars through the ancient television screen and across the apartment into and through the refrigerator. At the center of the crisscrossing, melting beams was the victim. The body was unrecognizable as a man or a woman. The head had exploded into a pincushion of ice shards, and several more arcs of ice extended from where each limbs was.

Charlie grunted. “Told you so.”

“How’d you guys find out about this?” Izzy asked stepping carefully into the room. He ignored the body; that would be up to the forensics team. He made his way over and under the ice pillars toward the phone table in the kitchen, where he could see a stack of mail.

“Neighbor downstairs complained about the floor dripping. Said that nobody would answer the phone, couldn’t get the door open to shut it off herself, so she called the cops. This is what we found when we busted in after Gillam decided he smelled a body,” Charlie replied, absentmindedly running his hand over his baton.

“Uh-huh. I see,” Izzy said, eyeing the name on top envelope. “Roberta Vasquez. That match the name on the apartment?”

“Yep,” Charlie said. “What’re you looking for, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Izzy replied. “Getting the lay of the land. Mutant murders are hard enough to figure out in the first place. You have to take into consideration what powers each individual might’ve had, what other factors might have affected those powers, and so on, and so forth.” Izzy lifted the lid to the trash. There was nothing inside it but the day before’s newspaper and the core of a piece of fruit.

Charlie grunted again. “Goody. You hear about Gregor Smerdyakov? He’s gone missing again. This time they can’t find him anywhere. His sister is going crazy.”

“That’s too bad,” Izzy replied, shifting his attention to the items enumerated on the list on the refrigerator, trying to get some kind of grasp of the victim and how she lived.

“They think he might be a victim,” Charlie replied. “They think these murders might be linked, and he might be one of our unidentifieds.”

“Oh. Sorry, I’m not trying to be difficult,” Izzy said quickly. “You may as well go ahead and call in the forensics team. I’m not going to get much with all of this ice.”

“You’re going to leave the scene?” Charlie asked skeptically. As the first detective on the scene, Izzy typically wasn’t supposed to leave until the crime scene had been cleared.

“Yes, I’m going to leave the scene,” Izzy said, carefully stepping through the room back to the doorway. “There’s a plus side to cases like these, my friend. When the going gets tough, there’s always a chance to call in an expert.”

Mr. M’s Apartment

Izzy mounted the stairs to Mr. M’s top-floor apartment. Absolon Mercator was a mutant with almost unlimited potential. Izzy had seen him phase through solid material, create butterflies out of thin air, and stop cars in their tracks. He wasn’t limited to telekinesis or telepathy or anything like that. He just seemed…unbound. No restrictions applied.

Oftentimes, that was a very scary thought indeed.

Izzy was only halfway up the stairs when Absolon’s head, complete with his signature, wide-brimmed hat, poked out of the side of the stairwell, phased partially between it. “Hello, Ismael,” he said in his eerily calm voice. “What brings you today?”

Backing off the handrail, Izzy said, “Jeez, man. Can you not do that? You know it freaks me out every time.”

Absolon phased the rest of the way through the stairwell. “I am sorry,” he said. “I assume you are here on business, yes?”

“I am,” Izzy said, almost embarrassedly. “Should we go up to your apartment to discuss it?”

Absolon snapped. “What are you talking about? We are already here.”

Izzy jumped again. They were standing in Absolon’s modest living room. “Madre de Dios!” Izzy yelled. “You’re killing me, Absolon.”

“I apologize again,” Absolon said embarrassedly. “I have gotten so used to doing what is easiest, you see. Normalcy grates on a body after awhile when trudging up stairs is so much harder and more time consuming than snapping your fingers.”

“I understand,” Izzy said, calming himself down. “Just a little jumpy. I came from a crime scene, you see. I thought I would see what you thought about it.” He described the scene in full detail. Absolon nodded, grimacing at some of the gorier details.

Absolon nodded. “That sounds…difficult. Are you certain it was a homicide?”

“As opposed to what? A suicide?” Izzy asked skeptically. “Mutants typically can’t use their powers to kill themselves, can they? Besides, Roberta Vasquez had never shown any sign of mutation. She was living in District X because her boyfriend is a mutant. We did our research.”

“I see,” Absolon said, nodding thoughtfully. “Something tells me you need to talk to Jazz. He will be able to help you.”

“How do you know that?” Izzy asked. “What’s he going to tell me that you can’t?”

Absolon raised his eyebrows. “That, I don’t know. It just seems like the right thing to do.”

“But, if you—” Izzy began before he realized he was back on the street outside Mr. M’s apartment. That was the problem with calling in an expert. They were just so goddamn eccentric.

Music rocked the Grab Bag nightclub all day and all night. Run by Daniel “Shaky” Kaufman, the club catered to clientele that stayed was ready to party all night, all day, or around the clock. In the early evening hours, the club was just starting to pick up steam after its lunchtime slowdown.

Izzy walked in and nodded to the bartender. They shared a good working relationship, and Shaky Kaufman knew it was the only reason the police hadn’t closed in on some of the less-than-legal aspects of the club. The club’s existence gave the riffraff of the district a place to gather, and a place that was fair game for the average “off-duty” police officer to, by pure chance, run into them. Or that was how the story went.

The bartender, a Jamaican mutant with dreadlocks, sunglasses, and pincers instead of hands, waved Izzy over. The things that man could do with his pincers amazed Izzy every time he saw the man. He poured Izzy a shot glass of water. “Whatcha wanting tonight, man?”

“Looking for Jazz,” Izzy said. “You know where I might find him, hombre?”

“Men’s room,” said the bartender, pointing with one of his pincered hands. Izzy passed over a ten-dollar bill in payment for the untouched glass of water, which the man pocketed. Then Izzy decided he needed to take a leak.

He opened the door to the men’s room of the club and looked over to the open spot of tile surrounding the urinals. Standing there aimlessly, whistling along with the music that boomed through the wall of the bathroom, was a blue-skinned mutant dressed up in full gangster regale. There were more chains around his neck than Izzy could count, and he wore a beanie to cover his yellow hair. “What’s up, Jazz?” Izzy said, smiling wide.

“Ah, shit,” Jazz said. He held out his arms defensively. “Don’t touch me, man. I’m clean. You got no proof I been doin’ nothin’, forrizzle.”

“You really were white before you turned blue, weren’t you?” Izzy asked, laughing. “Nope, I’m not here to cuff you, chico. I’m here because Mr. M sent me. Said he would change your hair back into clovers if you didn’t tell me what I needed to know.”

“That’s bullshit, man!” Jazz protested. “He didn’t say shit!”

“You’re right,” Izzy said, “but he would do it if I asked him to. And you know I’m telling the truth on that one, no?”

“Fine, fine. Chill, man!” Jazz said, pushing his hands out. “What do you wanna know?”

Izzy shrugged, leaning against one of the stall doors. “What do you have for me? Mr. M told me to come see you, but he didn’t give any more to go on than that. I’m in the dark here, Jazz. Throw me a bone.”

Jazz thought carefully for a moment. “Fine, it’s just a rumor, but it’s the only new thing that’s going on since you guys busted up one of Frankie’s opium-running gigs a couple weeks ago, g-man.” Jazz paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “There’s a new drug on the streets, they’re saying. They call it ‘Eden,’ after the Forbidden Fruit. Y’see, they’re saying it’s shaped like a slice of dried fruit. Stuff causes an instant high in any mutant who uses it, and it activates latent X-genes in non-mutants. I don’t know what happens to baselines without it, though, man. That’s all I’ve got for you.”

“And Mr. M thinks it’s all connected?” Izzy asked, more to himself than to Jazz. “Thanks. I think you might’ve helped. Gave me something to think about at least.”

“Sure, popo,” Jazz said. “Anytime…”

Izzy rolled his eyes at the disrespect. “If I come in here with my badge, I’m gonna cuff you, chico. Get outta the Grab Bag for the night, all right?”

“You got it, jeez!” Jazz said, hurrying out the door. He’d spent a few nights in a jail cell. He wasn’t willing to do it again.

On the way out the door, Izzy’s cell phone started buzzing angrily. The front screen showed a picture of his wife, Armena. “Hola, bonita,” he answered, in the most suave tone he could muster.

“Izzy! Come home! It’s Esteban!” Armena shouted hurriedly, her voice expressing obvious anguish. “He’s floating and everything is spinning around his room!”

Izzy began running, his mind forcing the pieces he had into a mismatched puzzle. “I’m coming! Hold on!”

The Ortega Household

Izzy burst through the door of his house to be greeted by Chamayra. “Come quick, Papi!” she shouted, dragging him by the hand.

Armena stood in the doorway of Esteban’s room, her body outlined by a strange, blue glow. “Oh, Izzy,” she whispered. “Make him stop. Make him stop hurting.”

Izzy looked over Armena’s shoulders. Esteban hovered in the center of his room, his clothes ruffling as if they were blown by an invisible wind. Blocks, pillows, clothing, and other toys blew around in a whirlwind about the room. “Papi, please!” Esteban shouted from the middle of the chaos, his eyes alight with a blue glow. “Please, make it stop!”

“I’m coming, hijo!” Izzy shouted, running into the room. He was instantly caught up in the whirlwind and staggered into Esteban’s bed, forced downward by his son’s power. Izzy forced himself upright, shouting in pain as one of Esteban’s toy cars smacked against his wrist. He forced his head down in time to avoid a trail of three of his old building blocks and snagged a pillow out of midair to hold against his head. Three or four army men hit the pillow and stayed there, held by the power Esteban wielded. “I’m coming, don’t worry!”

“I can’t stop it, Papi! I can’t!” Esteban shouted. As Izzy drew nearer, the strength of the whirlwind increased, forcing him to stop just to maintain his ground.

Armena shouted as the whirlwind forced several toys out the open door. “Shut the door, Armena!” Izzy shouted, and his wife listened to him reluctantly.

Izzy dug his heels into the carpet, advancing inch by painful inch. He reached out and grabbed Esteban’s foot. “Pull it in, hijo!” he shouted. “You can do it, I know you can!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” Esteban shouted over the roar. His eyes flared, and suddenly, everything dropped to the floor, Esteban included.

Izzy held Esteban’s fallen form. “I did it. Are you proud of me, Papi?” Esteban asked weakly.

“Of course I am,” Izzy whispered, trying to hold back the tears. They had averted the crisis for now.

Armena kicked open Esteban’s door. “Esteban!” she shouted, seeing them on the floor. “Is he okay?”

“He will be, I think,” Izzy said. “He fell asleep as soon as he stopped it. That took a lot out of him.” He stood up carefully and handed Esteban’s sleeping form to Armena, a look of determination etched on his face. Armena cradled her fallen son.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving us now,” she said sternly. “You have to take care of your family.”

Izzy strode over to the door with his detective’s trench coat at his shoulder. “I am taking care of my family—by getting the thing that activated Esteban’s powers off the street!” Then he slammed the door behind him. He was still breathing hard when he realized the air behind him had turned solid. He jumped and turned around. Absolon Mercator stared at him curiously.

“Sorry. I heard that you wanted to get Eden off the streets,” Absolon said mysteriously. “Shall we?” He snapped his fingers.

Izzy looked around at the new atmosphere he and Absolon had teleported into. “We’re at the bus stop.”

“Yes, apparently we are,” Absolon said mysteriously. “I wonder why.”

“The fruit,” Izzy said, piecing it together. “It’s the common factor, isn’t it? Maybe someone’s selling it as a drug, but others are eating it by accident. Like Esteban?”

“Or Roberta Vasquez,” Absolon said, nodding. “It came to me, you see. I wish I had seen it sooner. Fortunately, there is only one source for Eden, and it is unique.” Absolon held a hand up, and a light shone from his palm, illuminating the trunk of the tree. “What do you see, Ismael?”

Izzy stared hard, then blinked twice. “It looks like a person.” He paused. “Dios. Gregor.”

Absolon nodded sadly. “Gregor Smerdyakov, the man cursed, in that his body takes root every time he falls asleep. He got away with it a few too many times, but it seems his luck ended here. He has completed his mutation.”

“Ay, how do I tell Mitya and Mikhail?” Izzy asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “And how are we going to stop him from producing fruit. He’s a man! We can’t just chop him down.”

“You are forgetting a few other factors,” Absolon said, leaning to the ground. He picked up a caterpillar that had somehow made its way onto the sidewalk, letting it crawl over his palms. “Your son survived his encounter with Eden. Is it possible with mutant nature that Roberta survived hers?”

Izzy nodded. “I would have to check with the coroner—before they autopsy her!” Izzy said, finding another piece of the puzzle. “There was a fruit core in Roberta’s trash can. This does make sense.”

“Good,” said Absolon, staring down at the caterpillar. “I am glad this is beginning to work out.”

“I have to go there, then,” Izzy said. “What are we going to do about Gregor?”

“I’ll worry about Gregor,” Absolon said. “As for the rest? Let nature take its course.” He put his palms around the caterpillar. The light glowed, and when he opened his palms, a butterfly flew out. Then, Absolon rose into the air at the same rate as the butterfly. Izzy heard dirt shifting behind him, and felt a shadow come over him as a dark shape blotted out the streetlights. The tree that had been Gregor Smerdyakov rose into the air along with Absolon. Izzy watched as they floated away into the night.

As Absolon disappeared, Izzy shook his head, clearing his mind. He then pulled out his cell phone and dialed the coroner’s office for District X. Hopefully he could make sure this story had a happy ending.

The Ortega Household

Dear Journal,

Some days, I wake up and think I’m going to make the world a better place. Those are usually the days I just spend waiting on a call that never comes, and then pick up some trash people littered to make myself feel better. Other days, I think I’m just going to live my life, and something happens to change the game again. Today was one of those days.

Esteban seems to have developed some telekinetic powers. We don’t know what kind yet, just that it’s all new to him. We will help him through it. Another woman is going through the same thing with her newfound ice powers. Hopefully we’ll all be learning together.

Mr. M helped me get a drug off the street. He’s a good man. I just hope he’s been able to do something for poor Gregor. I wonder if I should have left Gregor where he was and just cordoned off the area, and then called the Xavier Institute to see what kind of help he could get. He deserves better than to be planted in seclusion, but then, I should trust Absolon’s judgment. He has never let me down before.

The thing is, I still can’t help but feel like we lost today. My family is safe, and so are the streets, but I can’t help but wonder who else won from all this. Did I do the right thing? Will I ever know the full consequences of my actions?

But then, I knew that when I took the oath, all I would ever know about are the circumstances involving me. And today, perhaps that will be enough.

Today is not a good day or a bad day. It is a gray day.

But I can live with that.

Ismael Ortega, 7/18/09

Izzy shut his journal and looked lovingly at his wife, enclosed in her protective bubble. Yes, his thoughts echoed. I can definitely live with that.

Then, he shut out the light.

Epilogue
Mr. M’s Apartment

Absolon Mercator leaned back in his easy chair, thinking about existence. He stared out into the night, knowing that the world was going to change soon, and that he would need to change with it.

He kicked his feet up on the footstool and took a bite of forbidden fruit. Then he snapped his fingers. There was a thunderclap as a single atom exploded as Absolon split it, containing its power in a one-inch radius.

The world may be changing, he thought, but I will be prepared to let nature take its course. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.