 |
 |
elizabeth.myfastforum.org
An archive of my AB/DL stories.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Elizabeth
Site Admin
Joined: 30 Dec 2007
Posts: 172
|
 Posted: Mon Dec 31, 2007 1:54 am Post subject: Bygones: Issue #0: Unrepentant |
  |
|
Bygones, Issue #0: Unrepentant
Special Giant-Sized Issue!
$3.99
Unrepentant
Who Is Yuki Dainichi?
The sun was just coming up behind the building she was laying on as the first cars began to roll down the street. Any other day, that would have happened hours ago, but not that day. All of the traffic up to that point had been on foot, and most of that hadn't gotten any further than the sidewalks.
There were all manner of chairs set up, though very few of them were occupied once the parade started. The chattering which had been the woman's constant companion for what felt like forever died down for a hushed moment, then arose again in the form of cheers.
She wondered how many of them really knew what they were cheering for, really understood. Most likely, the majority of them were just happy to be celebrating anything, and she couldn't blame them for that. Ignorance was bliss; knowledge, then, must be torture. Certainly, she wished she could be down there, mindlessly celebrating with everyone else.
But she -knew-. She knew, and, try as she might, she couldn't turn her back on that fact. She was doing this for her nephews, she told herself, making the world a better place for them to grow up in. She didn't really qualify to be the black sheep of her family, but she had also never really done anything of consequence, never found anything she could really apply herself to.
This wouldn't change any of that, she knew, not with her family. After all, they couldn't know the truth, not ever. She would know, however. She would be making a difference, changing things for the better. And, in the end, wasn't that the most anyone could ask for?
The volume of the noise below escalated again, drawing her eyes to the street. He was almost there.
Her hands sweated only a little when she flipped the guard off the sight, just a little more as she started to aim. Hitting someone in a moving car wasn't going to be easy, she knew, and wasn't like she'd had a lot of practice.
It wouldn't be worth doing if it wasn't difficult, she told herself.
The gun seemed to come alive when she pulled the trigger, a dragon writing in her hands. She almost dropped it with a curse, before making herself put her eye to the sight again, to make sure it was done.
Her tiny circle of vision swept across the crowd towards the street, taking in the spectators, all shocked, wide eyes staring off in the direction her own were heading towards.
Her progress stopped dead towards the edge of the crowd, froze for a reason she could never find the words for afterwards, no matter how hard she tried.
It was, on the other hand, quite easy for her to remember what she saw there, the tiny girl staring right back up at her, eyes large seemingly not with horror, but with wonder. And, perhaps, a touch of joy.
---- 4 Years Earlier ----
The girl stopped her pacing long enough to gaze down the hall, where the nurses had taken her mama what felt like hours ago. Mika, her oldest sister, had also vanished, only a slightly after that, claiming she was going to get a present for their mother in the gift shop, though, really, she was just going outside to smoke. She'd seen this all before.
They all had, actually, but Kiyoshi, the next oldest child - and only boy - had been drafted into watching his siblings when Mika left, and he had, in turn, told the next oldest, Haruko, to watch their youngest sister while he flipped through the old magazines strewn about the room. He would glance over at his sisters every few minutes, though, and always had a smile for the girl when she was pacing in his direction. He probably would have done the same for Haruko, but her eyes had yet to leave the television since their father had abandoned them here, following their mother down the hall.
They'd all seen it before. Except for the girl.
There was just something about it that made her blood pump a little faster, made her want to jump up and down - until Kiyoshi had told her to stop it, this is a hospital - or, if not that, to wear a hole in the floor by walking back and forth, waiting for news. Before they'd actually arrived, her excitement had been nearly trampled into the dust by her siblings' countless, bored recitations of what it was always like.
But once they'd actually gotten to the hospital, it had resurrected itself, bigger and brighter than ever, so that not even her brother and sisters could ruin it with their rampant apathy. In a way, she almost liked it better this way. This way, it was sort of like she had it all to herself - quite the luxury in a family of almost seven plus, on a good day, two goldfish.
Sure, she had been a little sad to have to give up the role of youngest, but there was always the possibility that would mean her family would start treating her more like a grown up. A faint possibility, and likely to only happen when she -didn't- want it, but it was better than nothing, anyway.
She had been more than a bit annoyed at the prospect of having a third person in her and Haruko's room, which was already pushing the boundaries of the descriptor "crowded". That might never happen, though, since the baby would be staying in their parents' room to start with, and by the time it was ready to move, perhaps Mika would be ready to do the same, and they could all do a bit of shifting. She'd probably still end up with the baby, but maybe they'd be the only two there, and then she'd be sure to have her little sister all to herself, at least sometimes. Her siblings were probably tired of little sisters by now anyway, but just in case they weren't, it would be nice to have a little guaranteed alone time. And surely she wouldn't need much closet space for a while.
Everyone had told her this could take a long time, so, when she saw the figure coming down the hall towards her, she had to blink a couple times, just to make sure her eyes weren't lying to her. But every time she did, the person got closer, and she became even more certain it was her father.
For all their collective sloth of only a few moments before, her siblings scrambled to their feet rather quickly at the sound of their father's voice. Kiyoshi volunteered to go find Mika, and, after making sure he knew the room number to look for on his return, hurried away, his departure appearing even faster because of the girl's own movement, following her father, slow as ever, with Haruko trailing behind, even slower.
The girl didn't let herself think too hard as she walked, listening to her shoes squeaking on the hospital floor. If she did, she would have wondered at what kind of a person her sister was going to turn out to be, whether the two of them would get along. She and Haruko weren't exactly close, despite sharing a room - probably she resented having someone steal her spotlight as the youngest. Mika had never had much time for her, either, but then, the only one she really spent any time talking to was Kiyoshi. By the time the girl had come around, Mika seemed to have grown tired of her own role as the oldest, and decided to pass it on to her brother while she withdrew into herself, and did her best to ignore the rest of her family.
Would the girl be like that, too? She wanted to be a good big sister, to teach her all the stuff she'd learned about the world, to help her out... Or so she would have liked to think.
In reality? She simply wasn't sure what kind of an older sister she'd be like. She kinda hoped she'd figure that out once she saw the baby, like an instinct or something. And, as it turned out, she was right.
Her first look at the little thing, all pink and squirming, hardly even recognizable as human, or at least any kind of human she'd seen before, had elicited a shrug, and very nearly made her ask where the real thing was, and why would they kid around about something like this?
A glance at Kiyoshi's face told her it wasn't a joke, however.
A disappointed sigh escaped from the girl's lips, and her eyes drifted slowly over to the window of her mama's room, as she wondered when they were going to get something to eat.
----------------- 17 Years Later -----------------
"She's just a publicity stunt," his sister sniffed disdainfully. "I mean, come on, what kind of a lame power is slowing people down a little bit?"
"She can like... freeze water, too," he shrugged. "Plus - bow and arrow."
His sister rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because all bad guys are deathly afraid of antiquated weaponry."
"Whatever," he sighed, flipping to the next poster, this one for some rock band he'd never heard of. "Bows are harder to shoot than guns any day. And she's still cute."
"She wouldn't be there if she wasn't," she said, finally agreeing with him, kind of. "They don't want people to think the whole team's full of big, scary guys. They need some kind of public face... Who else are they gonna use, the dude with all the tattoos?"
"It's not like she's the only chick on the team."
"The only young one," she was all too eager to point out. "At least the only normal looking young one."
"I don't know," he said with a smile. "That lizard-looking chick is kinda hot."
"You are such a freak." She shoved him into the display of posters, but she was chuckling. "Come on, we still have need to get shampoo. It's not like you're gonna buy any of those anyway."
"Yeah, yeah," he shrugged, starting to follow her away. He turned back for one last look, but they had already flipped back to the first poster and some weird butterfly-themed metahuman was staring back at him, rather than the pair of blue eyes he'd been hoping for. Probably from some little kid show, he thought, rolling his eyes as he walked away.
----------- 11 Years Earlier -----------
"<Let's all quiet down now!>" the teacher exclaimed, clapping his hands and switching back to Japanese to make sure they all understood him. Not that it mattered - firstly, since most of his students already knew at least -that- phrase in English just fine, and secondly, because he hardly expected them to do so, no matter what language he used.
Sure enough, despite the few obedient ones who always shut their mouths, faced the front of the classroom, and sat straight up at the sound of those words, the chattering subsided only slightly. Some days, he wished he could go back to the first day of school, when the kids were all still too nervous to talk to each other. But after that initial ice got broken, it seemed to melt, so that there were no longer even any pieces to try to put back together.
Truth be told, he didn't mind all that much. If they weren't at least a bit rambunctious, there would be something wrong. Kids were supposed to be like that, not like little robots that just sat at their desks and did what they were told, even if it often seemed as if his fellow teachers thought that way.
"<Quiet now!>" he repeated, getting a somewhat better response, enough that he decided to keep going while he was ahead. "<We're going to be doing some coloring, so get out your crayons!>"
He turned to pick up the stack of drawings, just waiting to be given life, the clatter of a couple dozen bookbags being dug through starting up behind him. A butterfly stared up at him from the top, along with a caterpillar, and a chrysalis, hanging from a tree branch.
He kept circulating throughout the room after handing them out, just watching the energy of youth being shaped into sheer concentration. It had always amused him to see how seriously his students took something as simple and silly as coloring - sometimes, he wished he could go back to a time when his biggest concern was keeping his crayons from straying outside the lines.
He was just about to go back to his desk for a few minutes, when he noticed something a little odd. He changed his course slightly to get a better look, make sure he was seeing what he thought he was, and, as it turned out, he certainly was.
One of his students - one of the quiet, obedient ones - was intently watching the kid at the desk next to her. Once he had finished with a section, and had set his crayon down, the girl would snatch it up and quickly color the exact area she had just seen being done.
At first, the teacher thought she had forgotten to bring her own crayons, or perhaps she came from a poor family - her clothes looked like hand-me-downs - but as he got close again, he noted the box of crayons lying on her desk, still closed.
"<Having some trouble?>" he asked quietly, kneeling down next to her desk.
He had been expecting her to be a little nervous, as most of his students, especially the quiet ones, were when he approached them one on one. But no, she just turned and stared him in the eye. "<I'm doing fine>," she informed him. "<Thank you.>"
"<Then why are you copying?>" At times, it was best to be direct about it, and this seemed like one of those times.
The girl did squirm a little then, but not for any more than a second, maybe two. "<Because this is tough>," she admitted. "<You always like everyone else's more than mine.>"
He almost broke into his normal 'There's no wrong way to do this' speech. Something didn't seem right, however, so he held off, picking up her crayon box and taking one out a random. "<What color is this?>" he asked.
"<Forest green>," she answered matter-of-factly, and just slow enough to convince the teacher to try again, making sure the crayon's name was facing away from the girl. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, before emitting an unamused, "<That's cheating!>"
He apologized, gave the crayons back to her, headed back to his desk before the other students started to finish their coloring and wonder what was going on. He could still feel her eyes on him as he sat down, and began to write a note to her parents, digging through his papers to find the address of the optometrist the school had its teachers recommend, in cases like this.
--------- 9 Years Later ---------
The mother stared into the pair of brown eyes belonging to her youngest child, and for a moment, felt doubt.
Her daughter didn't repeat herself, simply sat back, folding her hands on her lap. Was she giving up? Or was she confident enough that she felt she didn't need to say anything more?
The mother should have known. She knew she should - she knew her other children well enough to be able to tell, or, with the older ones, had at one time. And with this one, she had once. Or so she'd have liked to think. There were times when she looked back and wondered if she had ever really known her at all. She certainly didn't anymore.
She'd have blamed it on him, if she could have. And she did, sometimes, even though she knew she had lost touch with her daughter long before he'd ever come into the picture.
The girl was the smallest of her children, the most fragile looking; it just didn't seem right that she was the biggest mystery. What was going on in her head? What did she see through those eyes?
What was it like, growing up in a world without color?
The mother had tried to imagine it, back when they had first found out, but couldn't wrap her mind around it. She'd always hated herself for that, deep down, for not being able to really talk to her daughter, to help her understand, even if she'd never really seemed to have a problem with it.
It was almost as baffling to the mother as the girl's obsession with America. Most of her other children had gone through that phase at one time or another, but it had never lasted this long.
But she was grateful for that, in a way, because at the very least, it was something she felt she -could- blame on him. Her daughter hadn't seemed interested in it until he came along, and then she was full of all sorts of strange ideas and stories about it that, yes, technically could have come off the Internet, but more probably came from him.
It wasn't a bad thing, exactly, but after all that build-up, there was no way it could ever live up to her expectations. She saw only the good, assumed anything negative was exaggerated or just a lie. She wasn't even discouraged by all those super-people who kept popping up ever there, even that ice-man who went crazy and destroyed half a city in less than a day. It could have happened anywhere, she said, and would probably have been worse there. There was no middle ground with her.
And that was why, a moment later, the mother nodded, accepted the happy, yet restrained, kiss on the forehead as thanks. She finally recognized the look in her eyes as resolve, and knew that, no matter what she said, her daughter would be leaving her.
As her daughter walked away, she got the strangest feeling that something about the girl's story wasn't quite true, and that she was never going to see her daughter again, but she shook her head, told herself it was just normal parental paranoia. It was a school trip, after all - what could go wrong?
-- 2 Years Later --
"You're not afraid of needles, are you?"
She'd never worked on the girl before, but from the stories the other scientists told, she wasn't surprised to see a shake of the head, though she could have sworn she saw a hint of fear behind her eyes anyway. She had a niece about the girl's age, always obsessed with some boy at her school - a different one every time she visited, it seemed. She didn't have a clue what her aunt did for a living, and didn't seem to care to change that.
She'd heard stories about the girl, had even seen her doing her target practice a few times, out with the other team members, but it was still a little eerie for her to be laying in front of her, all serene, businesslike. If it hadn't been for that flash of fear, the scientist might have wondered if her co-workers hadn't ironed out all the problems with their cybernetic implants after all, and the girl's had malfunctioned.
Too bad. It might have been easier to do her job if that were the case.
"Good. Now, I want you to stay very relaxed, okay?"
"All right," the girl nodded, and, either very bravely or very stupidly, waited until the IV had been put into her arm before asking, "What is that?"
She was glancing over at the tank of blood sitting beside her bed, and, by then, connected to her arm. It gave off a faint glow, mostly from the enhancers they'd added, though even by itself, you could tell something wasn't normal about it.
"It's something we made here," the scientist lied, brushing back one of the few strands of hair that had escaped from the girl's tight ponytail. The girl didn't need to know the truth... It wouldn't help her do whatever the government had planned for her when this was all over.
And the scientist didn't want her to know. It was a gift, in a way, or so she told herself. She didn't want to burden the girl with the truth. It made her feel a little better as she prepped the second needle.
"Now, this might feel a little cold..."
---- 4 Years Earlier ----
"<No, I don't!>" the girl insisted again, brown eyes flashing defiantly. Outside the window, a bolt of lightning was doing the same, off in the distance.
"<The police would disagree with you, I think>," the man told her with a slight smile, glancing quickly over at the mirror and adjusting the high collar on his shirt, making sure the highest of his tattoos were still covered up.
Usually he wouldn't need to worry about the police, but this case might well be an exception. The girl's parents would be worried about her soon enough, whether the girl thought so or not, and it might not be the best idea to give them any reason to think he'd kidnapped her.
If anything, -she- had kidnapped -him-. Ever since she ran into him, out there on the street, and glared up at him as if wordlessly demanding how he dare even think to walk in her way, she had been holding him hostage. Normally, he would have apologized - or just brushed her off without one - and kept walking but he made the mistake of looking into her eyes first.
What he found there, he wasn't sure, and yet there was something strangely familiar about it, something that had overrode his instincts and made him ask, "<Are you okay?>" instead of not getting involved.
And the next thing he'd known, they were in his apartment, arguing over whether they should call her parents or not. Though it wasn't much of an argument, as the girl's mind was already made up, had been before he'd even brought it up, as they were walking in, and she was admiring the American flag hanging on his wall.
"<I don't have to stay here long>," she assured him, "<The sun was just starting to hurt my eyes. I should be fine in a few minutes.>"
"<No, it's fine. Just let me call your house and tell them you're all right, then you can stay as long as you like.>"
She ignored him, turning her attention to his bookcase, her eyes naturally attracted to the most out of place piece, a large children's book about Greek mythology, nestled in between several larger texts on the same subject.
"<Make yourself at home>," he said, suppressing his sigh. She'd get bored soon enough, and calm down, and be ready to head home. He could wait her out, no problem - after all, kids that age aren't exactly known for their long attention spans.
She didn't pick up the book, or any of his others, but she did sit down, her hands resting on her lap, folded and, at least on the surface, calm. And yet he could almost see the energy rippling below the skin, manifesting itself every so often as a twitch of a finger. He'd seen lots of people like her; that was inevitable, in his line of work. He wasn't sure, however, if he had ever seen any that fit the role so perfectly, so effortlessly.
He reached up to his forehead reflexively, wiping away the sheen of sweat he'd just noticed had appeared there. Had he really let himself be tricked so easily, just letting her into his home without a second thought? Was he getting senile already?
But no... No, she had to be what she claimed. She didn't just look young, she -was- young. Wasn't she? Too young for anyone respectable to think of using her as he feared. She was too small, her face too childish, but her eyes... No matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, those eyes kept him uncertain.
"<Are you hungry?>" he asked, moving casually towards his kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the visitor.
"<No, I'm fine, thank you.>" Ever so quickly, her gaze moved towards the kitchen, then back towards the bookshelf, just as he was about to let himself relax slightly.
"<Just let me know if you change your mind.>" He opened the drawer, letting it make all the noise it wanted - he didn't want her to think he was trying to be stealthy, reached inside. "<I have some rather delicious ice cream.>"
The hesitation in her voice made his hand hesitate, halfway out, gun already cocked, crosshair blinking across his line of sight as his implant sprang into action, scanning the room for possible targets. "<Well, I really should be going soon, so I probably shouldn't...>"
"<It is getting close to dinner time>," he conceded. His hand tightened at the sound of the floorboards of his apartment squeaking, ever so softly. She was good; he hadn't even heard her get out of the chair. "<Wouldn't want you to ruin your appetite.>"
She didn't answer, didn't give him the chance to hear that her voice was closer to him now. His heart began to beat a little faster. It looked like he'd been right after all. Idiot.
He had the briefest of warnings, the sound of her breathing, still light, calm, on the other side of the kitchen door, giving him just enough time to pull the gun the rest of the way out. He winced as it scraped against the side of drawer, although he knew that by this point, it didn't really matter. He was either fast enough to get his shot off first, or he wasn't.
He wasn't, luckily enough. His arm swung around a moment or two after she was already in the door, giving his mind enough time to notice that the girl wasn't carrying any weapon of her own, even as he felt his arm adjust itself to match up with the crosshair, now centered on her heart.
She froze, eyes widening, looking, for once, undeniably childish. To her credit, she neither screamed nor wet her pants, as he might have expected somebody her age to do, only turned white as a sheet, which made her resemble one of those china dolls his mother had collected, years ago.
He lowered the gun quickly, setting it back inside the drawer, crosshair vanishing as his grip loosened, desperately searching for an explanation.
"<Are you going to shoot me?>" Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper, yet steady.
"<No>," he shook his head. "<God, no. I wouldn't... I'm so...>" But sorry wasn't adequate. He had almost shot her, almost killed this poor child. "<I think you should go>," he told her. Go, before he -did- get her hurt.
He shook his head, half stumbled past the girl into his living room to collapse onto the chair she'd been sitting on a few moments ago. He should have known better than to let her convince him to let her stay with him, should have just pushed past her. His life was no place for a child. Letting her fall onto the sidewalk was nothing compared to what would happen to her, or anyone, that got too close to him.
He didn't hear her move, but when he raised his head, she was standing in the doorway, the light from the kitchen shining around her, in a way that made her look, in some way he couldn't quite put his finger on, like an angel. He didn't see the gun in her hand until she lifted it.
His breath caught, muscles coiling, preparing for a leap across the room, to the small table beside the couch, until he realized she wasn't aiming it, simply turning it over in her hands, looking at it, as the storm clouds began to roll across the sun, bathing the living room in shadows.
She was quiet for a few long minutes, until at last she glanced up at him. It was hard to tell, but he thought he saw a smile before she asked, "<Will you teach me how to use this?>"
As sudden as the thunder clap that preceeded it, the rain came, beating out a rythym against the window, as steady and unrelenting as the drums of fate.
--- 3 Years Later ---
He glanced down at the folder again before closing it, laying it down on his desk. He already knew everything the file inside said, but it was always best to double check. That, and it gave whoever he was interviewing enough time to either get more comfortable, or let their tension build. It was always interesting to see which route they took. Told him a lot about them, especially with a project like this.
"<You need not take,>" he started, wishing he had brushed up on his Japanese a little more before this. The subject spoke English, at least according to his file, but he didn't know that his interviewer knew that. Perhaps he preferred to keep it a secret.
And that would tell him a lot, as well.
The girl's lips twitched, but she didn't giggle, only smiled slightly when the man glanced over at her. He had refused to come along without her - or she had refused to let him leave her behind, depending on which of the field agents told the tale. Could be a problem, but nothing that couldn't be dealt with, if it came to that.
"I would be happy to be of service." Not only did he speak English, he spoke it well. He had an accent, sure, but his emotion came through clear enough regardless.
"I'm glad to hear that," the interviewer nodded. "Now, there's just the matter of..."
The girl leaned over, began to whisper into the man's ear. The interviewer leaned back in his chair, letting them have their privacy, at least until they left and he could replay the recording of this conversation. It was probably for the best, really. If he was really lucky, he'd be able to figure out what was going on between those two. The man had to be at least three times her age, and he didn't have any children, as far as his file was concerned.
The interviewer wasn't concerned with the man's tastes, personally. Still, he would need to know if their relationship was... unsavory... before the team went public, because the public -would- be concerned. They could always feign ignorance if some reporter somehow dug up that particular bit of dirt, but there were only so many times that excuse would work before people stopped believing it, or people started believing they were all severely incompetent.
"I want to help, too," the girl spoke up, drawing herself up as much as she could, which still left her dwarfed by the chair she was sitting in. The chair which had originally been offered to her... companion... who, like any good gentleman, had in turn offered it to her. She might have been a little easier to take seriously if she had been sitting in the smaller, wooden chair that had been dragged in from the office of someone who obviously didn't value comfort as much as the interviewer.
Even if that had been the case, he didn't think he could have hidden his amusement, though he may have done a slightly better job of it. "This is a government project, young lady. It's no place for children."
"I can be useful, too," she insisted. "Please. I can prove it!"
"It's going to be dangerous work," the interviewer told her.
"I don't care." The man did, though, reached out a hand to touch the girl's shoulder, sleeve pulling up enough for the tip of one of his tattoos to be seen. The girl brushed him off. "Our first day here, we saw two muggings, in the middle of the day, and nobody helped those people. Every night, I hear gunshots, and ambulances, sometimes so many that I can't get to sleep. The news, it's always full of murders, and rape, and every other horrible thing you could think of. This isn't how it's supposed to be."
"How what's supposed to be?" the interviewer leaned forward over his desk.
"America," she said simply. The man, even more entranced by her words than the interviewer, gave a nod, a little thing, but every bit as important as anything he could have said.
The interviewer was a bit slow to answer, picking his words carefully. "I simply don't know if there would be a space for you here. The kinds of things the team would be doing..."
The girl turned to the man, and the interviewer could practically feel the heat of her glare. The man hesitated, followed it up with, "I'm afraid if she doesn't get accepted, I can't work with you, either."
It wouldn't be a crippling loss, but it would certainly set the project back. There were others out there with the sort of cybernetics he had, though few that could be trusted to remain loyal, and even fewer who could be considered "stable". And be willing to let the scientists poke around, to figure out what they were doing wrong with their version of the hardware.
But he had a good feeling about this, and he had learned to trust his feelings. This was the man for the team, and if they had to find somewhere to stick the kid, it was a small price to pay. Who knew? Maybe she would come in handy after all. You never could tell what the scientists would come up with next.
"I'll see what I can do." He stood up, shook their hands, and watched them leave before picking up his phone. "Sir," he started, already steeling himself. "I've got some good news, and some not-so-great..."
--- 3 Years Later ---
"This is a nightmare," he shook his head, resisting the urge to throw the remote control through the screen playing his failure for him on an infinite loop, or at his assistant, or anything else nearby. "Please tell me we can spin this."
But his P.R. man had no hope to offer. "They have recordings of two of our operatives acting in defiance to the Metahuman Act. If it was just one, maybe we could say he was in violation of orders, but two..."
"Were they both naturals?"
His assistant, the person who remembered all that sort of thing for him, shook her head. "Just one."
"The public doesn't know the difference anyway," the P.R. man interrupted. "You tell them there are artificially created metahumans out there, that's just going to open a whole new barrel of snakes. Especially if we tell them -we're- the ones who made them."
"Well, then how do you propose we get out of this, then?"
"We're going to have to shut down, at least publically. Kiss some serious ass. We can't afford to let any metas with official ties get seen outside the country, not without risking retaliation, or even a full out war."
"A total nightmare," he sighed, turning to his assistant as the figure on the screen's hands began to glow and crackle, about to take out the surveilance camera for the fifth time in a row, and too late every time. "Execute Plan 28. Lets put our tail between our legs and run, people."
- 1 Day Later -
It had been a day very similar to the one happening outside the window when she'd first got her powers. Rain pouring down in sheets, thunder crashing every few seconds, as soon as she managed to get herself calmed down from the one before.
The first lightning bolt had hurt like a bitch, knocked her flat on her ass. Before she could catch her breath and fully appreciate just how insanely lucky she was to have survived that, the second came, bowling her over, head and heels all mixed up, no idea which was supposed to go where.
At some point all of the hair had gotten fried off of her body, but she had no idea if it had been on the third strike, or the thirteenth. It had never grown back, though she often wondered if it would have, if she'd moved out to the country, into a little house with no electricity, and made sure to always stay indoors when it looked like stormy weather.
But that wasn't how her life had turned out, for better or worse. Instead, she'd found herself recruited by the government, who seemed to think her powers were much more impressive than she did. They'd built her launchers that let her release the electricity that collected inside of her, then filled her so full of "ammunition" for them that she began to wonder if her body could really hold it all, as her skin began to dry up and crack.
Still, there was just something about throwing lightning bolts around like some ancient god that made her think that maybe, just maybe, it was worth it. It might have been fun to have "Zeus" as a codename, too, but the team had already had one member whose name was snatched from that pantheon. That, and she wasn't a guy, much less an old one with a beard.
And now that was over. Dismantled, as quick as one of the flashes of lightning outside the window. She had never cared too much about most of the other members of the team - the other "naturals", as they had taken to calling themselves, always seemed to look down on her for needing so much help to really be able to use her powers, and the ones who'd gotten their powers there didn't trust her any more than any of the other naturals - but it was a job.
What was she supposed to do now, run around on her own? There were people who did that, but it wasn't like that sort of thing paid the bills, and for all the danger she'd be putting herself in, she'd want to get -something- out of it. There wasn't even any guarantee she wouldn't get locked up for it, like some common vigilante. She'd never thought of herself as being one of those people, even after finding out she was a metahuman. But then, she'd never really had any practical way to -use- her power.
Now that she did, and she didn't take her orders from the government anymore... Well, maybe it was worth looking into. Some people had gotten pretty famous that way, endorsed some cereals, cameoed in some movies, that sort of thing. She had kinda been a celebrity right after the team went public, but nothing like those guys. P.R. had always pushed that Japanese girl to be the face of the team, and had -her- stay near the back of the group unless she was throwing lightning at a test dummy.
She didn't blame them, not really. She had never expected them to want to let the public focus on her too much, not when they had some cute kid to parade around. But honestly, who did they think they were kidding? Everyone knew that was the only reason the kid was even there. Sure, she was pretty good with her bow, but that was kind of expected when you had a few million dollars worth of circuitry doing most of the aiming for you. Whenever they went on assignment, she spent most of her time standing on the sidelines while the rest of the team did the real work.
She almost felt sorry for her, really. It had always been obvious that she wanted to do more, to actually help take down whatever super-charged freak was threatening some big city that week. She'd been stuck with a low-key power, just to get shoved out in front whenever there were cameras nearby, otherwise relegated to the shadows.
It might have been somewhat amusing to the woman, sitting and watching the storm rage outside, to know that, as she was thinking that, the very object of her thoughts was stepping out of the shadows at the opposite corner of the room. Then again, she would probably have found it less entertaining when she saw the girl's arm, still blinking in and out of sight within the shadow, slowly start to raise, her fingers starting to tighten around the trigger.
--- 3 Years Earlier ---
"They're just about ready, sir."
He nodded without glancing up from his desk, waving the messenger off when he didn't hear feet leaving. Once his door had closed again, he pulled open his schedule on his computer to find out who 'they' were supposed to be. Running a project like this was a lot of work - there were always people waiting to see him for one thing or another.
"Oh. Her," he couldn't quite keep himself from saying out loud, for once not having to hide the disdain in his voice. He still wasn't convinced that letting himself get talked into accepting her wasn't the biggest mistake he'd made so far, even if it did get him some working cybernetic implants to keep his scientists happy.
At least now she could come in handy. If she survived the procedure, anyway. Solved his problem either way.
He debated staying in his office, and just letting someone tell him how everything went, but in the end, he found himself getting up, heading over to the lab. He was surprised that the only person waiting outside the door was a guard, and not the girl's guardian, or whatever he was. That had been the hardest part, convincing him to let them go forward. The girl had been fine with it, and it had been her who had ultimately convinced him to let her do it - and how she did it was certainly none of his business.
He also wasn't in the lab, which felt quite large and empty with only two other people inside. The scientist was smiling at the girl, who looked quite small beside him in a white bathrobe. "Everything's going to be fine, sweetie," the scientist was saying, as if coddling her was going to help.
But he didn't say anything about it, not now. Much as he hated to admit it, the girl really was being quite brave. He often thought this was just a game to her - especially when she'd suggested that codename. The determined look in her eyes as she stared up at him, shivering slightly beneath the robe, made him wonder if he was mistaken.
"Good afternoon, sir." She gave a sloppy, if well-intentioned, salute.
"Good afternoon," he replied, already turning to the scientist. "Is everything ready?"
"I believe so," the scientist checked a few more dials on the machine, which looked eerily like an upright coffin surrounded by various tanks, and a control box. "But, like I've mentioned, I'd really prefer to do more tests..."
"We can't afford to waste any more time, doctor," he said sternly. "Now, are you ready or not?"
"I'm ready," the scientist huffed. They were all like that, always wanting more time, more money. That was fine for the most part, but he needed this done before any of the other team members moved to the compound and met the girl.
The scientist pressed a button on the control box and the lid of the coffin swung open. The girl stepped forward timidly, hands going to the belt of the robe before they froze, and her eyes twitched from the scientist to him and back.
"There's nothing there I'm interested in seeing," he told her, perhaps a little more gruffly than he had intended, but he had no time for the modesty of children.
The robe slid to the floor, and she stepped inside the machine. She managed a nervous smile before the lid shut again, and the sound of machinery filled the lab.
Metamorphosis
Amelia smiles up at her mommy, doing her very best to stay still as she got her butterfly wings adjusted. They weren't, of course, -real- butterfly wings; even though her daddy often called her "his little bug", she wasn't actually small enough for that. And, besides, the thought of a butterfly running around without its wings made her feel kind of sad inside. No, her wings are made out of cardboard, painted up all pretty. She wishes, not for the first time, that they'd had more time to work on them, since they really didn't look very much like they were supposed to.
They -could- have had plenty of time. She had known what she wanted to be for Halloween for a long, long time, even before her mommy and daddy had started to ask her, as decorations started to appear in store windows, and the air began to get chilly.
"Nymphalidae", she told them, every time. And every time they'd look at each other for a long time without saying anything. And then, a few days later, they'd forget about it, and ask her again. She didn't know how many times they'd done that - quite a few, she was sure.
But they always had been good at letting certain things slip their minds, in the hope that she'd do the same. They were even better at remembering things that she wished they'd let go, which had led to the Pull-Up underneath her costume, which was making it more difficult for her to sit still, no matter how many times her mommy tells her to stop wiggling. A couple accidents, like a year - or at least a couple weeks - before, and she gets stuck having to wear diapers like some baby.
She had made sure her mommy knew how unfair it was, and how the real Nymphalidae surely didn't wear them, and so her costume wasn't authentic (which was a word she was very proud of knowing). Her mommy countered with the classic "We don't want you to ruin your nice costume, now do we?", which worked well enough for a time. For how little time they'd had to get it together, once her mommy and daddy finally acknowledged her desire, it was wonderful. Sure, the wings and the mask don't shimmer like Nymphalidae's, but they're shiny, and that's close enough.
Not that she was going to ruin it. But still, the argument always sounded good enough to shut her up for as long as she hoped it might take for her mommy to forget it.
Amelia watches her mommy give the wings one final tug, brush some invisible dust off of them, a sad smile growing on her face. "It's okay, mommy," Amelia assures her, climbing up onto the chair to give her mommy a hug. "Me an' Carly'll have lots of fun!"
Her mommy forces her smile to brighten, as she kisses the top of her daughter's head. She can still remember a time, not that long ago, when no parent would ever let her child dress up like one of them, when no child would even want to. Of course, they hadn't been big on costumes back then, but even so... She could remember when the first boy had come to her door on Halloween, all decked out like one of them, and she'd resolved never to let any child of hers wear anything like that, to glorify those... things... in that way.
But now she just smiles, and brushes her daughter's hair away from her face, says, "I'm sure you will, baby. You look adorable." It wasn't difficult to say, just looking at her - it was incredibly true - but the words still made her feel a little sick inside. If it wouldn't have caused a deluge of tears, she would have told Amelia to go change. It's amazing, she muses, how quickly your values change, when your child's happiness is at stake. "I just wish I could be there with you," she says instead.
She gets another hug for that, and a brave, "Me, too," with only the barest hint of tears in the corner of those big, blue eyes. It was strikingly similar to the scene when she'd had to tell her daughter she'd been scheduled to work on Halloween, just a couple days after her husband had said the same thing. They'd both done their best to switch shifts with someone, anyone, but it seemed that everyone else had a little darling they just had to take trick-or-treating themselves as well.
After that, there was no way either she, or her husband, could bear to tell Amelia that, in addition to having a babysitter, she also couldn't wear exactly what her little heart desired. They did their best not to cave on things like that very often, but every once in a while you just can't help it.
Amelia lets go of her mommy as their doorbell rings, hopping down from the chair to race over to the door, pretending not to hear her mommy remind her not to run in the house. If she was really Nymphalidae, she could have just flown - sure, everyone, including Nymphalidae, said that the wings didn't -really- work for that, but Amelia had her doubts about that - but she doubts her mommy would've liked that much better.
"Hi, Carly!" she exclaims as she opens the door, giggling a little as she sees her friend's hair, streaked with just about every color of the rainbow. Amelia doesn't have many friends as old as Carly - her mommy still messes up every once in a while and calls Carly her babysitter, even though, as a six year old, Amelia certainly didn't need one of those anymore - but she'd gladly give up all of her friends that were the same age as her to make more. Carly is so smart, and funny, and cool, and everything Amelia wishes she could be, and hopes it won't take her eleven years to become.
"You ready to go get some candy, Ames?" she asks, bending down to get her welcome hug.
Amelia starts to nod as her mommy comes up behind her. "Thanks again, Carly," she says, before pulling her daughter away for one more hug of her own. "Have fun, Amelia," she tells her. "I love you, sweetie."
"I love you, too, mommy," Amelia sniffles. She waves at her as she heads off to work, stares after her for a minute or two before turning to Carly with a nod and a "Uh-huh!"
Carly blinks, confused for just a moment, then she giggles. "Well, where's your bag at?"
Amelia blushes for a moment, unable to believe she'd almost forgotten that - and then what would she have done, just eaten all her candy as she got it? - and hurries back to her room. She turns on her light instinctively, before she can tell herself she doesn't need it, since she can see her bag's face, the jagged smile of a jack-o-lantern, looking at her from the direction of her bed.
Amelia snatches the bag up, briefly noticing a spot of white on the inside of it, the tag mommy had put there, with her address, as if she wouldn't remember it. It's supposed to be there in case she got separated from Carly, so she could find a policeman to take her home, but Amelia knows that would never happen, not unless Carly got herself kidnapped.
Amelia, of course, is too clever for it to happen to -her-, even when she's just a normal little girl. But tonight, she isn't; she's Nymphalidae, and Nymphalidae would never get captured. She would go out and rescue Carly, too, but Amelia isn't entirely sure how to go about doing that. Carly could probably take care of herself, though, so Amelia isn't too worried.
She happens to notice her tennis shoes as her gloved fingers brush against the switch plate, decorated with a sun and a moon, both smiling brightly at her. For a moment, she considers asking Carly if she really has to wear them, or just 'forgetting' them and seeing if she even notices, but she knows it'll be hard enough to convince her friend she doesn't need a coat.
She isn't entirely sure what Nymphalidae wears on her feet, but she doubts it's faded pink sneakers, a few breaths away from falling apart. Mommy kept promising they'd go get her some new ones, but things kept coming up. Not that Amelia minded; these ones were just getting comfy. There weren't many pictures, that Amelia had seen at least, with Nymphalidae's feet in them. Probably, Amelia had always assumed, to hide the fact that she really -was- flying.
There aren't many choices, unfortunately. Mommy wouldn't be happy if she wore her church shoes, and neither would she, since they were really stiff and no fun at all. And black, which just didn't work. She has a pair of flip-flops, but those likely fell to close to the 'barefoot' category to be allowed. And there are always her ballet slippers. She could imagine Nymphalidae wearing them, almost as well as she could imagine her ballet teacher killing her if she found out she'd worn them outside.
So, tennis shoes it would have to be. It only takes her a minute to get them tied, which puts a big smile on her face when she walks up next to Carly, who had migrated to the kitchen table, where she is flipping through the newspaper. The older girl returns the smile, adds in a tickle and a "Took you long enough, Ames."
"My shoes were kinda confusing," Amelia admits.
Carly nods, standing up and grabbing Amelia's coat, which she must have gotten out of the front closet. "They can do that to you if you're not careful," she confides, holding out the coat.
Amelia shakes her head stubbornly. "I don't need it; it's not that cold out! And it won't fit on over my wings." That last part isn't true, since the wings are fairly small, and her coat quite big, so she could 'grow into it' but it could have worked, if Carly hadn't ignored it.
"'fraid it is, Ames." Carly shrugs sympathetically. "Your mom'll kill me if you don't wear it." Amelia's face begins to fall, only to be saved at the last moment with, "But I'll let you take it off when we're actually at a house, okay?" Amelia nods quickly. "It'll be our little secret," Carly winks, helping the little girl into her coat and herding her out the door.
That sounds fair to Amelia. All super heroes have secrets, after all. And, most likely her identity couldn't exactly be hers, since pretty much everyone whose house they'd be at would know who she was, great costume or not. They had last year, and the year before, and probably the one before that, although she couldn't really remember much from back in that ancient history.
Once the front door is closed, Carly takes Amelia's empty hand, and they begin to walk across the lawn. Before they hit the sidewalk, Carly suddenly stops, reaches into her jacket's pocket, pulls out a package of Reese's Cups. "Here," she says with a smile, bending down to stick them into Amelia's bag, "To get you started."
Amelia stops long enough to thank her and give her a hug, but no longer than that - the light is just beginning to fade, ever so slightly, and the sound of giggling kids is all around her. She'd insist the air smelled like Halloween, even though she could never explain just what that smelled like. Dead leaves, perhaps, mixed with the slightest tease of snow, and much more than a hint of chocolate.
It doesn't take long for the bag to grown heavy, and somewhat lopsided - whenever Amelia sets it down so she can take off her coat for the next house, it always tries to fall over. Or it did until she realized she could just lean it against her leg, and that would work pretty well. Of course, she could always stop digging through the candy in between houses, all pretenses of holding Carly's hand so she didn't get snatched from under her nose forgotten in favor of pointing out to her friend all the great stuff she'd gotten so far.
Carly just smiled and nodded, until Amelia realized that she was probably sad she hadn't brought her own bag, so she offered her some of the licorice Old Man Duren had given her, since she didn't like it anyway. Since then, Carly has been smiling, nodding, and chewing. She looks happier, though, and that's good enough for Amelia.
Sure, a few houses just gave out apples, or little boxes of raisins, or dumb stuff like that, but Amelia, an old hat at this trick-or-treating business by now, expected it, had even been practicing pretending to be genuinely happy when she thanked them. The candy far outweighed that junk, and mommy would eat it, she was sure. She likes that sort of boring stuff. She's just weird that way.
The good stuff, the actual candy, what she'd come out here for, far outweighs all the healthy junk, as well it should. There had even been a few people that Amelia would have sworn had tried to pass off baby carrots and oranges as valid Halloween fare the year before who had since seen the light.
"I think we'd better head back, Ames." Amelia looks up from her bag, at first getting ready to break out with her best whining and pleading. She's a little surprised to see how dark it's gotten, starts to shiver at the new chill the air had picked up when she wasn't paying attention.
She glances around quickly before she nods. She doesn't recognize any of the houses, so they probably have a long walk already. And most of them have their outside lights off anyway. She can live without a few more pieces of candy, especially when she thinks adding them might just cause her arm (or maybe the bag) to snap under the weight. Carly, as cool as she is, probably doesn't know how to fix that, and Amelia prefers to avoid the hospital. Especially when she can't follow her mommy's advice to always make sure she's wearing clean underwear when going there; she isn't exactly wearing what -she- would ever lower herself to classify as underwear. Her Pull-Up, on the other hand, despite her protests of not needing it, -is- feeling a bit damp, though she can't figure out when that had happened.
All of the sudden, Amelia feels Carly's hand around her arm, jerking her to one side, almost pulling her off balance, if Carly herself wasn't right there to fall against. Before she can protest, however, she hears Carly apologizing profusely, feels her fingers tighten around her coat's sleeve.
Amelia starts to look up curiously, wondering what's gotten into Carly, only to feel her eyes begin to widen, and hear herself give a soft squeal as she sees, not a foot in front of her, the real Nymphalidae, her mask's already constantly shifting colors swirling even faster than normal as she glances back and forth quickly. She gives a bit of a jump at the sound Amelia makes before slowly smiling at the girl's costume.
"Well, hello, there." Amelia hardly notices the thin, sugary-sweet tone the woman is using, quite similar to how her kindergarten teacher always talked the year before. It had annoyed her then, but she doesn't mind it now. Or perhaps she's too busy staring, eyes constantly moving from the mass of colors that is Nymphalidae's wings to the mask, trying to figure out if the colors in the two changed at the same time, since they're both made of the same stuff.
Or so she'd heard on TV. It had said they were some sort of manifestation of her excess power that she could turn off, if she wanted, but it was really hard after she'd used her powers. Amelia couldn't remember back when her mask had just been a regular one, all black and boring, but there'd been some pictures of it on the show. That was back before Nymphalidae had learned to control the manifestation's shape, the TV had said. Amelia's glad she learned, as the new mask is much prettier. She's also glad Nymphalidae decided to stick with the butterfly wings; the TV had also said she'd thought about changing those, once she realized she could, but decided against it since they had become her trademark.
"Hi," Amelia waves shyly, her initial shock and the following bout of rude staring beginning to wear off enough to let her start to edge behind Carly as she tries to move her bag of candy up to hide her costume, which suddenly felt not nearly as cool as it had earlier. Nymphalidae's pants aren't just black jeans, but leather, and they're cut a good bit lower. Her shirt is, too, as a result showing of more of her tummy. The edging of silver around the hems of the shirt are shinier, too, not just flat gray, like Amelia's seem in comparison. Her gloves fit her better, too, as opposed to Amelia's, which were kinda loose, since they could never find any in both the right design and size. And her wings were very definitely -not- cardboard.
"What's your name, hon?" Nymphalidae asks, looking behind her for a moment before bending down a little closer to Amelia with an obviously forced smile.
"Amelia," she answers, her name feeling quite awkward as it pushes through her lips. "Amelia Gibson. But daddy calls me his little bug sometimes."
"Does he now?" Normally, Amelia might pick up on how little attention Nymphalidae is really paying to her answer, but not right now. Right now, she can barely think straight. She hopes she doesn't get asked how old she is; she's pretty sure she's forgotten. Luckily, Nymphalidae simply nods, reaching out to brush a strand of Amelia's hair, just a few shades lighter than her own, away from her face. "You're a very cute little girl," she tells her.
Amelia thinks she hears her voice thanking Nymphalidae, but her head has been spinning since the touch, and the almost electric sensation it had brought with it, spreading rapidly across her face. And, she imagines, down to the rest of her body, except that it seems to have vanished, leaving floating, like she's in a pool, without the water, or the water-wings. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but she's happy when it begins to fade.
She blinks a couple times, and, seeing that Nymphalidae is gone, turns to Carly so she can start to gush about how amazing that was, her first rehearsal of the story that she was sure nobody in her class would believe. But Carly isn't there, either.
Oh no... Had she been kidnapped after all? Amelia glances all around her, hoping her friend is just hiding, playing a trick on her, since it is Halloween after all. She begins to rub her hands against the sides of her legs as she begins to realize that isn't the case, feeling very small and all alone. And, she notices, seeing as both her hands are free now, completely candy-less. They'd stolen her bag, too, the fiends! They must -really- be evil.
But what can she do about it? She's not even sure where she is! Her gaze drifts downward, growing blurry as it is covered in tears, until she hurriedly reaches up to wipe it clean, mouth dropping open. Sure enough, free of obstruction, the view is still exactly the same, not some strange trick of her mind. She moves a little, lifting up her hands, hopping up and down, shaking her head. The body responds to all of her commands, as if it is her own.
But it isn't. At least... It's not the same one she had just a few minutes ago. She reaches tentatively behind her, and then up to her face, hands shaking now, feeling a weird buzz of energy in both places that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She tries to glance behind her, sees a hint of color back there. She turns in a circle a couple times, hoping for a better look, but the most she can see is a flash or two. Then again, that's enough.
This isn't her body. This is Nymphalidae's.
"Whoa," she whispers, shocked at the voice the word is spoken in, the voice she's used to hearing on the television. She can't think of any cool catch phrases or anything, since Nymphalidae always seems to shy away from that sort of thing, so instead she just says, "Evildoers, beware!" before breaking down into giggles. "This is so cool!"
She hops up and down a few times, clapping her hands, until she remembers that grown-ups don't do that sort of thing, and she forces herself to stand still, though she still finds herself quivering with excitement, as if she'd just eaten all the candy in her bag. And, who knows? Maybe she had. Maybe that's what happened, and that's why grown-ups always tell kids not to eat all their Halloween candy all at once. She can't imagine why that would turn her into Nympalidae, except if, just maybe, -she'd- done the same thing, and that's where she got her powers. Maybe they could team up, and fight crime together, and they'd have a cool name, not something stupid like The Guardians. They'd be... Well, they could think of that later!
An idea strikes her, and she holds out her hands, pointing them towards an errant, surely evil, light post, already giggling in anticipation of getting to watch herself send out beams of color, just like she'd seen Nymphalidae do on TV, to grab it and yank it out of the ground. She's not sure what she'll do with it after that, but surely she'll think of something. Nymphalidae always does, even if she tends to wait until the last second to do it.
As it turns out, she doesn't have to worry about it, because nothing happens. A frown grows on her face as she shakes her hands a couple times, but they continue to be nothing but normal, if bigger than she's used to, hands. She pouts for a few moments, wondering if she's been wrong. Maybe she doesn't have powers after all... Maybe she just got older somehow, but is just the same old boring Amelia.
It's still not too bad, she tells herself. At least she's a grown-up now. Amy would never believe it when she told her about it at school tomorrow. But, then, grown-ups didn't go to school. Not unless they're teachers, and Amelia isn't smart enough to be one of those. Plus, she doesn't know if there are any empty rooms at the school for her to live in.
She shakes her hands one more time, hopefully. Still nothing. She stomps her foot angrily, tears starting to well up in her eyes, before her mind suddenly recalls something else from the TV. It had mentioned something about Nymphalidae being teleke-whatsits, and the streams of light just helped her to focus her real powers. It was a bit like that, anyway. She'd asked daddy about the tele-thing, though she'd probably gotten the word wrong, since he looked at her blankly for a little while before giving some vague answer about how it was some sort of mind power.
Of course, he could have been making that up, since it certainly didn't -look- like Nymphalidae was using her mind. He'd told her he was feeling tired from work that day, after all.
Still, it's worth a shot. She starts to concentrate on the light post really hard. She gives a little squeal as it blinks, then goes out, until she remembers that isn't Nymphalidae's power, not at all, and probably not hers, either. Must just be a coincidence, she sighs, turning away from it in frustration. All of the other street lights are out, too, in that direction.
She shivers, staring up at the sky, wishing the moon would hurry up and come out. She knows she shouldn't be afraid of the dark, even if she's just a normal grown-up, but that doesn't stop it from making her uneasy. She turns around again, just in time to see the last visible street light there flicker out as well.
"That's prolly not good..." she whispers, barely able to hear herself over the pounding of her heart.
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Elizabeth
Site Admin
Joined: 30 Dec 2007
Posts: 172
|
| Posted: Mon Dec 31, 2007 1:58 am Post subject: |
|
|
"No," a gravelly voice answers from behind her. "It really isn't." She starts to turn; her legs seem to have stopped working, like she's been nailed to the spot.
That's when the pain starts, burning through her feet. In the dark, she can't quite tell what's happening, but it almost looks like a pair of big, electric wires poking through her boots, under which the sidewalk had begun to crack.
"What're you doing?!" she squeaks, stomach twisting as the tears finally start to fall. The wires begin to snake up further, winding around her legs. "D-Don't hurt me..."
"Oh, I won't hurt you," the man the voice belongs to steps around in front of her with a sneer, hands and eyes crackling with electricity. "Why would I want to hurt you?"
Luckily, Amelia's throat seizes up as she recognizes him, since she doesn't realize it was a rhetorical question that probably didn't have any good answer. She'd seen the beginning of his last fight with Nymphalidae, until her mommy made her stop watching. Still, on the news the night after, she'd seen a little more, and heard about the rest. None of it's anything he's likely to have forgotten.
The wires have wound upwards almost to her chest now, squeezing her ever tighter, until she can barely breathe, much less beg for him to stop. "Are you crying?" he mocks, shaking his head. "My, how the mighty have fallen." The ends of the wires start to rear back, like snakes preparing to strike, aiming at her chest. "Perhaps I should just put you out of your misery."
Somehow, she gets enough air in her lungs to give out a small, "Please..."
He shrugs. "If you insist," he smiles, and the wires shoot forward. She closes her eyes instinctively.
She reluctantly opens them a second later. A huge smile breaks out across her face. She was right after all; the wings -do- work.
And as she looks down at the scene, she can almost swear she sees her old body there, without its cardboard wings, hiding behind a fence. It looks so small, and scared, she almost wants to go comfort it, but something inside her tells her to keep going up instead. So she does, with one last look down at herself.
Her body is shivering, eyes wide. It almost throws up, feels her bottom growing warm and damp, and the person inside wonders briefly if that's her reaction, or the body's. Sometimes there was a bit of leftover reflex that she can't quite control, not as far as she knows, anyway. Then again, her powers hadn't exactly come with an instruction book, unfortunately.
She hears footsteps walking away, looks up to see Dynamo coming towards her. She's not in the habit of thinking of anyone as her "arch-nemesis", though she might be changing her mind about that after this. Sure, some woman she'd later found out was his wife had gotten killed, but that was only because she got in the middle of their fight, the idiot. It wasn't like that was totally, or even, most likely, even partially her fault, and she'd -still- issued a public apology anyway. Yes, it was a formality, an easy way for the court system to avoid figuring out how to deal with the situation, since it's not like they could expect her to actually go to jail, but still. It was probably more than Dynamo would give for this, the vindictive asshole.
Nymphalidae flattens herself against the fence, waiting for him to walk past her, too cocky to bother looking behind him. She concentrates, readying herself to send him flying into the side of the house across the road, which should, at least, slow him down long enough for her to let her power recharge for her next assault. They were always a fair bit weaker after switching bodies - not that it had mattered for getting away from the girl's dumb babysitter, who was probably still looking for her, after she'd blinded her for a moment, just long enough to slip away, so she could follow her own body.
The element of surprise... It should've been what gave her the advantage against Dynamo. It should've made him sorry he let her get so far ahead of him. It should've won the fight for her. But it hadn't worked out that way. She expected him to take a little longer, to savor his 'victory' a little longer. Well, whatever. She's still going to win, and the same way.
Except nothing happens. "Oh, come on," she hisses, clearing her mind to try again, trying to work faster as she sees Dynamo turn. "Damn it..." So much for surprise.
Her second try fails as well, and then Dynamo is on her. She starts to put up her fists, which makes him laugh. "I think you'd better find a new hero, kid," he says, and then has the nerve to reach over and muss up her hair.
She slugs him. She'd never been the best fighter; being in the body of some kid doesn't help. He shakes his head, gives her a seemingly effortless shove, knocking her onto her butt with a slight squish. "Trust me, kid, she had it coming." She tries to get to her feet, but slips on a shoelace she hadn't noticed was untied and ends up back on the ground. "You'd better be running on home," he advises, walking off again. "All kinds of ghosts and goblins running around tonight."
She tries one more time to stand up, but doesn't even make it far enough to fall before feeling herself start to cry, sinking down the the ground to do so. It has to be this body, she tells herself. That has to be it. She should have gone for the babysitter, but no, she had to choose the kid who'd stroked her ego by dressing up like her. The stupid little kid who apparently still wore diapers, from the feel of her underwear.
It takes a little while to get it under control, a little longer to get it to stand up, to go back to check her own body, to make sure Dynamo had finished the job after all, and she isn't just getting worked up over nothing big. But there's no doubt about it. She tries her powers one more time, but they seem to have vanished.
Well, that's just perfect. Now what's she going to do? She can't exactly go home like this... Her roommate doesn't know that she's Nymphalidae, though she's pretty sure she suspects as much. Even so, there were about a million better, and less embarrassing, ways she'd prefer to break the news. Just wandering around the streets alone isn't much of a plan, either, not in this body. Even if the police believed her story, seeing as she doesn't have her powers to prove her identity, they aren't exactly fond of her, nor she of them. And holing up in a hotel doesn't work when all you don't have any money on you, just a bag of candy.
Speaking of which, she recalls seeing some sort of tag on the inside of it, with something written on it. An address, she thinks, though she isn't certain. It's worth a shot, anyway. And she should probably explain things to the parents of the girl - what was her name? Amelia? She didn't have to do it often, but even so, she'd always considered dealing with hysterical parents the hardest part of her job. They just could never listen to reason. They kept asking questions, and making accusations, and generally being very annoying. They could never just shut up, accept that it wasn't -her- fault, and let her be.
Still, maybe she'd get lucky. Maybe these ones were sensible, and -would- believe her when she told them how this wasn't her fault, and, if they let her stay with them for a few days, she'd figure out what to do next, how to make the person whose really -was- to blame pay. It's better than standing around in the cold, anyway, so she goes back to where she'd stashed the candy and the horridly uncomfortable wings. How had the girl stood to wear them all night?
The walk isn't too long, although the bag of candy is starting to get heavy by the time she makes it to the address in the bag. She doesn't even make it to the front door before a woman comes running up, grabbing her in a huge hug, lifting her off the ground. "Oh, you're okay, baby!"
She doesn't have time to say anything before she is whisked inside, where a worried looking man is sitting at the kitchen table with the babysitter from before, whose eyes are now very red, as if she'd been crying. She gives a gasp as she sees the girl.
"I'm so sorry," she starts to blubber. "I don't know what happened, I just blanked out for a second, and you were gone!"
"I-It's okay," Nymphalidae says uncertainly. She should be telling them what happened, but she'd rather not be in some woman's arms while she does it, so she asks, "Will you put me down, please?" Amelia's mother nods and does so, but pulls her close, hands petting the girl's hair. It's not much better, though it would do, so she sets down the candy and the wings and opens her mouth.
"I'll drive you home," the father tells the babysitter. "It's getting late."
The babysitter nods miserably. "All right," she sniffles. "I-I can still babysit, though, right? I mean... It was just an accident... It won't happen again... I'm sorry about making you guys come back from work, but I wasn't sure what else to do. I-I..." She breaks off, clearly about to start bawling again. Nymphalidae rolls her eyes a little - what a crybaby.
The father looks over to the mother, then back at the babysitter. "We'll see," he says finally, and the two of them leave.
The mother gives Nymphalidae another hug. "Don't you -ever- do that to me again."
She should be telling her the truth. She knows she should, but instead she finds herself returning the hug, mumbling, "All right."
"You don't know how badly you scared me, baby," the mother continues, kneeling down in front of her. "I love you so much, baby; I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."
Nymphalidae's mouth opens and closes a few times, as an unbidden tear crawls down her cheek, stopped only by the woman's gentle finger. "I-I'm sorry," she chokes out finally.
"It's all right," the woman soothes her, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "I bet you were pretty scared, huh?"
Nymphalidae finds herself nodding, lower lip trembling.
"Well, you're home now." Nymphalidae feels herself getting hugged yet again, for what feels like an eternity. It does end, though, with a question. "It's way past your bedtime, isn't it?"
Nymphalidae doesn't know, but she suspects the girl would have to go to bed fairly early, so she nods. The mother stares at her when she just stands there uncertainly, until finally she goes back towards where the bedrooms probably were, easily finding the explosion of pink that is Amelia's room.
'What are you doing?' she asks herself. 'Just tell her! You can't keep stringing her along like this! It's only going to make it worse!'
But, no matter how long she stands with her hand on the doorknob, she can't bring herself to open the door, to go tell the woman what had happened to the real Amelia. So, instead, she goes over to the dresser, quickly finding some pink, fuzzy pajamas, and slipping out of the costume. Underneath she finds a Pull-Up, sagging rather badly by now, so she searches for the underwear drawer, where a rather wide selection of undergarments greets her eyes. Mostly little girl panties, but also more Pull-Ups, and even some diapers. She, of course, goes for the panties, though she ends up putting off changing until she's in the bathroom so she can clean herself some before putting them on.
The mother is waiting for her outside the bathroom door when she's done brushing her teeth. "You're being awfully quick tonight, aren't you?" she asks, almost teasing. And then she has the gall the reach down and pull the front of the pajama pants forward! Nymphalidae almost slaps her hand away at the affront, before remembering where she was, and deciding it might be better to let it slide this once. "That's what I thought. Honey, you know what we agreed on..."
Nymphalidae didn't, just stays silent as she gets led back to Amelia's room and sat up on the bed while the mother rummages through the underwear drawer, pulling out what Nymphalidae was afraid she would. Part of her mind screams at her to stop this stupid charade, to just tell her the truth, but the loving smile on the woman's face as she gently pulls down her pants stops her cold, keeps her words frozen as she lets herself get diapered, and then tucked into bed like a little kid.
"Goodnight, Amelia," the woman gives her one last kiss on the forehead. "I love you so much, baby."
The father follows a few minutes later, repeats the same thing. Maybe she really -is- just tired, but she believes it. Maybe that's why she doesn't hop out of bed and tell them; she isn't sure. There has to be something keeping her there, keeping her from breaking their hearts.
After a few minutes she hears the television turn on. The sound flickers a couple times as they change channels, before finally stopping on what sounds like the news. She listens blankly to the weather for the next week, trying to will herself to get it over with.
Then another voice comes in, with a story that begins with, "Tragedy struck tonight..." Nymphalidae knows it's about her even before they mention her name, decides that this is a sign. She forces herself to push back the covers, to hop down to the floor. The reporter has almost gotten to -how- she died by the time she pushes the door open, though the voice dies as soon as she steps through, and she winces a little. They must have heard her.
Still, she has to do this. She doesn't have a choice. So she walks out to the living room, where Amelia's mother and father are sitting on the couch, obviously waiting for her.
"Couldn't sleep, little bug?" the father asks.
"I-I have to tell you something," she clears her throat, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her.
"What is it, honey?" the mother asks.
That's when she makes the fatal mistake of glancing up, letting herself really see their faces, and the love and care and warmth so clear on them. She tries to make herself keep going anyway, but what comes out of her mouth instead is, "I-I love you."
Hammer Lock
Janelle. I'll tell him my name is Janelle.
I thought of it a couple days ago; proof that I shouldn't be put in charge of deciding such things when I'm in the middle of a novel. Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm a little uncertain. I should have gone with something shorter, something cuter, but the name tag's already been made, already pinned on. So I'll just suck it up. Maybe I'll ask him to call me Jan. That almost works.
He'll be at one of the poker tables - it's his game. He has a couple cronies, might be hanging around. Chances are, though, they'll be hitting the slots, leaving the other seats empty, until a few fresh faces see him there, not realizing what they're up against.
The floor will be short staffed. Bad flu going around this time of the year, took out half the dealers, almost. The ones that are left will keep telling him they'll send someone around shortly. He's the patient kind, just laugh it off, tell them to take their time. He likes watching the floor almost as much as winning the casino's money, and he can afford to wait.
Never did find out what hair color he prefers, so I went with blonde - usually a good one to fall back on. I want to get his attention as soon as he catches a glimpse, keep him there, not let him look away. Robb told me that shouldn't be a problem. He tells me that all the time. I guess it'd be creepy if he weren't the closest thing to a father I got. As it is, I've come to expect it out of him. Don't believe a word of it.
The skirt has a slit up the side, almost high enough to do the job, but not quite. Can't say the shirt or vest are anything special, far as I can see, no different from any of the other dealers', which was, of course, the point, even if it won't help me much in this. I'll probably just do my best to catch his gaze, give him a good wink with my blue eye, pray that's enough to keep him watching, while I do the same for him with my green eye, as if I don't already know exactly what he looks like.
Long as I don't screw around too long getting over there, I shouldn't have any problem keeping him ensnared after that. Just need to pass by close enough for him to hear the crinkle underneath my skirt, see the bulge, take a whiff of my only perfume, the baby powder I'll be sure to use liberally. He likes his girls diapered, I've been told, and much as I dislike the thought, I can't afford to let my dignity or pride get in my way, not like other girls my age. When you're sixteen, you're supposed to think about boys, and talking on the phone, other dumb crap like that, as far as I can tell.
I got more important things to worry about. At one time, chief among them would've been making sure he didn't figure out how old I really was, but if I've learned anything about people, it's this: They see what they're expecting to see. They see a girl dressed like a card dealer, they adjust any discrepancies, 'till that's what they see. It's easier that way, I suppose. Certainly is for me. Could've tried to play younger, I suppose, if the situation'd warranted. It's starting to get harder now, but I can do it. Apparently, though, that's not what interests him, choice of wardrobe notwithstanding.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," I'll apologize, keeping my smile and my blush just for him, whether there are others waiting at the table with him or not. "I'm new here, and I got a bit lost, and..."
He should quiet me down then, wave his hand with a smile of his own, tell me not to worry. Maybe tell me I'm worth waiting for, and get another blush out of me. I'll waste a few more seconds staring at him, whether there're enough others waiting for a game or not. If there isn't, I'll find something to do after I tear my eyes away, down to the felt, too shy to think of anything to say, too new to know what I'm supposed to in this case. Though, with any luck, I'll be able to launch straight into the game.
I've been around Vegas long enough to pick up a few tricks, to feel almost more comfortable with a stack of cards in my hand than not. Maybe not quite long enough to say it's in my blood. Maybe. Had plenty of folks teaching me over the past few years. More than I'd like, but, as Robb told me the first time one've them I'd gotten attached to - Merle, her name was, more beautiful than I'd ever hope to be, with a smile that made me forget everything that'd happened, in the years leading up to then - wasn't there at her table when he brought me in.
"Just the way it is around here," he'd said. "People come and go so fast, you barely realize they're new 'till they're on their way out. Just how it is."
But not him.
"I'm here to stay, don't you worry about that. I ain't gonna leave you."
I believed him. Still do, don't have any plans of changing that. After everything he's done for me...
I owe him. I owe him big time. So much it makes me feel like a loser to have to remind myself of it, often as I do. I'm lucky he hasn't asked for more. And I know it. Sometimes I just need a reminder is all. This'll probably be one of those times, as I start to move closer and closer to the point of no return.
No matter what tricks I've picked up over the years, making myself look uncomfortable is one of the most useful. An awkward riffle, painfully slow, ought to set the stage for the follow-up, and my embarrassed overcompensation should send the cards to the floor behind the table, and me quickly afterward. Perhaps I'll give him a quick flash of my diaper as I kneel, before I remember myself, turning away quickly and straightening out my skirt as I grab my own deck from my pocket, slip it into my sleeve. My hand'll bump against the little metal box, maybe rattle the pill inside, but no big deal, long as I don't knock it out of my pocket as well.
I'll try to gather up all the cards for a second or two before giving up and going for a new deck with another set of apologies. My cards, of course, and this time, I'll 'remember' the procedure, start 'em off with a wash. I'll give myself a few seconds, make it look like I'm actually mixing them up, before scooping them back up. I can do it in a lot less time than that, certainly - I like to think I'm not -that- slow. Hell, all my teachers would be ashamed to see me take so much time. They'll just have to get over it.
If his companions've spent any time around the game, they'll be expecting another riffle, and I know he will, so I'll start one, then think better of it as I glance down at the cards on the floor beneath me, and go into a pair of Faros instead, and a strip from the bottom into the middle. Four more Faros, a quick cut, and another pair. I repeat the sequence again, hands moving instinctively, fingers remembering just the right place to take the cards from, where to put them back.
They'll bet, they'll B.S., all the stuff that Robb always told me made this the finest game on God's green Earth. Can't say I ever saw the appeal, myself. I'd say I disapprove of any game that requires so much lying, but, as this whole night is going to center on deception on my part, it seems a bit contradictory.
Long as he doesn't get too cocky, first hand oughta end with a full house. Pair've rockets, otherwise. Could even get beat, if the man to his right holds out for the two sixes to go with the one in his hand.
Either way, he's not leaving after just one round. I'll let my hand shake a bit as I pick up his cards, let him think his smile makes me feel better. "You did good, Miss Janelle, don't you worry." He's a gentleman, or likes to sound it, at any rate.
"You can call me Jan." Has a decent ring to it. Could've come up with better, but it'll do.
He might introduce himself then, might not. Not like I'll listen. I know his face, know its him. I know all there is to know about him. Or, at least, all there is Robb thinks I need to know, and that's enough for me. Always has been. Easier to keep names - real ones, anyway - out of it.
I'll dry my hand off on my skirt before the next shuffle, see if I can get a nice crinkle out of the diaper. He should be listening for it by then, unless I screw up my entrance. Should put a new grin on his face as he urges his opponents to ante up, if he still had any doubts. It's his lucky night - he doesn't have anything to lose.
Cards from last hand to the bottom, spread and Faro. Shouldn't lose any players yet. If I do, I'll throw in another after the slide, before the cut. Let myself get a little quicker now, more confident.
He should get himself a case of snowmen this time. Tease the nice man three seats down with two-thirds of a royal flush; wouldn't want him to miss the rest of the show. I'm sure he'll want to be there when my guy wins the very next hand with the complete version.
"Guess you're my good luck charm, Miss Jan," he'll wink. Don't suppose the others will find it quite as amusing. Might be they'll leave, but there's always people to replace them. Always plenty of folks eager to lose their money in a casino, even against someone on such a winning streak. It has to end sometime, they'll tell themselves. Might as well be in when it happens.
It won't. I can keep it up as long as I need to, assuming I remember all the right numbers, all the right places to cut from and slide into. And I'm more likely to forget how to speak English than to let those slip my mind. Can't even count the number've times I been over them.
He's not going anywhere, not as long as I keep passing him all the best hands he's ever seen. By then, I hope he wouldn't anyway. That ain't gonna stop me from keeping him rolling in the chips, just as long as it takes for someone to get suspicious.
The manager's new, just came in from some riverboat last week, doesn't know all the dealers yet. From what I've heard, he likes to spend his time with the cocktail waitresses instead. Doesn't know me, either. That's almost more important, ought to give his performance a bit more edge, some nice realism.
He'll have some excuse to get me away from the table, like everyone there won't know what's up. Probably bring over another dealer, maybe say I forgot my shift was up. He's new, young, not the best liar, from what I've seen. Even as naive as I'm playing, I'll know what I'm in for.
I'd prefer not to cry, shouldn't need to. Just give the old Bambi-eyes, chew a bit on my bottom lip. My man won't stand for too much of that, especially when the alternative means being a knight in shining armor to such a poor, defenseless babe.
"Now, why don't you leave Miss Janelle here be?" he'll say, more demand than question. Might flash his gun, too, show how serious he is, how well he can protect me, should I need it. "When she's ready to go, she'll go."
"My apologies," the manager will mumble. "I-I didn't realize who you were, sir." He still won't, but security will, and we ought to be left alone.
My hand will shake a little as I raise it to my chest with a breathless sigh. "Thank you so much," I'll flutter.
"Don't mention it," though it's clear he likes to hear it. "I'm at your service, Miss Jan."
Another smile, then a squirm, just enough for him to see, a wrinkle of the nose just as small. "I think I do have to be leaving now, though, I'm afraid."
"Can't talk you into one more game, huh?"
"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but..." My voice will drop, I'll lean in closer, glance around nervously, like he's the only person in the place I'd dream of confiding something like this in. "I got something to take care of, and I don't know how much longer it'll wait."
Should be the last piece in the puzzle he needs, not to mention the invitation he's been looking for. "I believe I can take care of that for you, too, Miss."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I'll laugh dumbly.
He won't want to come out and say it, not where other people could hear it - what kind of hero would do that? - but he'll let me know somehow. Maybe he'll even just let his gaze drop down to the slight bulge around my waist, grin, say, "Trust me, I think I do."
Even that will almost be too much, and I'll drop back into another fierce round of blushes, but I'll nod, stare up at him with my big, trustful eyes, let him lead me off. I'm sure he'll be a gentleman - wouldn't want to lose me when he's so close - but I suppose I should expect a pat on my padded bottom once we're off the floor, out of sight. Also wouldn't want to get up to his room and find he was mistaken after all. He'll like what he finds, might hurry the pace a little, if he thinks my poor little feet can handle it.
Bet he's got a nice big room. A suite, even. Won't matter much, though personally, I prefer small.
Soon as the door's closed, I expect most of his shining armor routine will wear off, and that he'll be sure to lock the door behind us. "Well, Jan, let's get on with this," he'll growl, either with his mouth or his eyes, probably both. Expect I'll get my skirt taken off, maybe even ripped off, depending on how well all the teasing of what's beneath has gone. Guess that means I'll need my 'accident' to be authentic, much as I hate that idea.
"Sir!" I'll exclaim with a blush, kneeling down to retrieve the skirt, hold it up in front of my bare legs.
"Oh, no need to be modest, little Jan," he'll say. "Daddy's seen it all before." Probably just the night before. If you've got the money, hookers will put up with just about anything, even his little game. Don't imagine he thought himself lucky enough to stumble across a "real" baby girl.
"I just need a change," I'll whisper, innocence and light, just a hint of a little something more underneath.
"Of course. Just stay here, Daddy'll go get you a nice, dry diaper." A nod, and he'll be off.
It's the waiting that'll get you. In a small room, there's not far for him to go, can't leave you waiting for long. With a big room, there's room to think about it, to get nervous. I'd like to think I've moved beyond that by now, but I know that ain't true.
I'll wait and take the pill until it looks, or sounds, like he's heading back, sneak the tiny metal box out of my skirt's pocket. It'll burn for a few seconds, always does. Some medical thing, I don't know. Had it explained to me once, didn't pay much attention.
Don't know what all he'll have. At least a diaper, of course, probably some baby powder. God knows what else. I'll stand to meet him, greet him with a smile, ready for what's to come.
Then I'll slam my hand into his throat. He'll quiet down quick, drop whatever it is he -does- have. I'm sure I'll wince, like I always do - always did hate that crunching sound. He might fall to his knees, but I think he's stronger than that, and go for his gun instead. Pill should be kicking in full force by then. Be able to snap his arm like a twig, no problem.
It's at that point their eyes always get big, start to beg. That's why Robb taught me to go for the throat first. They're all liars, he told me, and most of them are damn good at it. If they can't talk, they can't trick you.
Even so, their eyes still get me, no matter how hard I try not to look at them. So I'll tell myself what I need to hear.
He's the bastard who left me alone after my mom died, decided he couldn't be a father alone, that the state could take better care of me. He's any one of the "fathers" from the foster homes, especially the one whose jaw I broke, the day I realized I was... special. He's the asshole who said he'd "take care" of me, out on the streets, when I was lost, and confused, whose idea of care was stealing everything I owned and leaving me alone in the middle of the night.
I know I won't believe it completely, I never do, but it'll do the job.
Hopefully I'll avoid the bones this time - gave myself a nasty cut punching through a guy's chest once, bled almost as bad as he did.
Then I'll go back, back to the only place that was ever a home to me. Robb will ask me how it went, and I'll tell him what a good job I did, how well I followed his orders. He'll nod, and smile, tell me, "That's my girl. Didn't expect anything less."
I won't ask him what the man did. He'll never tell me beforehand, says if I knew how evil they were, I'd want to kill them soon as I set my eyes on them, and that would just land me in prison, and what good can a superhero do when she's in the slammer? He doesn't tell me afterwards, either. "Doesn't matter," he tells me, "they're gone now. They won't do it again."
And, in the end, it doesn't matter. I trust him. I know, deep in my heart, that he wouldn't steer me wrong.
How can I not, after all he's done for me? After he took me in, even after I nearly broke all his ribs the first time I saw him, when I was still a runaway, afraid he wanted to take me to the cops, send me back "home". After he promised me a normal life, and delivered it, finding a doctor to lock my powers away, so I'd only have to deal with them when I absolutely needed to. After he gave me everything I have, everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of?
After he gave me a purpose. "You're one of the good guys," he'd told me, the first time. "You're a hero. Don't you want to use your power to help people?" Of course I did. I smiled, and I took the pill, and I did what he told me to do. It was only right. I was still scared of my strength back then, hadn't used it since he'd gotten it sealed, but I knew I couldn't let that stand in the way of doing the right thing.
I may not always like it. Doesn't matter. When Robb gives me a picture and a file, produces one of the pills from wherever it is he keeps them, I know what needs to be done, and I know that, by doing it, I'm making the world a better place.
And that's all I need to know, all I need to make myself step into the casino, doing my best to ignore all the stares I'm sure are directed my way, searching for the source of the crinkling noise that sounds even louder than my booming heartbeat.
It's all I need.
Endings
She had never seen a gun like it before, small and sleek, almost like a quarter of a circle, and perfectly silent as it sent its ammunition straight through the launchers on both of her wrists. She had felt things like it, though, could practically see the electromagnet in the barrel, even if she couldn't drain the power from it at this distance.
The aim was perfect, like a computer, and if her wrists hadn't been in the way of whatever was being fired - it certainly wasn't bullets, the holes they'd made were too small for that, she noted, in an odd, detached way. They had passed right through her flesh and bone, and either buried themselves in her wall, or kept going through even that.
"What's going on?" she managed to ask through her fear.
"We're shutting down," came the reply, short, simple. There was barely a trace of her accent anymore, and her voice was cold, so different from the serious, yet sweet, one she'd always used for the press. So different... Could it really be her?!
"Who are you?" she asked.
A pair of ice blue eyes glittered in the shadows for a moment, and then a smile as she answered.
The gun was perfectly silent, leaving the final thing to reach her ears to be an echo of that single word.
"Artemis."
"We love you, too, baby," her mother smiles, then pats the couch between her and her husband. "You want to come sit with us for a while?"
She nods, crawls up next to them. She could always tell them tomorrow, she supposes, cuddling up against them, surprised to find her eyelids starting to drift closed. Yeah, she resolves, with a huge yawn; tomorrow would be just fine. Or maybe the day after. Surely, her parent would understand. They seem like such nice people...
She drifts off to sleep, curled up on the couch, barely noticing her thumb slowly moving towards her mouth. She'd had the strangest daydream today. She had been a super hero. Or had she been a little girl? It's hard to remember those things, when the mists of slumber are so heavy around you. Maybe she'll remember in the morning. Or maybe it will just fade away, like so many dreams do.
You never can tell.
Or it should have been.
The fist connects, lifts my body from the floor ans sends it flying across the room. I can hear the wall cracking as I slam against it, and if I had the presence of mind to, I'd pray that my spine hadn't done the same.
I've seen him so many times on television, but somehow, I never realized how fast he was, how strong. Robb gave me a pill - hell, he gave me a whole bottle of them before he ran off - but if it made any difference, I sure can't tell.
It doesn't matter. I'm keeping him busy, giving Robb time to get out.
I blink, and he's in front of me again. I'm already wincing, even before he raises his fist. Just a few minutes more... Just a few more...
It should have been all I needed. But sometimes things just don't go according to plan.
The End... For Now.
Keep an eye out for issue 1 of the new ongoing series, coming soon!
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum
You cannot vote in polls in this forum
|
|
|
|
