Freedom's Just Another Word
Sequel to: So Much for My Happy Ending
Copyright Disclaimer: The characters featured in the cast of Sucker Punch written herein do not belong to me, they belong to their creator Zack Snyder and are the sole property of Warner Bros. Inc. Italicized dialogue is taken directly from the screenplay and may belong to Zack Snyder or Steve Shibuya. Any characters and additional storyline written are sole property of the Elves Living Inside of My Skull.
Content Disclaimer: The movie was rated PG-13 and skirted around many of the issues of the characters being affected by sex and violence by escaping into other realities. While I will be writing these elements into the story, I plan on showing things as they are, this story will contain strong language and elements of physical/sexual violence, as well as other adult themes.
Rape Disclaimer: It was evident in the movie that the girls were being assaulted against their will, it is now also part of their back story. I plan to address this issue and if reading about rape drastically affects you in a negative manner, this is probably not the story for you.
Spoilers Disclaimer: This story takes place after the end of the movie, and after the end of my first story so it will reference things that have already happened. We begin at the end, with Sweetpea this time.
Update Disclaimer: I am a sporadic writer, and very busy, so if the time between updates becomes unbearable, I am truly sorry, but I'll try my best. Those of you who stayed with me through So Much for My Happy Ending know this feeling well already...
Chapter 1 Sweetpea
And finally, this question: The mystery of who's story it will be. Of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance? Who drives us mad, lashes us with whips and crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? Who is it that does all these things? Who honors those we love with the very life we live? Who sends monsters to kill us and at the same time sings that we will never die?
Who teaches us what's real and how to laugh at lies? Who decides why we live and what We'll die to defend? Who chains us? And who holds the Key that can set us free?
It's you.
You have all the weapons you need.
Now Fight.
Welcome to the Town of Plainfield.
The sign, once bright and inviting, now only boasted chipped paint, its colors fading in the sun's dying rays. Its attempt to lift the spirits of the bus riders fell woefully short as they pulled into the small station. Sweetpea watched a small portion of the riders exit as the bus stopped and the doors swung open with a hiss. She made sure to leave only after no one else rose up from their seats. Walking down the aisle cautiously, she approached the driver.
"What am I supposed to do now?" She asked him.
The driver turned and blinked at her owlishly, the glasses magnifying his eyes.
"Why, my dear, I have no idea." He replied, seemingly clueless.
"You had a plan for me, didn't you? That's why you took me on board." This is a test. "There's a mission, right? There has to be, there's always a mission." She hadn't meant to, but Sweetpea's voice became louder as her nervousness increased, by now she was almost shouting her last plea. "At least give me some advice, you always gave us advice!"
The driver took in her disheveled form and let out an exasperated sigh. "Look miss, I don't mean to be cruel, but today was the first time I've set eyes on you. I just let you on as a kindness." He looked out the thick windows at the small town they had stopped in. "If this is your stop, then it's where you were meant to be, and I don't know anything about these missions you spoke of, but I guess I could give you some of my wisdom."
Sweetpea walked down the steps and jumped into the dirt, a puff of dust announcing her landing. She waited, grateful for at least that small gift.
"Old habits die hard," he advised, "try to make some new ones."
A small form bolted off the bus and blew past Sweetpea mere seconds before the doors shut with a final, sibilant hiss. As the engine revved and the vehicle drove off, Sweetpea turned around to search for the child. She had felt an odd sense of deja vu from that quick encounter. The streets she saw were empty though, she was the only one left at the station.
It took a while for her to remember all the street names and form a mental map, but after a few minutes Sweetpea had regained her bearings. She set off down the main thoroughfare, her mother's house as her final destination.
So lost in thought was Sweetpea that she failed to notice the bright eyes and quiet steps of her tail. The boy from the bus was following her. He would wait until nightfall, when she dropped her guard, then he would have his chance.
A few miles in ill fitting institution shoes is enough to drive anyone mad, and Sweetpea was no exception. The pain had just taken a tinge of the unbearable when she came upon the street sign, its darkened letters matching her childhood neighborhood's. It had gone from sunset to early twilight during her journey, and the sodium yellow streetlamps cast eerie shadows along the street. There is nothing to fear. She told herself. It's only houses, only memories.
She counted in her head. One, two, three...
Her mother's house was the fourth one on the street, and it was there that she forced her feet away from the sidewalk. Her steps were jerky. Up the driveway she went, gravel crunching underfoot, the light perfume of night blooming jasmine in the air. The scents and sounds of childhood came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her.
That's not me. I left that all behind.
She took the two steps up onto the porch. One, two, buckle my- No. She shook her head, trying to dispel the memories. Before she had time to think about it, Sweetpea watched her finger depress the bell. She held her breath as the noise flooded the house. Sweetpea counted to ten, willing herself to freeze on the porch, to ignore the signals her body was screaming at her, that she was in danger, that she should run, that anything she could do would be better than facing her mother again, here of all places.
Margaret O'Conner had lived alone for years. The tragic loss of both her husband and daughters had been almost unbearable, there were long months where she forgot even the simplest tasks, like eating and bathing. But that was before she had learned to become stone, and it was this newly hardened woman that answered the door.
"Who's there?" She questioned. "No one decent calls at this hour."
"It's me, Mom, Sarah..." The name felt wrong on her tongue. "I've come home. Roc- Raquelle asked me to."
"And you just come strolling back, brazen as a new bell, pretending like nothing bad ever happened." Her mother accused. "Don't you know how much I've suffered?"
Margaret put one palm on the screen, pushing forward to open it slightly as her other hand sought out the wrought iron fire poker she kept near the door for home defense. "I think you should leave, Sarah." Her voice was cold as she spoke.
"Not yet." Sweetpea said. "I have a message, from Ra...from Rocket." She decided, needing to speak the truth.
Her mother sneered at that name, how she had abhorred that childhood moniker. It was a name appropriate for toys and dogs, not growing young women.
"What's the message?" Margaret took a stab in the dark, "Oh, I know, she's sorry, isn't she? Why won't she come here and tell me herself?"
"She isn't here because she died, Mother." Sweetpea explained quietly.
Her mother's response of dry, cackling laughter was more unsettling than anything she had said prior.
"Dead?" Margaret crowed, "She's dead? The harlot finally got what she deserved then, eh? Running around with boys and doing things no proper lady would do, that's what comes of it in the end."
Sweetpea's rage started to break free of its confines, boiling over in fits and starts. She stepped forward towards the door, gripping the peeling wooden frame as she locked eyes with her mother. Her eyes flickered, blaring klaxons of amber rage.
"That's your answer?" She asked sharply. "Rocket's last words were, 'Tell mom I love her.' and this is how you react?"
Her mother's response was two feet of wrought iron, straight to the liver.
Sweetpea doubled over in pain, her breath leaving with a gasp.
"Love has never fixed anything, Sarah. Don't you know that?" Margaret had opened the door wider, enough to step out and continue raining blows with her fire iron.
Sweetpea's arms curled defensively around her head and upper body. She could fight, she knew, in the other realities, but she no longer travelled there. A single, visceral memory surfaced. Sweetpea had fought back before, without the Wise Man, without the missions.
Her mother swung again, aiming for her daughter's head. She caught it midswing. Margaret struggled, but her grip held. Sweetpea wrenched the poker out of her grip and pushed back, toppling her mother to the ground. Her mother looked up at her, panting, her beady eyes narrowed in hatred.
"Go ahead," she taunted, "finish me. Finish me like you did your father."
Sweetpea blinked, and the scene changed to one of the past.
She was in bed, trying desperately to ignore the voices bleeding through the wall, Rocket was refusing something, her voice quiet but stern. Their father was in her room again.
"You filthy dyke!" His words were slurred, drunk again. The sickeningly familiar sound of fists on flesh followed soon after. "I guess I have to fuck some proper manners into you."
No words escaped from Rocket after that initial protest, only the muffled sobs of stifled pain as the blows continued. Sweetpea hunkered down into her pillow, pushing it around her ears in an attempt to drown out the noises. Eventually the steady tempo of the beating gave way to the irregular squeaking of bedsprings and her father's labored grunting. Those ceased abruptly, and Sweetpea heard the click of the door and her father's heavy graceless tread as he returned to the master bedroom for sleep.
"He deserved it." She could hear herself speak aloud, eyes still unseeing.
"Maybe, but that was Raquelle's debt to repay, not yours."
Another night played out before her eyes, this one later, Rocket had run away early that morning, before the sun rose, and her father had decided that the only thing to do in response was drink, and he did, he had been at the bar from the moment they flipped the OPEN sign in the doorway. But now he was back, and Rocket wasn't around anymore to take the brunt of his urges. She could hear his wavering footsteps as he opened her old room, confused and forgetful. She thought he would rage then, howl in anger and smash the furniture in the room to kindling. Sweetpea let out a sigh of relief when the door shut and the footsteps sounded back down the hall. The breath caught in her throat when those steps paused halfway and a hand fumbled at the knob on her door.
She turned her back to the entryway and pulled the covers tight around her. The door swung open with a creak and Sweetpea tried to ignore it, squinting her eyes shut and willing nothing terrible to happen with every fiber of her being. Her father came closer, she wished harder, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. A rough hand on her shoulder, trying to shake her awake. When she didn't respond, he tore the covers away and rolled her to her back in one savage motion.
Still she remained motionless and kept her eyes screwed shut, mentally screaming, I'm asleep, I'm asleep, I'm asleep. The ruse failed when she felt the front of her nightshirt unbutton and the cold night air sluice across her chest. She stiffened in loathing when she felt her father's calloused palm caress a breast, Sweetpea remembered springing into action then, the full details still a blur. Her hand groped clumsily underneath the pillow, searching for the switchblade she kept there.
A week before, Rocket had found it somewhere and shown it to her, and Sweetpea had snatched it away, chastising Rocket for bringing weapons home, surely there must be another way of dealing with him, she had said. Sweetpea remembered Rocket's eyes after she took the knife, a mixture of simmering rage and empty hopelessness as her sister took away her last line of defense. She felt the acute burn of guilt as her hand closed around the polished wooden handle and slid it out against the silky cotton of the pillowcase. Sweetpea was grateful that she had the weapon now, but shamed that she had allowed Rocket further suffering.
His hands were on her in earnest and it took all of her concentration to feel along the alien profile and trigger the release catch. As Sweetpea felt the blade spring free, her only fear was of cutting her fingers off. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at her father, a faint silhouette, back lit with moonlight streaming in through the window.
"Stop." She commanded, swinging the blade up and across her body. Sweetpea had only meant to scare him off with a shallow cut, use a little pain to break through his alcohol induced stupor, but her adrenaline was up and there was too much force behind her attack. Sweetpea felt the sharp edge of the stiletto sink into flesh. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized she'd missed. Sweetpea's intended target had been the meaty part of his shoulder, but in her haste she'd swung high and ripped open the soft skin of his neck. A warm deluge of blood sprayed forth, covering her like a sudden summer rain. The hands on her chest immediately disappeared, rising to cover the newly gaping hole that had been her father's throat. He emitted a choked, gasping noise, perhaps an attempt to speak, before a fierce shudder ran through his body and he fell to the floor. His curled form twitched for a few moments before finally going still. Sweetpea remembered the sound of her breathing then, the only noise in that silence, the terrible still silence emanating from her father's body, rising like static to swamp and overwhelm her.
Her world shrunk down then, no emotions, only tasks, only what she had to do. She rose up out of bed, knife still in hand, and grabbed a towel from where she had draped it on a chair that morning. Quietly opening the door, she stepped out into the hallway and headed to the bathroom to shower away her father's quickly congealing life's blood. The water was hot already, but she turned it hotter, needing the heat to cleanse her of the guilt and panic that threatened to flood her senses and reason. She set to work scrubbing the thick red stains from her body, washing her hair twice just in case. Finally there was nothing left to clean except the switchblade. Sweetpea watched the water dance across the steel, purifying the weapon that was both her deliverance and damnation. She refused to think about what any of this meant. A clear head was what she needed now, a clear head, supplies and a plan.
Sweetpea pulled an empty knapsack out of her closet, she alternately dressed and packed, putting any clothing she needed and could not layer into the sack. She studiously avoided the body and its growing pool of blood that dominated the center of her room. When her pack was full, she took one last look at her room. Sweetpea stood there, quietly memorizing her childhood and what was left of her happiness.
When she had taken in all she could, Sweetpea walked to the kitchen and rifled through the refrigerator. She settled on some salami and hard cheddar, and then crammed a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of sliced bread into her pack. Supplies she had, and still her head remained blessedly empty of the roiling emotions she refused to let out of her bedroom, now all she needed was a plan. Shouldering her pack, she pulled her warmest coat out of the hall closet. Finally, she allowed herself a thought.
Find Rocket.
Which was the best she could come up with, under the circumstances. Sweetpea took a deep breath, walked through the front door, and shut that part of her life away.
"No, he deserved it," she repeated, "he did then and he would now." Sweetpea gave one last look to the woman who had borne and raised her, then opened her hand and let the fire iron fall to the concrete. It chipped the step where it impacted and left a harsh, pinging echo on the porch. With Rocket's final request completed, there was nothing more for her to say. Sweetpea took the two steps down off the porch and walked off into the night, alone in the world and friend only to the darkness.
When Babydoll had told her that she had to live for all of them now, surely she hadn't meant this.
Had she?
