Chapter 2
When I awoke, my sense of timing had returned, and I knew it was three days later and 10:37am. I had not appreciated how disorienting it was not to be able to tell the time until the ability came back. It was like losing your hearing and not realizing it, but still noticing that you were having trouble understanding people because you had to do your best with lip reading.
My next realization was that I had no idea where I was. I pitifully cried out, "…Jemma". The word tasted like vomit as is passed through my lips.
The sensation brought back the truth of the situation and what followed was anger, pure, simple, hot. The defensive detachment I had forced myself into had completely fallen away during my recuperation. How could they! More pressing: How could she. I was used to this sort of thing from people, from strangers, but never this, from…family. The word was heavy, crashing into my chest like a rampaging bull, or out from it, or something. Trailing a train of tense energy, hatred fueled by confusion and hurt. She was— she was—she was everything, and what was I? A project? Is that all people see me as, if they see me at all, damnit? What is wrong with people?
A part of me I had no control over whispered What is wrong with me?.
How could you have done that? They were family! Sure, she screwed up, and maybe she never cared, but to do that? I know you were…that you felt… but… murder…?
I felt like crying, but the tears wouldn't come, I was too dehydrated.A final, more rational piece of my mind overrode the chaotic others creating all the discordant thoughts. Enough. That's all gone, behind you. You can sort through your feelings later and figure out what's next. Right now, sustenance is the priority.
I was ravenous, and thirsty, and generally in need of the basics. I glanced around and to my relief saw a bowl of honey nut cheerios and milk on the bedside table. My favorite…I wonder how he knew?...Well, it could be coincidence, but I doubted it. Just another ploy...I mentally growled, but secretly I was happy for the kindness, and knew I'd pay for the easily gotten grain of trust later.I'd ask how he knew about my preferences when I saw him, now was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth. I did wonder for a second how there happened to be food waiting for me just when I awoke, but the question answered itself as I noticed the water marks on the table; they'd been setting out a new bowl for me in case I awoke. Wasteful, but appreciated. It wasn't even soggy; it was only this minute starting to soak up the milk. That I could chalk up to coincidence of timing. Sometimes it's the small things.
I happily noshed on the cheerios, my fury temporarily displaced. Well, mostly: Fastest way to anything's heart is through its stomach, I thought cynically, trying to erase my involuntary gratitude. More quietly I thought in response, You've never been able to get rid of it before. First time for everything? Uh-hu, right. I nodded resigned agreement, even though it was only to myself.
The cheerios numbers dwindled to three, and I chased them with my spoon until I had them all before consuming them. It's a remnant of when I was really little and I used to believe the cheerios were sentient and afraid of their fate of being eaten. I didn't want any of them to have to undergo this fearsome fate alone, to be the last, so I had always made sure they had a buddy system. Some things never change.
More than I'd thought. The feeling of betrayal returned in full. People are people, no one is different despite how things seem. Oblivious, malicious, or egotistic. I made myself tip the now cheerio-less bowl into my mouth and drank the sweet milk. Normally I loved how it seeps the honey off of the cereal. The only thing that was better than honey milk is honey milk with banana. This milk, however tasted sour. I knew it was my imagination ruining this treat, but still...
Though I had been famished, the small bowl was enough to sate me. There was a hard knot in my stomach which refused to admit more food, and I never could eat a lot, or anything rich, when I'd recently gotten up; I needed an adjustment period. Hmph, I guess you could put it that way.
With those necessities taken care of, I looked for a place to address my other urgent needs. As I suspected, there was an adjacent and opulent lav. I stumbled to it, every muscle complaining after such prolonged dormancy.
The fixtures were a simple silver, and that was the only simple part of the room. The floors were a purple goldstone so dark they were almost black, blinking with copper speckles. Each of the glass tiles that rounded the room was unique, flowing together in a marine motif.
That was all I absorbed before the commode stole my attention.
After relieving myself I was able to better appreciate the style and other features of the room. They impressed me as much as the first. There were two round drop sinks, each a clearly a handmade ceramic with copper firing creating splashes of blue, green, and gold that picked up the copper in the floor. The pair nested in a counter of a creamy stone I couldn't name, topping warm walnut cabinets inlayed with mother of pearl, maple and Brazilian purple heartwood. The shower was a spacious octagon ringed in frosted glass, and a heated towel rack hung demurely beside it.
Ooooooh. My thoughts purred at the completed I thought about how everything was picked solely to impress, to gain advantage, and I spat into the sink. I'd meant to do it on the floor, but I could not bring myself to defile such art, no matter the art's intentions. Even if my host was another of the world's endless bastards looking to get the most for the least, I knew how to deal with people… how I should deal with people… I thought I did. My spirits sank to a new low.
Anyhow, there was an almost Jacuzzi sized tub calling to me. I considered hopping right into it, but I was drawn to the sink first, to rinse down my spittle.
And, to be honest, to take a look at myself.
The mirror, like everything else in the room, was huge, luxurious, and somehow not at all overdone. There were frosted vines of ivy climbing up the edges, framing the viewer. The effect was beautiful; the person who looked back at me was not.
Even if I'd been at my best, I could not be described as beautiful, but at that moment I looked as if I'd walked out of a horror movie. I guess I sort of had…
My purple shirt was raggedly ripped in four parallel strips. I touched them and could almost feel the hand that had desperately made them. I shuddered and moved on. My gray zippered hoodie had survived in only slightly better shape. It was covered in burn marks and the left sleeve was charred up to the elbow. The overall effect though, was more gothic-fashionable than the death grasp remains on my shirt.
However, it was my face which had changed the most drastically since my last self-inspection. My hair was back to its daytime gold but its typical curls had been replaced by strung out dry frizz and matting. I tentatively reached up to it and to my dismay felt several half-inch knots in that small palm width. Sleeping for three days after being in a storm does that; I dreaded having to brush it all out. Couldn't this one thing have been easy?
My round cheeks and nose were covered in small, rough scratches and ash. Nothing looked like it would scar, but I could have been wrong. My lip was still puffy despite the time it had had for the swelling to go down. Only one bushy brown eyebrow was visible, above the left eyebrow was a gauze pad that had apparently been placed during my convalescence. The gauze stuck out further than it should've, from swelling I realized, and not from my prominent brow bone. Concussion certainly seemed a possibility, but after a quick internal scan I determined my hard skull had done its job and there were no anomalous shadows skimming my brain. Hard head had to be good for something, whispered a voice suspiciously like an old counselor.
Like my hair, my eyes, were back to their more typical amber. At a glance, they were undamaged. Physically. Emotionally they were deeper than they had ever been, more haunted, harder. It complimented the eternal sadness and solitude that had always been there, in a weird, depressing way. I doubted anyone else would be able to see the difference. Most people are terrible at reading eyes; they read the muscles that surround them, and the muscle had not changed. But the depths were there now, and probably would never go away. I carried the responsibility of my actions and the wounds of others'. Besides, who else who still exists has looked into your eyes well enough to be able to spot a difference?
I couldn't hold my own stare for long—that was discouraging. I looked down at my scratched up hands and splashed cold water onto my face.
Time to get cleaned up.
First came the teeth. Of course there was a fresh toothbrush waiting for me, and it scrubbed off far too much night grime. Then I ran the tub, hot. While it filled I stripped and stepped into the shower to rinse off. The shower was for the body, the bath for my soul; both needed the wash. On a side note, I have no idea how many people think about this, but when you take a bath, if you haven't rinsed off, you're basically soaking in your own filth. It really is more for the relaxation element than anything. Anyways, I grabbed a washcloth, sudsed it up with… wow there are a lot of soaps… lavender, and scrubbed. The water ran grey with cinders, then ruddy with old blood as I cleaned out the wounds my host hadn't been inclined to treat. I hadn't seen it in the mirror, but the fingers that had mangled the shirt had also broken skin. The soap stung, but its smell made it clear I was finally and actually awake and also helped keep me calm through the process. I kneaded my hair a bit, to try and get the worst of the dirt out, and was again dismayed at the prospect of untangling it. I couldn't even get it wet all the way to my scalp… Internally, I let out the preface to a wail, but the water kept me for the most part mellow despite this set back. I saturated my hair with shampoo and conditioners as best I could and rinsed.
I shut off the water and shook like a dog, trying to stretch, escape my own skin; water flew off my damp locks and smacked the sides of the shower. One wall made a different sound and upon investigation, I found it was actually a sort of French door to the bath. Lovely, I mentally sighed. The thought was sincere and simple, a pleasant contrast to the venom most of my thoughts were dripping. I opened the top part of the door and slid into the now full tub.
I had to practically swim over to the other end in order to shut off the water. As the last few drops fell, the cessation of sound echoed in the mists. There was a sort of chez lounge cast in the bottom of the tub and I settled onto it, contented in the moment, letting the water encircle me up to my neck. I trailed my arms around, luxuriating in the gentle, almost teasing resistance that gave way but never left me. Though I knew it wouldn't help the knot situation, I scooted forward and dipped the back of my head into the water, sweeping my hair through it, feeling the liquid groom me like fingers. I purred. The water felt wonderful. And I hated that it did. My comparison to fingers was all too accurate. No one had cared enough to do that for me. Nor would anyone now want to touch a monster.
Shhhh, don't ruin the moment. I let the steam swirl around me, dusting my exposed lashes.
I sat in the tub until my fingers got so pruney each tip could feel itself, 43 minutes to be exact. The exact timing wasn't important, but I was pleased that once again I could tell. Again, it was a small joy made a minute crack in the hard shell that encased my heart.
It was time to get out. I reached for the heated towel rack and it buzzed angrily at me. The newly form crack recalcified shut just as quickly it had formed as I snatched a couple of admittedly wonderfully warm fluffy towels and drew away again. The growl stopped. I made a face that was barely short of a scowl. That's back to normal too, I guess. It wasn't that I was annoyed that this ability had returned so much that yet another thing was objecting to my mere existence. Could anything be less fair, being forced to be alone either by other's obliviousness or fear? The only ones who had seemed to accept me had used me, which was twice as bad. And what was worse was, in the back of my mind, I wasn't sure I disagreed with the towel rack. Did I deserve to exist after my sins? Was my solitude warranted, what was best for the world and ultimately me?
I couldn't force these questions out into the open; they camouflaged themselves in defensive outward anger which was easier by far to accept. The rack's growl returned and became a whine. Then a switch crackled, sparked, and the rack perished. That's right, back down, I thought, feeling a spiteful pleasure at have been able to take my aggravation out on it. On something I'd been able to convince myself unequivocally deserved retribution.
Turning my back on my handiwork if not my roiling emotions, I wrapped one towel around my hair in a turban and the other around my body. It was a full bath sheet that gripped me around the chest and swung comfortingly around my calves. Is there anything he doesn't think of? Yes, the sheets weren't flannel. Well, good to know he doesn't know/guess everything? I stared at my pile of rags splayed dejectedly and haphazardly around the floor. For a second, I was almost as badly torn as the clothes. The outfit was filthy, and I didn't want to be remaindered of my actions. But I also didn't want to forget what I had done, I owed them that much, at least until I figured out for sure how I felt about it all. Should I have caused their deaths? Was I an aberration even if I should have? I felt guilt over the slaughter, yet somehow it still felt like it had been necessary. Once again the internal conflict I couldn't escape morphed into anger I directed at my host, who unless I missed my guess would provide a new ensemble for me; I didn't want to accept any more charity or be in debt to someone who clearly was out for something.
The issue of wardrobe didn't need to be addressed immediately, however. There was comb (and a variety of other hair styling devices I had no interest in) and some detangler (thank goodness) on the counter which I grabbed before returning to the bed room.
There was, in fact, a new set of clothes set out on the bed, very formal and in purples and greys. Too dressy for the likes of me. I ignored it for the moment and plopped down on the bed, cross-legged. After a shake, my turban fell down and I reached back to try and split my hair in two, so that I could attack it on each side of my head. Even that small strike was a struggle, and required more ripping that I'd have liked. I set to work on the right side first, flinching all the while. Though it hurt, it was another pain I was accustomed to. When I was four and my mane started to get really long, Jemma had declared if I wanted to keep it, I'd have to take care of it myself, or else have her cut it short like hers. Obviously, I'd chosen the former. I started to smile at the memory of my early independence until reality punched me in the gut and I realized that that story showed how she had been making less work for herself. Okay, so I had to grow up and learn how to take care of myself, but still… After the initial revelation, everything seemed calculated. The quick succession of fondness, loss, and anger were too much and I yanked at the tangles until my scalp screamed. I took a deep breath, stopped thinking and instead flipped through smooth jazz songs on an imagined radio and continued to unsnarl, gently.
An hour and 26 minutes later, my hair was finally knot free. It was a new record, but only by 14 minutes, I'm ashamed to admit.
I dressed. I couldn't bring myself to wear my old clothes, and the new ones fit perfectly, even the undergarments. But I pulled on my singed hoodie, as a memento and make me look more like myself and less like a lawyer. I stuck Hym and my harmonica, which I had removed from my pockets before the shower, into the cloth shoulder bag provided with the outfit. It was time to introduce myself to my host properly.
That would require collecting myself first. The bath had calmed me physically, but I feared that if I had to talk, the required diplomacy would not come easily, not when I couldn't be sure where I stood on the issue of the rest of the world. My usual meekness wasn't going to be a problem, not with a torrent of indignation a major player on my internal battle ground, seeking any channel of expression. I needed to steel myself before offending my host, even if he was just another manipulator.
Remember, all people are scum—that I could agree to — and it doesn't matter.—That I wasn't so sure of—You can't change it, and you have to stop forgetting it. Don't let him use you completely, and don't be mad at him for trying. It is just the way people are. You have to chill and find out who this guy is, what's going on. But don't let him in. You don't have to like him, you just have to see what he can do for you. When in Rome, be as the Romans. I am only who I wish to be. I responded with calm conviction, secure on the first piece of solid ground I'd found in my sea of questions and conflictions. Yes, yes, but in order to protect that center, you must first get security; you don't have to mean it. I meditated a moment and let the part of me that the world saw, that was a part of yet apart from me, a prison and a stronghold, come forward. It would anyways, I knew from experience. For once though, I actually wanted the extra layer of security, after the recent Trojan assault on my core.
Surprise surprise, someone was waiting for me when I eventually opened the door.
"Right this way, Miss."
I was led into a grand office, obviously meant to impress, but personalized, like everything I'd seen of this man so far. The floor was a dark hardwood with a smooth grain, and multiple pieces of art were displayed purposefully around the room. Most were famous paintings, but as always it was the sculptures that drew my attention. Most striking was a globe the size of a beach ball floating in a gold frame; all the countries were of a different colored stone, perfectly cut, and the oceans were deep Blue Bahia granite. The globe's frame rested on an Atlas, his bronze face contorted with strain. Stunning.
But even this masterpiece couldn't hold my attention once I saw her.
She was tucked into the corner, like an afterthought, like a naughty child, despite her beauty. She stood there in marble, nude and contraposto, one knee shyly sliding towards the other. Her right hand was placed casually but modestly in front of her. The other hand clutched an old bronze robe that cascaded onto an amphora sitting on a stand. She gazed off into the distance, making everything around her seem gaudy.
I recognized her from one of my classes. An Aphrodite of Knidos. Actually, as I looked harder, I could feel the age radiating off her. She felt like she had seen at least a quarter of the Holocene. And she didn't have an awkward brace between her cloth and her leg as I had seen in every other recreation. She's not one is she? She's THE Aphrodite of Knidos, lost to the ages. Right down to that "stain on her leg"… I felt my expression shift to one of appreciation and disbelief.
"I see you recognizer her. A true beauty, is she not? One of the rarest pearls in my collection." He considered me thoughtfully, "You are somewhat reminiscent of her."
His casual voice yanked my mind if not my eyes back to the present and my resentment. As if that could be true. But it didn't sound like flattery. Every compliment from another is flattery or sarcasm. Still, I stored the complement away, involuntarily, as I had done with every card I'd ever received. Cards now lost to the flames.
I tore my gaze away from the goddess and studied my host and his stage. He sat at an enormous dark wood desk with a smoky quartz top. Adorning it was an artistic combination of small art pieces, papers, and desk items like a golden seal presses. At the very least he has good taste, I thought almost impressed, but I already knew that. His chair was large, but not overly imposing, and behind him like a shadow—I would know—was the cyborg Mercy.
He saw the sour expression that still lingered on my face and expounded. "Truly, but we are not here to discuss your beauty—", the word had the same… texture as 'rarity', "—or my collection. Another time, perhaps; I'm certain it would be an enlightening conversation. Regretfully, business must take precedence in this instance. I could merely demand the answers I desire." His steely look matched his tone exactly and left no doubt that if he were determined to get answers, there was not one thing I could do to stop him. It was not something that should be possible. I was never forced, yet I had no doubt that it was truth, and that terrified me. "But what sort of host would that make me?" he added nonchalantly, as if he thought I would pretend not to have seen the threat. "Instead, I will offer you a question exchange, since in all likelihood you have a few." He smiled, but it didn't even reach the corner of his eyes, let alone their interiors. Mercy hadn't even blinked since I came into the room. "Shall you begin? So long as you ease us into this conversation—" that felt like interrogation, "—with a simple question."
I wanted to ask, 'How did you know where to find me? How was your timing so good? How have you had everything ready for me? And why why why?' Why are you taking an interest in me? And why are you giving me this structure; how do you know I'm conversationally inept? None of those were small questions though, and I wasn't sure I'd like the answers to them all. I pared down to a question I thought would cleverly get at the answer to the third, one that had literally been itching at me while I'd slept.
"Why were there no flannel sheets on the bed?"
"I was not aware you would want them, I'll remedy that immediately." He answered coolly. Mercy's eyes flicked sideways for half a second, her attention momentarily displaced as she conveyed his command. "What—" he began.
The vexation that had been building since I awoke jetted out, incensed by his casual dismissal. "That is not an answer! How did you know I'd want honey nuts? How did you know to turn the light off in the car? How did you know I didn't think I could get in the car in the first place? How did you—"
"First: Kindly. Do not. Interrupt me." He said each word pair deliberately, with the harness of diamonds. Despite the fact that it was command laced with menace, it still came off as polite. It made my spine crawl. His face was stationary but his eyes were livid. "Second, that is more than one question, and none of them were of the caliber as I requested." Within the span of a breath he had calmed himself to a point that I thought I'd imagined his flare-up. Only the ghost of my spine tingling assured me I had not. "I will, however, allow you to reconsider your first question, if you so wish."
I gulped as an alternative to shying away from his too-well-suppressed wrath. Hmmmm. 'Why do you want to make a good impression on me enough to allow me to reconsider the question?' seemed like a good one, but… I guess the most important question is…
"Can I trust you? And I'm sorry for my outburst," I added involuntarily.
He nodded acknowledgement of the apology. "That is the sort of considerate question I'd expect. The answer is no. But you can trust me to answer honestly and to deal fairly so long as you do not cross me, and I see little opportunity for that. Such a limited trust should more than suffice for our association. Now, if you wouldn't mind, what happened three nights ago?"
I believed his answer, and strangely, it reassured me. It was good to know that this guy wasn't full of as much shit as most people I'd encountered. Even if he was a schemer, he was at least straight about it, for now. That was the sort of behavior you could rely upon.
Everything I had learned about him so far made antagonizing him the farthest thing from my mind, so I considered my own response carefully. He noted my contemplative expression and waited, fingers laced in his lap. His eyes barely gleamed with an intense curiosity that betrayed the polite interest of his voice; he called his visceral responses to heel near as well as his staff.
"Where exactly do you want me to start?" I didn't think he would be so ridged as to ignore my admittedly out-of-turn question and I was proved correct in my assumption.
"Let us first lay out the facts, the bones, of why you destroyed the…" His brow wrinkled, seemed he didn't have a name for it either, and was unused to having anything, even words, not be at his beck and call… "place of your most recent residency and how."
"That's two questions." I couldn't help but add. You idiot, I just said don't antagonize him!
"And I answered your clarification one before getting an answer myself. You owe me both." He had a point. I hate being out technicality-ed. Plus his patience at my impertinence would not last, despite his easy response. Seriously, you should have just shut up. You should always shut up. You opinions only make things worse, for yourself and everyone else. I know.
Complete silence would be disastrous now though. He expected an answer of me, and I knew what it was. But I didn't want to think about it. So I didn't, I just let the words spill from the past to the air, using my mouth as a conduit but detouring away from my mind.
"I don't know—wait, let me finish. I don't know why—" I couldn't say the name, not right now "—she changed; she didn't tell me what was going on. I guess that should have been a giveaway, but I didn't want to see it. But I knew anyways; I could feel her becoming more distant, more agitated. And it was towards me, specifically, it wasn't general unease. I knew the difference. I didn't understand what I had done wrong. I hadn't done anything different, and she had always been steady. She was, was always there for me despite everything the world stands for," And look who I'm spilling my heart out to, the embodiment of capitalism, I thought dismayed. But the leak in my dam of silence had become a current of words was too powerful to resist without the intervention of thought, which refused to lend itself in any case. "Despite everything I was… She was one of the few constants in an existence where things change, but never for the better.—What's the phrase 'The more things change, the more they stay the same?'—But she… wanted to pull away… My constant was changing values and all my rules for the world were becoming nonsense. I hoped it was in my head, I wanted it to be in my head, but when I went to talk to her about it, to assuage my paranoia… when I went to talk to her…" I had to stop to choke in a breath.
"Yes? What did she say?"
"I… I didn't end up talking to her. I followed the string of tension that now always trailed her. She was talking to one of the office workers, someone I didn't talk to very often, someone who had never seemed all that important…"
"And…?"
"She was drunk."
"What?!" He said more than aghast.
He understood. Thank god he understood. That this was not simply an issue of morality, of responsibility. This was just beyond comprehension. Jemma. Didn't. Drink. It wasn't that she had my revulsion against what alcohol did to a person, it just wasn't in her character. It wasn't something she would do.
"I just stayed by the door, dumbstruck."
"But as contemptible as her irresponsibility was, surely that was not enough to… warrant such consequences as occurred."
"No." I paused, "But it was the catalyst, no going backwards." Same as now. I continued the narrative, "Unable to gather myself enough to leave, I heard more of the conversation. She said her relationship was on the rocks, that her grandmother just died, and that she needed more time. Not to kick her out of her apartment. That no one would take her after this job. I couldn't hear the worker, his register was too low, but the pitilessness carried through the air. I felt her inhale sharply before collecting herself, even in her stupor. Then she said, "Yes; it would be unthinkable. Who knows what the yalda shedim would do without a stable influence.
"Those were the words. I still don't know what they mean. But I understand them, like a person understands the concept of mind. I still feel the revulsion that spawned them just as strongly now as I did then.
"At the time though, I didn't think I just ran, sickened and hurt. I pushed it away at first; the important thing was I needed to get her back to normal, for her sake if not mine…" I'm not sure in retrospect who it was for, really, but I'd like to think it was for her… "So I acted normal when she came to see me. She'd sobered up by this time. I tried to be extra helpful, making dinner as she sat at the table. Chicken tika masala, with whole cardamom pods. Our dish.
"It seemed to bring her back to the person I knew, at least a bit. She put me to bed, said good night. Something she hadn't done for a long time, but I guess some of my distress had leaked through and she knew I needed the reassurance. And in a way it seemed to reassure her as well, to reaffirm that bond. Maybe? As I lay in bed I thought actually managed to fix things, for once.
"But, there awake, her words came back. The eerie words. The meaning behind them. That I needed to be contained. And then the 'That no one would take her after this job.' Job? Job? I was her job?
"I mean, she wasn't my mom, but she was… we were... I must have just misheard. Misunderstood. Must be over thinking. What was wrong with me? Others worked here. But she was… Sure she wanted to know about my abilities, but that was to help me. Because family wanted you to achieve your potential.
"If I had let it go, thing would be different now. But I couldn't do it, still couldn't sleep. I got up. Looked at the moon, for the comfort, but it just strengthened my apprehension. My heart pounded, and I broke out in sweat. Apparently I grabbed my harmonica and… and my wolf… some sort of preservation instinct, I didn't notice it at the time. I was oblivious to the world. I slid to the deeper office past the late workers, as only I can. I'd never spent time there, but this is where the conversation had happened. But if there was proof of how wrong I was, it would be in the office. As I touched the cabinet, her other statement rang in my ears, 'No one will take me after this job'. Not only was her job… something about it was a black mark on her future.
"It wasn't even hidden." The words clawed their way up my larynx. "First drawer I pulled. Project Circadia. I didn't get to reading the file; I understood its implications as surely as I had understood her unintelligible insult: to what was my family, I was a Project, not a Person. The people I counted on when the world shunned me were only interested because I was an oddity… my harbor was only a cage.
"I slumped to the floor. In my devastation my concentration must have slipped, because people were at the door yelling, so they must have seen me. And then all I could see was a bright, glowing blackness, like I was about to pass out, except it kept going, and going. I was only aware of that sensation, never quite passing out. When the world resolved itself again, the file was still in my hands, but everything else was burning, melting, or dead." I ended in a monotone, distant, before tailing off to myself, "And then you came."
He seemed satisfied with my answer, like I confirmed a suspicion of his, though how he'd made that suspicion I had no idea. I still had no idea about anything, how he found me. I could have asked my question, but at that moment my curiosity was displaced with… quite apathy. The bald man filled the hush.
"So you don't know what exactly happened between your discovery of the file and the aftermath of the destruction?"
"No." And it was truth. Even though I knew that the black fire had been mine, and that the tears had been lethal and mine, the piece of me that was speaking, the automatic part, didn't. It hadn't been there and I hadn't processed enough to let the general memo out. And no part of me really knew what happened. How my sweatshirt got burnt, or whose fingers had raked by stomach. Where the bruised forehead had come from. It wasn't worth the effort to lie. Between his simple compliment and my need to share my story, I'd bonded to this stranger, whatever the consequence. And they would be devastating when they came, that wasn't even a question.
My curiosity slunk back like a drugged cat. "How did you know about me, where to find me?" It seemed the initial one question rule had made way for the mechanics of conversation, because he answered straight.
"Like you, I found the file. It informed me that you were a covert project of Wayne Tech, a national technology company. I suppose exploring you was their first venture into biology. The file was quite extensive, which is how I was able to prepare my abode to your standards for your unexpected stay. In any case I, as a philanthropist, I thought their use of an unwilling, or at least naïve, human subject was untenable and was determined correct the situation immediately. The unusual hour was of no consequence. However, when I arrived, I found the place already torn to the ground and my direct intervention in liberating you unnecessary. It just happened to be good timing, though I suppose if I had gotten there earlier I could have spared you that nasty business." He smiled confidentially at me. I wasn't quite convinced of his story yet, but I wanted to buy it, wanted to count on him. That was his true talent, making people want to believe him.
"I see you still want to know how I found your file. As I've mentioned, I am a businessman as well as a philanthropist and Wayne Tech is one of my top competitors. I employ certain methods to keep up to date on their movements." This fit into the ruthless tycoon impression he'd made earlier. I looked around the room and saw certificates of generosity confirming his claimed philanthropist status. The businessman claim needed no external validation. For now, it was good enough for me. He had earned some trust after all the medical and personal attention he'd bestowed upon me.
"And now the question I'm sure we both have is: what now? Any thoughts, my dear?"
"Not really." I sighed, "I'm still reeling. I guess I was planning on going to college, before I found out that I didn't have a family to support me through it." The last part was bitter again, but more accepting and sad than defiant as the thought had been earlier.
"Well, if I may make a suggestion?" I nodded. "I would be more than willing to help you pay through college. But, you seem like the type of person who does not readily accept charity." A valid impression. "I have a proposition that may be mutually beneficial: In addition to being a businessman and philanthropist, I am a member of an organization whose goals are… to disrupt the status quo. The undesirable products of the human race are allowed to continue existence and poison society. Walking like sheep, subservient to corrupt governments and… other powers. And they insist on continuing their counterproductive behavior even when unsupervised, unprompted. It simply will not do for this passivity to continue; the human race was meant for better things. Even as the generations are replaced, as you yourself said, 'the more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm sure you've seen it on small scale." I thought of all the bastards who harassed me during my brief stint at school, or as bad, ignored me. And not just to me, who even by my reckoning they had reason to label an outcast, but people were horrible to each other, and to themselves. Tearing each other apart with fists and words. And people just looking on, not caring. Everyone not feeling, yet somehow so submissively miserable. And for no reason other than that it was the way things were. "My organization seeks to end this cycle of stasis, decline even, and allow humanity to advance to the glory that is its right."
I couldn't believe it. This guy. This guy who was the beneficiary of the system… saw it for what it was. Unfair, unproductive, intolerable. And though he benefited, he truly wanted the change. He saw the larger gains that could be achieved through intervention—and not just for himself—and he wanted them. I saw it in the intense, sever, sincerity of his cold eyes. He wasn't like me, a victim, but he was with me, the first ally I had ever known on this issue so essential to my core. It was the relief that pushed out, "What exactly do you want me to do?"
"In order to achieve these ends, my organization is highly invested in technology that can improve the human race. We do all that we can, but unfortunately there are other parties, such as Wayne Tech, that develop technology that undermine our efforts, or alternatively technology they refuse to use in the most productive fashion. I would like you to infiltrate their facilities and appropriate some of these items."
I considered it carefully, wanting to comply, but I saw too many problems. "Not to be critical, but I don't get on with technology particularly well; I might destroy what you want me to get. And… I can't see myself as part of anything which might eliminate more people. It seems I tried that solution, and… I don't know if they deserved it or not, but… I'd rather not again." I said disheartened.
"To address your first concern, you would most likely be obtaining formulae or blueprints, not the actual products themselves. Should something more complicated be necessary I'm sure something could be arranged. More importantly may I assure you that despite our grand plans for the human race we have no intention of mass eradication! Merely improvement. And improvement requires what others are selfishly keeping to themselves. I can see you are slightly concerned of the moral implications of your future role. Think of yourself not as a thief, but as Robin Hood. Besides, your little display earlier is clear evidence that you would like some form of vengeance on the people who manipulated you; this is a less fatal solution."
Assuaged, I reviewed. It was a good deal. College, helping dismantle the established routine of society, retribution, and honestly (guiltily), getting to fully stretch out my abilities for a cause I believed in, not because my family insisted. Though I was potentially entangling myself in this man's machinations and would eventually pay the price, in the short term I could see no downside. "Can I accept the offer on a trial basis? Like, if it doesn't work out, I'm not good at it, I can stop?"
"All I can ask is that you try, my dear. I am confident that you will do the right thing, for yourself and for the greater good. We will work out the exact details of the arrangement later." He held out a hand and we shook on it. It was only later that I realized he hadn't actually said yes; he distracted me with something of more importance.
"One final item of business: What is your name?" I stared at him. There was no way he could have read a file on me, known all my personal preferences, and not know my name. Then it dawned on me; he was giving me a chance to name myself, start over. My old name never fit well. She'd almost always called me Gixie. My jackass classmates used my old name. This was my opportunity to have a name that encompassed me.
"Chandra," The name came without prompting. I pronounced it carefully, lovingly, all pieces of my being simultaneously adopting the moniker. The soft ch almost became a sh, the –an an awn. It felt perfect. My memory supplied my name's origin; it was Sanskrit for 'shinning', though maybe something else as well. "And yours?"
"I preferred to be called 'Sir'." Oh. I thought we were on a name-to-name basis. But yeah. Just because I am irrationally trusting to someone I just met against all my best judgment doesn't mean he has to. And I could have looked at some of the papers and certificates around there, but it wouldn't have been the same. My disappointment must have been evident—usually I was better at hiding this sort of thing. I guess all of my suppression abilities were still burned out— he relented.
"My name is Alexander Luthor." It was his name. He was telling the truth, but not all of it.
I followed my instincts and asked, "What about Lex?" That fit better. Alexander was like a thrift store cast off; Lex was tailor-made like his suit.
He grimaced, but saw little point in hiding what I knew to be truth. "Yes, that is what I usually go by, when people use my name. Truly, though I do not appreciate being directly referred to."
"Fair enough. Thank you. Sir." Though the address was grating, I smiled, as close to genuinely as I had in… ages. I had a plan, a new name, and a new life. In that moment, it was everything I needed to move forward.
"My dear, the pleasure is mine."
