Part Three
Wake up, Daddy! Daddy! Wake up!
"DADDY!"
Ciciley did not consciously realize that she screamed herself awake until after the fact. What was even more disconcerting to her was that she had no idea how she woke back in her rundown apartment across town. The last place she could recall being was Fogwell's Gym, engaged in a match with that big-mouthed Hispanic woman.
"Must've been one serious nightmare."
Her body jolted at the voice speaking out across her bedroom, which lacked any décor – save for a spotlight lamp illuminating from the floor on the other side of the mattress situated at the corner where she had been lying.
But it was the individual standing near the bedroom door that drew her attention.
Certainly enough, it was Anne, leaning against the rotted wall in a black leather S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform that bore heavy cleavage. It was worn beneath a long, black leather coat that would have made the raven-haired "fitness trainer" a dead ringer for Selene from Underworld.
"What're you doing in my apartment?" Ciciley questioned. "And why're you dressed like an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"Because I am one, Cici."
She stomped a passing cockroach underneath the stiletto of her right heeled boot.
"Quite a dump you're keeping yourself in," she observed. "I've been keeping an eye on you for quite some time, but I only know about your 'perfect' little abode here because of the ledger you signed at Fogwell's."
Heatedly, Ciciley shot up from the mattress and pinned Anne against the wall, her right forearm pressed firmly against the woman's throat.
"Did Fury have you tailin' me this whole time?!" She demanded to know.
Anne fought to breathe more less provide the young woman with an answer.
"No," she rasped. "I'm…acting on…my own accord. Fury doesn't know what's really happening here… what started the night you lost your son."
The pressure from Ciciley's forearm intensified against Anne's throat.
"I didn't lose him!"
"And I wholly agree," Anne hoarsely acknowledged. "It's the whole reason…I went rogue…to find the Splitters."
Ciciley grimaced over the term.
Releasing her hold on Anne, she inquired, "What are Splitters?"
Anne briefly coughed, regaining a steady breath. "The compatibility in alien DNA John Saccheri discovered between your son and your mother led him into harnessing it into a fusion process that would evolve them into one supreme being – something that he would use as a weapon against his enemies. But it backfired on him, splitting them into eight different people – we call them 'Splitters.' We've managed to track down one here in Hell's Kitchen: Marisa."
"The muscled twin sister of Rosario Dawson that kicked my booty in the ring?" Ciciley uttered.
Anne nodded. "That'd be the one. I only knew her to be a Splitter when she told me her birth date – April 4th." She detected the look of revelation on Ciciley's face. "That's your son's birth date, isn't it?"
"Y-Yeah," confirmed Ciciley, after a short pause. "I…I only thought there was one…the Portuguese girl that night at the warehouse. But there can't be more. The same birthday as my son? That's just coincidence."
"I would've had the same thought," Anne said, "until I found another before Marisa who said her birthday was April 4th as well. And that's when the pieces started coming together from that one little detail. The Splitters all share the same birthday at the exact time of birth – 12:50pm."
Ciciley's body numbed. The shock of this new information overwhelming her.
"I have her with me now, if you'd like to meet her," Anne proposed.
"S-Sure."
Following Ciciley's validation, Anne led her into the living room.
Unfortunately, the room was empty.
The television set was left on a newscast of a reported theft earlier in the day at the New Avengers Facility. But Anne and Ciciley's focus was more centered on the opened front door.
"Tell me she didn't," Anne whispered in suspicion.
Loud, argumentative voices blared from the apartment across the hall.
"That's Mister Williams." Ciciley identified one of the shouters. "That's a dude not to be messed with."
Anne tensed. "And I think my friend is doing just that right now."
Suddenly, the door to Williams' apartment busted from the inside, under the weight of a heavyset, bald, middle-aged African American man. It appeared to Ciciley and Anne that he had been thrown against it.
Shortly thereafter, they were surprised to see a woman in a gray hoodie and white cut-off shorts emerging from the apartment. Ciciley recognized her as the same woman she spotted back at Fogwell's, the one Anne knew as "Rose." The intensity in her steely blue eyes was still there, presumably more so after her confrontation with Williams.
Of course, the most striking sight was Williams' six-year-old child, whose hand Rose held while leading him out.
"I'm keeping him," she declared.
Marisa loved Fogwell's most at closing time.
No one around to bother her, hog all the equipment, or even pick a fight like the feisty African-Sicilian woman she schooled in the ring.
There was one that stuck by as she finished the evening with a round of pullups – the chiseled model of perfection named Harley. He was the one human being she had no qualms with, normally closing out with her. That night, however, he seemed to be on his way sooner than usual.
"See ya tomorrow, Marisa," he said.
"Check ya later, bro."
Looking in her direction, he shook his head and admired the fanciness of her pullup routine, a testament to her strength. It was unlike any he had seen in his days of training at Fogwell's. His favorite was what she termed "The Invisible Ladder, in which she took midair steps while pulling herself up to the bar.
"I'll never know how you do those the way you do," he commented.
"Stick around and I'll show you," she snickered.
Harley chuckled, continuing on his departure.
No longer with an audience, Marisa released her hold from the bar and dropped feet-first back to the floor.
The indoor lights switched off, much to her annoyance.
Only the outside streetlight irradiating through the tinted windows provided enough for her to pack up.
Once all of her gear was gathered, she turned to leave.
Her heart skipped a beat, bumping directly into a woman that loomed over her, without as much as a murmur.
"Jeez, girl!" Marisa exclaimed. "Gave me a heart attack!"
She noticed the young woman to be of Portuguese descent, with a robust physique heightened by her white tank top, gray sports bra, and black yoga shorts. Her dark, blank eyes stared unswervingly into Marisa's, unsettling her.
"Can I help you with something?" Marisa submissively asked. "You do realize this place is closed now, right?"
The Portuguese woman said nothing, still giving an empty gaze.
"O…kay," said Marisa, whose discomfort began to increase. "Well, knock yourself out with…whatever. I'll just—"
"Our leader wishes to have you for the colony."
Marisa glared. The one thing this girl had to say and it made no sense.