Chapter 4
"Hey, Mal and I are gonna go see that new zombie romance movie tomorrow night, wantta come?"
"Yeah, that sounded like it was going to be really good," I sighed, "but I can't. I've got a field trip to Gotham for my Industry and Science class and they said we might not get back until as late as nine if the traffic's bad and then I've got a paper due."
"Workaholic. Maybe another time?"
"Definitely."
The story I'd told Karen was three quarters true. I did have a field trip and I did have a paper coming up. But the paper wasn't due for a few days; I had something else that I needed to take care of. Lex had given me another assignment, and I was up to date on my work and…depre-bored. Idle hands are the devil's play thing. And, though Karen and Mal were better friends than anyone else I'd known, they were still a reminder of oblivious even the best of people were. I'd tried a few more times, after that night of studying, to get through, but they only proved my point without recognizing it. With each failure I was more shut down and shut in, until I was completely bricked in by that outer persona. Where I belonged, where the world wanted me, where I should be. Could this really be my place?
It seemed changing the world one person at a time was not a possibility, so contributing to Lex's organization was my only hope of ameliorating the problem that affected me so deeply. And others, whether they knew it or not. I hoped the sanctified revenge might cheer me up as well. The field trip to Gotham was a convenient excuse to see the Wayne Tech headquarters located there so I could shadow-port later that night. Plus, it was a way to spice up a class even the professor was a bit tired of.
The bus ride was uneventful. I spent the first two or so hours staring out the window, watching serene scenery, before they put Groundhog Day on. I didn't have headphones, but I knew the movie well enough to fill in the audio and enjoy the visual. The song at the end put me in a particularly jaunty mood; the thought of my nocturnal outing and stretching my metaphorical wings blocked out the basal isolation with the mirage of contentment.
We arrived at Wayne Tech, Gotham and were greeted by an overly buoyant woman in a skirt suit. Her face looked like it had been carved into a smile. Or maybe a new localized tetanus injection. Otherwise, her cheeks would have certainly had to fall due to ACh depletion. She tittered on about the history of the company and some of its greatest break-throughs. I glanced around mildly interested at the technology and mostly ignoring her spiel. I was too internally sunny to let the blather get to me. I excused myself—not that anyone noticed—to the bathroom once we were inside the corporate area to familiarize myself with a good 'port location that would stay person-sized in any amount of light. I didn't anticipate the lights being on, but after that one time I tried to 'port to a shadow that no longer existed… I shivered at the terrifying memory.
In theory I could have hid myself in a stall and waited for everything to close. I wouldn't have been missed by my group, but when in the history of ever has hiding in a bathroom worked as a way of breaking in? Little something called security checks, other people needing the lav? At the very least. Anyways, spending hours in a bathroom would be a worse waste of time than going back to listen to the guide, which is what I did on the off chance the professor drilled us next class.
The tour ended at 3:30 and the professor released us students for an hour to explore the abutting museum and to get some food. I did a quick scan of the place, found it unimpressive, but made the best of things by going into the café to read Young Miles by Lois McMaster Bujold before grabbing a bite. I'd read it many times before and it wasn't even my favorite of the series, but I hadn't read it in a while and it nice to revisit an old friend, since books were they only type I had.
I sat in an out of the way corner table, the last one that was free. It suited my purpose of privacy, but its vacancy, as far as I could tell, was due to an intense sun glare. Winter was still holding strong and its oblique sun sent piercing spears through the transparent glass. It would have bothered anyone. For me, it was particularly irritating; the beams added weight to the light side of my scales.
Hmmm, let me try to explain that better, I'm still figuring out how to describe the indescribable. My state was like an uneven see-saw, with one side of the lever much longer than the other. When the sides are balanced, I seem to be a normal person. The long-lever, the shade side, takes relatively little input to tip the scales in its favor, a glance at the moon. The shorter side, the fiery side, it takes more effort to achieve the same effect, but the balance can still tip that way.
The sun onslaught, particularly on my eyes, was like putting a whale on the scales, along with making me physiologically uncomfortable. I struggled to keep things even internally. Though my natural response to the sun-light was not nearly as dramatic as that to the moon, it would still attract attention, questions, and here probably recapture. Unacceptable.
I couldn't enjoy my book with all the attention I had to devote to staying centered. I held up the book to shade my face, but the solution only worked for eight minutes—my arms got stiff. I shifted, using my left arm as a brace, and held the book with my right hand, pinky and thumb keeping the pages open. Soon the tendons in my fingers started to tremble with the unusual position. There was no purpose to this fight I could never decisively win. I put the book on the table and leaned my dominant hand against it, crossing my other arm across my body and using it to block the sun from my eyes, lessen the load at least that much.
Denied my eyes, the beams still nuzzled my cheek, warming it, coaxing, urging me to let it in and light something aflame. I ignored their beckons and the awkwardness of the pose, allowing myself to at last fall into Barrayar's universe rather than my own.
I was forced to briefly surface by the necessity of flipping a stuck page. Vaguely I realized the effort I'd been making had ceased. My cheek had cooled.
I flicked my eyes up fully away from the book, concerned, to see if the sky had clouded over, which could delay my plans for the night. What I saw…
Holy shit. There is no way this is happening. If I don't initiate something, nothing ever happens, and if it does, it is a pleasant, but temporary, surprise... but this much of a surprise? Holy. Shit. The last was a whisper.A scarcely audible voice chastised my language and was forgotten simultaneously.
Closer to the window lounged an athletic boy my age. He wore a loose navy T-shirt and half-zipped black hoodie that accentuated his broad, muscular chest while understating his sinewy shoulders and arms. I didn't need my resonance to feel the composure that he radiated, the subtle strength; anyone with eyes would know it from his posture. His long legs outstretched casually under the booth, and one arm was arched gracefully over the back of seat against which he leaned. That such a handsome guy —both physically and in terms of presence—existed outside of the movies was remarkable enough in its own right…
The truly unbelievable thing was that with his other hand, he was holding up a menu to shield me from the sun. Me.
…
No! I yelled at my rapidly beating heart. Slow down, he's just reading it! He's holding it up to avoid the glare. How desperate are you that that was your first thought?My steaming blood slushed with the realization, a face I hadn't realized had brightened, fell. I should have taken advantage of the shade, but I couldn't, not when I had leapt to such an embarrassingly erroneous conclusion. I tilted back in my seat, squinting at the returned sunlight as my eyes dropped heavily back to the pages.
The shadow followed me.
I glanced into his strong boned face, not quite daring to believe the implications. His lips curled in a soft, wicked smile that drew my gaze up to his messily ruffled raven-black hair, longer than most guys wore it. The locks of his bangs perfectly framed his dark, expressive brows, which met over a proud aquiline nose. But the feature that captivated my attention was his eyes. Perfectly almond shaped, with blue irises the color of a stormy sea. They danced with a kaleidoscope of power and twinkled with mischief centering on pupils in which I saw a depth unmatched by anyone I had met. For that moment, the only thing I wanted in the world was to fall into those eyes and see if they could possibly contain the profoundness at which they hinted. And then the unthinkable happened.
One of them winked.
My brain went into total shut down. There was no thinking, there was no feeling, because this was totally impossible. I just had to wait it out, it would go away. I'd become sane again if I waited long enough, I knew. This could only be delusion.
My body responded of its own accord. A new and very different heat lit up my cheeks, making them tingle. My eyes fell lamely back onto the book, but the words had lost their meaning.
A tiny, practical, cruelly sarcastic thought wormed its way through the cotton-fluff. Calm down. Seriously, let it go. Yes, it's nice, but it's a one-time thing and you are making a fool of yourself! The type of guy who does things like that is just looking to pick up a pretty girl. Chivalry. Is. Dead. I responded with some not quite verbal thoughts equating to, I don't care and He thinks I'm pretty. I bore down more firmly on these incoherent impressions. More focused I thought, Yes, I like him. But I don't know him. There is no excuse for going gaga like this except hormones, and I am more than the sum of my chemical urges. Enough. Normal functioning crept back, still vigilant for another assault of fantasy and I was able to focus on my book.
"Young Miles? Not one of the classics, but it's good,"
He had a voice like honey that drew me in like a fly; I could hear that easy smile on the air. NO! Bad teenager, bad! I scolded myself. It didn't stop me from choking out an almost incomprehensible, "Yeah." At least I didn't have to convince my body to avoid eye contact with the stranger, it was doing it naturally. If his voice was having this much of an effect, how could I hope to stay coherent looking back into them again?
"'S one of my favorites." I savored the sounds like a fine dessert. He was a solid tenor, each word flowing into the next like a well composed song. The undertones were… genuine. Caring. But also vaguely mirthful, like he wanted to always be laughing. At the same time, his composition made it clear he knew how, and when, to be serious. "What part are you at?"
I should have expected the question, but it caught me off guard and I responded on literary autopilot.
"Arde is basically summarizing the entire book saying 'Someday your forward momentum will lead all of your followers over a cliff… on the way down you'll convince 'em all they can fly! Lead on My Lord, I'm flapping as hard as I can!'"
He chuckled. It was a hearty thing, but gentle, captivating. "That about sums it up. Most of my friends got as annoyed at the 'hyperactive little git' as Oser and stopped reading" He said with affection for the character. "—Not that you've gotten to that point yet. I hope you won't give up on it till you've gotten at least as far as advantages of being a plumber." Again, the voice was a smile all alone.
"The Almighty Janitor." I responded more naturally to the etheric grin. "It's actually probably my fourth time reading it. How could I fail to love a character who has never 'faced a wall that, if [he] couldn't go over it, [he]'d not try to find some other way around, through, or under, or blow it up with sapper's charges. Or just bang [his] head against it till it fell down'?" I was too dazzled (Damn it) by the sound of his voice, his immediate presence, to realize I was talking to a new person—and of the opposite sex no less—and not mumbling.
The boy slid into the seat across from me, eyebrows arched, impressed at my paraphrase.
"And by the sound of it, not your first time reading the other books in the series. Which one's your favorite? Miles in Love?" To my ears he sounded entirely genuine, but I sensed the undercurrents. Internally, he felt a hint of condescension, as if he expected all women to go for the romance.
"No actually, Memory, as you might have noticed by my quote." I looked up with quite ire, letting him know I knew his sexist presumption.
"Really. Why?" He was pleasantly surprised.
"Because it's where Miles finds himself. He knew who he was and what he stood for in the earlier books, and it's always a joy to see him on full tilt forward momentum, taking the most convoluted path from point A to B. But he wasn't comfortable in his own skin, he didn't like himself. When he's cut off from 'the little admiral' he comes to not just know but appreciate his strengths and how to apply them; he finds his center from which he can most effectively apply leverage. The book's clever, humorous, thoughtful, and brings back the advantages of knowing your duct work. Afterwards is good too, and I like that he finds a match in Ekaterin, but his search for self is complete, which is why I think Bujold started following other characters in Cryburn." I realized I had given a speech. A speech! How the hell had I done that? How could I be talking to this guy? Maybe because it's just one guy? No crowd?
He gave another quick laugh; it made his sharp cheeks quirk up to his eyes in a smile. I felt myself mirror. It felt good to smile. He leaned onto the table, confidentially, "You don't have to sell me, 'S my favorite too." My core buzzed happily as the outsides of his eyebrows flicked up with agreement. Could this go somewhere? No. "What'd you think of Captain Vorpatril's Alliance?"
"Don't spoil me, I haven't read it yet."
He pulled in a surprised huff through his nose. "How come? It's been in e-format for, what, like a month?"
I felt like I'd disappointed him by not having read it yet, but I didn't do e-books. "No computer access." I answered half truthfully as I looked away.
"Oh." The conversation dried up so abruptly it left me physically parched. Say something. Say anything. Don't think about your face. Don't think about what you are doing with your hands. This was working, say something! I frantically tried to recapture the ease of beginning of the conversation.Why bother? It won't last.My shyness and cynicism had returned, determined to take back the ground they'd lost. Together they had reclaimed speech, inhibiting any generation of conversation. I could feel myself retreating, drawn back into the safety of my sanctuary after a brief jaunt into the fresh air of companionship.
"You're a long way from home." He commented offhandedly. Apparently he could get over such a moment of awkwardness like nothing had happen. Why can't I?
"What?" I was compelled to respond.
"You're from Ivy U, approximately four hours by bus." It came out as a statement, not a question; he was secure in his conclusion.
He had to have seen something. The riddle halted my retreat, drawing me out with the bribe. Think, you can figure this out. I took a moment to review what he could see, what he knew, careful not to look down myself, to look anywhere and give my survey away. Let's see, I didn't say anything. What am I wearing? Moonstone necklace as always. Purple v-neck shirt, no name tag. GAP hoodie around my waist. Canvas travel bag… Wait, I put pins on that bag… platypus pin, neuron button, witty math joke pin, hippo-hipster button… there! I'd put on an Ivy U pin on there on the first day of orientation. It was not a particularly interesting pin and I had forgotten about it until now; it was just a purple background with a white ivy leaf. I called his bluff, agreeably impressed by his attentiveness and general knowledge.
"Pin, canvas bag, fifth from the left," I said in a dead pan.
It had the intended effect. He leaned back again and ran his hand through his hair, brushing his bangs away from his face, eyes wide with amazement. His self-grooming wafted over a clean man smell, slightly spicy, but nothing obvious or smoky, like… earthy cedar. It bypassed all rationality and gave me a visceral sensation of a cat purr, which I languished in for half a sec before mentally slapping myself.
"Whoa. You're the first girl to have figured out that one off the bat. Shoulda guessed that wouldn't have worked."
"I'm not most girls," I shrugged simply, but my earlier blush deepened and my mouth curled, pleased at the distinction. His statement nagged at me, but I refused to analyze it; this was too much fun. Fun? Are you becoming a flirt? The thought was finally effective and sobered me. No, just friendly, he knows I'm not from around here. Let me enjoy this while it lasts, I know it won't. Fine. "My turn." I extended my senses out fully, surprised at the clarity and extent of information my resonance gave me, even given the ease with which he had drawn me out. He was accustomed to seeing things from many perspectives, delaying judgment until he had as much information as possible, but capable of making the right snap decision at need, and above all intuitive. Obviously a capable leader, though it seemed learned rather than natural. Yet he was still reserved, even within himself, and as such I couldn't tell much about his specifics. He had History. He was genuinely interested in the direction the conversation had turned. He had Plans for the night. Nothing that I could pass off as an offhanded inference. He wasn't a stranger to this café; that I could use. "You are from around here."
"True," he confirmed. "What gave it away?" He asked, amused that his own move had been turned against him.
I actually beamed, satisfied that I continued to make a good impression. "Any guesses?"
He closed his eyes for a second, and I saw glide them underneath the lids, searching his mental image of himself as I had. When they opened they had confused shade, with pricks of curiosity. "None" he said with false cheer.
"Not even a hunch?" I teased lightly.
"Well, it's not my clothes, and it isn't my accent," He slid mid sentences into a heavy Gotham intonation to emphasize his normal lack thereof.
"Your statement." The confusion in his face intensified, then abruptly changed to self-irritation—he asked questions, he didn't answer them. "And probability." I added for his benefit, since I had cheated. I paused, and miraculously pessimism retreated and my brain gave me something to else say. Has to be that you know this is a onetime deal, nothing to lose. "I'm here on a school trip, what about you?"
"I intern with the tech department." The answer was immodest yet offhand.
"Full time?"
"Yeah."
"What about college?" This guy was too bright to not be matriculating somewhere. Prodigy?
"Mmmm. I go. It's a bits complicated." He smiled warmly at me again, and without words actively coming out of my mouth, maintaining my forward momentum and with realism still routed, I was re-stupefied. He knew it too. I saw him opening his mouth to ask a question I wouldn't begin to know how to answer. Comprehending that it was needed, my practicality returned. Chand, get a hold of yourself, stop going to pieces just because a cute guy smiles at you. You have to go, time's up. Indeed, my internal clock said it was 4:15, and I still needed dinner.
I was saved, though whether from his question or my need to excuse myself is up for debate: his phone rang. He frowned at it, irritated at the interruption. He showed no outward signs, but I hadn't tuned out my resonance yet and could feel his additional concern; he knew what the call was about. I got conflicting information on the irritation. It was real, but somehow practiced too, What does that mean? "I have to take this." He held up a finger as he got up and walked out of the café.
What now? Should I wait to say goodbye? Should I leave a note? What would it say? I didn't have a phone and I was not hormone stricken enough to give him my address, though the thought did cross my mind.
But I couldn't do nothing; this had been too… nice. A simple word for a simple pleasure.
I settled with scribbling, 'Sorry, my bus is leaving. Thanks for the most enjoyable part of this trip' on a napkin. Anything else would have been too embarrassingly honest. Seemed like the 'nothing to lose' hypothesis was forefront explanation for my riotous internal state and uncharacteristic openness.
I tucked my book into my bag and pulled out my wallet. The store had one premade chicken pesto sandwich left, which I took up to the register. The counter was attended by a motherly looking middle aged woman. She rang me up and offered me some free advice.
"Be careful with that boy you were talk'n to. He's a good boy, and a charmer, but he's got girls on a string and one day he's going to break someone's heart if he ain't already. I don't want that to be you, Honey, you got that dreamy look on your face."
I was touched, if self-conscious about her remark. "Don't worry about me; I'm just passing through."
"Oh, well, then have a safe trip home, Honey."
Her message attracted the boy's unguarded statement like a magnet. Or rather like oxygen allosteric bonding in hemoglobin, the thinking of one idea priming thought of the other. The guy had been hitting on me. Feelings of flattery and disillusion clashed together, but disillusion had the longer range based on the cashier's comment and the boy's admission to trying to pick up other girls, sucker punching me in the gut. There was no question about which was the decisive victor. Disgust coated my mouth. The whole thing brought back unwanted memories of Jemma. Were the few who saw me always going to view me as another acquisition? I thought with hopeless anger, shaking to myself. And there was more than anger there, sliding around the edges of my awareness: disappointment. The feeling confused me; why should I have been disappointed in a guy I barely knew?
So what if he had just been trying to getinmypants, I reasoned, he was gone for good. And since memory is plastic, why shouldn't I remember his shielding as a random act of kindness, the conversation as friendly banter? It wasn't untrue. Because if you keep building up your false hopes the fall is going to be that much harder, since that isn't reality. Again. But you aren't going to listen to wisdom, so go ahead, enjoy your moment, I guess.
I wasn't able to completely forget that he'd been hitting on me, but the memory became for the most part a wistful one, of a chivalrous, handsome boy I'd never get the chance to know. I wanted it to be true. It could be true. Maybe.
I got on the bus, unwrapped my sandwich, and waited to go home.
When at last night fell and the moon rose, I stepped out of my dorm into the crystal frigid air. The chill snuffled tenderly rather than biting, recognizing me as cousin now that I had shed most of the heat of the day, my perpetual guise and prison. Smiling at its welcome I spread myself to the unfiltered moonlight so as to truly embrace this world of cold and dark, exposing my bare arms and face to the light's icy caress before opening my eyes to gaze to the source. I banished the last traces of my sun-imposed shroud, blessedly allowing the silver shadows to radiate through me, absorbing and replacing all the banality that normally cloaked my being from the world. From the corner of my eyes I could see my bangs straighten and change to silver, the rest of my hair become sheets of liquid obsidian. My eyes glowed as they sank from amber to amethyst. I inhaled, and felt the night hum around me, bold, clean, pure. Home.
For the first time in months I allowed myself to relish in the freedom, the absolute knowledge of the darkness's eternal love. After such a long self-imposed exile, I was beyond bliss, overwhelmed. I knelt down into the soft snow to anchor myself as I gathered my emotions.
The process began with a blink as an alternative to crying, which gave me the strength to, with an inhale, herd all the lovely feelings to a corner of my mind. This did not douse the intensity of my joy and sense of belonging, merely gave me the mental workspace to focus on the task at hand; partitioned them off for the time being. I rose from the snow, leaving no prints, and breezed to the shadow of the large oak tree in the courtyard. As I strode I glanced to the stars and did a half-salute to Orion in hopes my hunt would be successful.
That ritual completed, I crouched down and lay my hand over the deepest part of the silhouette. The air was hushed with the silence that comes only from sleep: no prying eyes. I closed my own and focused on location I had studied at the laboratory. The image firmly in mind, gently, deliberately, I lowered my hand. It met a tingling surface with the consistency molten glass. I eased my hand down into the pool, willing each of my molecules to disperse within. The fluid reached my wrist, now pulling my arm down of its own accord. I turned my focus to the pads of my feet, again catalyzing the process. Through the three points of contact I lost my form to the shadows. Each particle of my body merged with the shadows of the world, the quantum experience making me dizzy, whatever was left to feel. I pushed the vastness away, refocused and willed myself to converge on my selected location. Gradually, I gathered myself and rose from the abyss beneath the bathroom sink, returned to the pose if not the location in which I had begun.
I got out from under the counter without pause— the room was not lit—settling myself on top to evaluate. A proud smile tugged at my lips at my successful efforts, but faded as I began to probe for people. First though, I leaned back on one arm and with the other I placed my pointer and middle fingers between my brows. As at the tree, I closed my eyes to block out their irrelevant stimuli. Points of bio-energy appeared in the map that formed behind my eyelids, some stationary, some sweeping along at a casual pace through the halls. Multiple electronics sent back an angry buzz at my inquiry, no insurmountable problem there. I mentally switched from positive space to negative, searching for the places that were not sensible. Small, anti-points skipped ahead of patrollers; flashlights. But there were no large lit areas between me and my destination.
I got down off the counter and paused, indecisive. Should I walk or shadow travel? There was no difference in effort, but shading would be faster, freer. My chest tensed longingly… I began to once again stretch for the shadows around me, but paused before I triggered the link. There was a lot of tech between me and my destination; shading would certainly interfere with the electronics that lined the halls. The range of my aura would spread out with me, frying the equipment. Just walking past might do the same, but without active intent my presence would likely generate only brief incoherent static that would be ignored. Slipping through the shadows would draw attention. I sighed at the irony and reluctantly crept out of the restroom on muscle power, noiseless as a phantom.
Still, I kept to the deeper shadows, out of comfort rather than necessity, waiting patiently for guards to pass on their ingrained routes that crossed my path. The prowl through the utilitarian halls was disappointingly unremarkable. I shouldn't have taken my fortune for granted, but my blood was up from the shadow 'port and I craved a new challenge.
Lab 42C came up abruptly. It was locked, which was no surprise, but electronically. I soundlessly growled my minor irritation. Security devices like the lock caused instant red alert when they outright failed, simply overwhelming it would only cause the halls to flood with burning radiance. And as a technological illiterate, hacking was out of the question.
I exhaled and braced myself for the trick I was about to perform. The idea itself was relatively simple: cut the power to just the lock. It was the execution that would be difficult. This lock was protected against such physical methods as wire snipping and in any case I hadn't brought any cutters. I would have to intentionally focus an electron-quieting field around only the lock, enough to cut it off completely, but precise enough not to disturb the connecting alarm device. I held out my first two fingers, the same that I'd earlier used to concentrate. I pulled darkness to their tips, drawing it from the general gloom. A swirling mass of nothing disrupted the air as it concentrated. The void struggled to scatter, as is the nature of shadows, but my concentration kept it contained.
Careful not to extinguish the shadow like a match flame, I pressed it to the lock and with my other hand pulled down the nob. The door opened. I darted inside, fingers maintaining the dwindling force that neutralized the electrical current, now feeding it from my own stores, too occupied to gather the energy from the surround. The door shut behind me. Seconds ticked off my internal clock. Nothing happened.
Relieved, I shook out my hand and let out the breath I had been holding. The rest should be cake, collect file and return. I turned to the room at large and sagged. The Matrix stockroom confronted me.
Nothing to be done. I perused the aisles, frustrated at their unconventional organization. I had expected something like 1000, 1001, 1002, something rational. Instead it was categorized more like 1383a, 2384c, 4384m, 8385r. I instinctively felt there was a pattern behind the system, but the paranoid person who set this up had done his job well. Ultimately it was by luck and approximation that I located the exact cabinet I sought, rather than ingenuity. I felt my nostrils flare in annoyance that I did not have the time to decrypt the system outright.
The case itself was locked as well, this time mechanically. I laced my fingers together and pushed my palms away from my body. Lock picking was a skill I had only recently acquired, and I still was not particularly adept. But I smiled anyways; I couldn't shade, I couldn't grapple with this strange organization system, but at least I'd get to work on this invisible and intricate puzzle.
I got out two warped pieces of wire and pricked them into the key hole. All senses but touch were tuned out as I manipulated the tumblers. My fingers were not yet as nimble as they needed to be and I had to start over. More than once. I let out an exasperated breath that with sound would have been a half-grunt. One tumbler left now.
"You seem to be having trouble, need a hand?" The young voice that startled me had a cruel, mocking inflection, completely ironic. The rest of my senses snapped back and focused on the origin, realizing he'd been standing there for a full minute. I kept my hands where they were, confident my fingers could finish without me. Indeed, I heard it click and I shot a self-satisfied glare at the interloper.
He was only about fourteen or so, and a red skintight outfit gripped his still developing yet muscular form. Yellow buckles and belt accented the costume while the same yellow emblazoned his pectoral with an "R" and lined a dark cape that draped over his shoulders. His eyes were covered by a black domino mask that had the same sharp angles and color as his hair. His stance was solid, confident, yet my overall impression was of a milk rather than coral snake. I felt my look convey my disdain.
The boy kept a cocky smile on his face, but through my resonance I felt a lone butterfly flutter in his core. Someone else was supposed to be with him, which made sense. Who lets fourteen year-olds run around alone in the dark of night after thieves? His absent companion, or companions, had high expectations that he could manage his duty on his own, but the kid was far from certain. I gave him credit; he hid it well. I almost felt sorry for him.
"Well, now that you've got it open, I guess I have you for breaking and entering."
What? I already entered the building, and I haven't broken anything. My hands were busy leafing through files, so I let my expression communicate my sentiments. Angry embarrassment flashed across his face and the air between us as he realized how little sense he had made. "Take your hands out of the cabinet, where I can see them," He clearly had no expectation that I would acquiesce. He lowered himself into a fighter's crouch and a bo staff extended from his right hand across his back. He tensed, waiting.
I kept going through the files.
The moment dragged on.
"You aren't going to attack?" he asked. I shrugged and raised an eyebrow at him. Why should I? You're not bothering me. My issue was with the company and the world at large, not with him.
I guess he was used to opponents who responded poorly to being disturbed. He was quick once he realized his mistake, both mentally in realizing my priorities and physically as he lunged. I turned my body away, my focus still on finding the correct file, but a hard fury at his interference began to form. Stay on task, ignore him.
Infuriation at my nonchalance rolled off him in waves and he smacked his staff against my forearms. Its touch pounded burning needles from every angle deep into my flesh, prompting my vocal chords to try screaming even knowing there was no chance of success. The pain, denied that outlet, contorted my face into a snarl. I surmised the staff's electric aspect had been intensified rather than failed, malfunctioning in the wrong direction from its contact with me. I could feel the boy's smoky satisfaction that my full attention was finally upon him.
The ball of anger stirred. How little he knows.
I stepped back and shook out my twitching arms, and reined back my spite. Disarm, don't damage. I focused on his staff, extending my field, feeding it off of my defiance. The staff began to vibrate and spat sparks. I bore down on it, until the sparks traveled to the grip.
The boy merely repositioned himself and whacked at my torso. I dodged, but not quickly enough. This time I neutralized the electricity that hit me, expecting it, but I couldn't change the inertia. The force of the blow stole my breath and it refused to return. My bones creaked, reaching the limits of their tensile strength. I converted the pain and fear of suffocation into energy and shunted it at the staff. The sizzling intensified and the boy dropped the smoldering thing, tearing off his melted gloves. His eyes narrowed angrily, his frustration resonated and amplifying my own. Too much, Chandra, pull it back.
"You think I can't fight without that?" he taunted and jabbed a punch at my ribs, the same spot the staff had tenderized. I hissed and shoved him, trying to gain distance. He moved with my push, rolling away. In the same motion he was up again, throwing some sort of spinning disk at my face. I held up a hand to block it and it bit deep into my palm. Black blood dripped away from the wound and with it my self-control. No more was I aware of who my opponent was; every facet acknowledged only that he had seen fit to hurt me and at some level enjoyed it.
Internally, I was roaring. I sensed other electronics on his person and mentally tore at them with unchecked wrath, merciless, uncaring of the results.
Chaos blazed.
A thick cloud of smoke enveloped him. Sparks radiated from within, then erupted in flame. He coughed, his arms struggling to take off his seizing belt, but some sort of foam wrapped around his hands, immobilizing them. At least it also smothered the fire.
The cloud continued to billow. His cough deepened. He fell hard.
Do not meddle in the affairs of those you know nothing about, I thought dangerously. I patched my wound with a web of shadows, far from ideal but the best I could do, and returned to my perusal of the cabinet.
By the time I found the correct file, the bulk my pain had subsided to a tolerable ache and my temper had settled to a jerky trot rather than blind charge. I remembered the boy's initial uncertainty, and the hint of pity returned. He had been doing his job, even if it was for the wrong people; he hadn't actually done anything wrong. Certainly nothing worth what I had done to him.
I inspected the unconscious form. He'd had a lot of tech; it seemed the entire suit had some circuitry, and as such most of him was at least lightly burned. I hadn't meant to do any serious damage. There wasn't much I could do for him now; he would heal in his own time. Rolling up his cape into a pillow only slightly assuaged my guilt at losing control, even if it had only been mildly compared to the last time.
I sighed. This was to be part of the gig. I had a purpose, he had an opposing purpose. This wasn't the end of the story if I continued to strike against the company. But if I was honest with myself, I liked getting to use my abilities to further my goals. No more pretending, no more restraint. Biting the hand that leashed me. At the cost of innocents though? For a moment I was uncertain.
I let it go. He had the same problems I had, opposing purposes. And he hadn't been at all conflicted about beating me with the damned stick and razor thing, just about his ability to do so, far from guiltless. I had been fair, and he had lost. Until such time as Lex and his organization were able improve things, fair was the best anyone could expect from life. I'd just have to be more disciplined next time, or I would do more damage than my efforts for Lex could balance out. I took the file and shadow ported back home, leaving the boy and my conflict behind.
That night I dreamed of my casualty:
Robin awoke with a violent cough. Every nerve ending that wasn't shrieking was making now feeble attempts to communicate its pain. He coughed again. God, even his lungs burned. What had she done?
His training took over and he rolled, pushing himself up into a ready position, noting as he did that his cape unfurled. Fervent glances confirmed he was alone.
He stood, which relieved some of the stinging from his scalded hands. He scowled at the relief; he was tough, he didn't need the release from pain. As proof he smacked his hand against the R on his chest. "Robin to Team".
The only response was the renewed screaming of his hand.
A quick survey revealed every piece of tech was a slagged mess. For a moment jealousy of his teammates who had superpowers to rely on reared up, but was quickly tamed. It was an old inequality he had more than compensated for.
At least there was one good thing about the thief's target. He shuffled over to a computer built into the wall and typed in the proper code. An older face appeared on the screen, relief just visible under the domino mask and professional façade.
"Tim, what happened? You were supposed to be back an hour ago. Why didn't you check in? Oh." The younger boy didn't bother to answer the second question knowing mentor could see for himself.
"It wasn't an ordinary Gotham thug like we thought. It was someone new."
"New, not just from out of town?" The elder boy frowned.
"Definitely new to the scene. She was just wearing a tshirt, didn't know how to fight. And she didn't follow the script." After an amused but perplexed look Robin elaborated. "She didn't respond to my insults or initiate an attack."
"Are you sure it wasn't just that you're still working on your banter?" The elder boy almost teased, but sobered as he added. "So then what happened?"
A brief explanation ensued, the brows of the elder boy furrowing further at each detail.
"Sounds electrically based. Anything else?"
"One thing. The weirdest part of the whole encounter was that when I woke up, my cape had been rolled up to cushion my head."
"What? It was her then."
"Had to be, anyone else and I would have woken up in an ER." Robin echoed his mentor's reasoning. "Thoughts?"
"Not really," was the frustrated reply. At least nothing he was confident enough in to share. "Can you zeta here or do you need a lift to a hospital?"
"I'll manage."
"Get back as quickly as you can, I need your help finding out more about what she took. Nightwing out."
The screen went black.
The dream was forgotten in the sea of other dreams I danced through that night.