Chapter Two - Reclamation

Part One - Cold Sleep


The door slams, and the walls shake.

Through every inch of these walls, there is evidence of life, small but not in retreat. The fine lines are split: like veins. It tears at itself, standing firm, rippling, holding still. Fading white, gray, from the dirt from years of slow neglect.

It had given no care: it did what it was meant to do.

It had received no care: no one had done what they were meant to.

There are no creaks of regular steps passing up the stairs, but strange thick clangs of metal, on the banister outside the room. Muted, inarticulate curses.

The ceiling: like the edge of a towel; dry; irregular. Dust shivers away from every bump, every stalactite, every facet. It screams a story it saw, still sees, overlooks in the world of this large room, listening to every conversation and every murmur.

The dust falls as the door stumbles open, and though she is not really tired, the weight bearing down on her makes her gasp softly. The others are senseless: they can't feel her moving them, tenderly.

Years of harm. Intentional and unintentional. Rage let into the wall by the cracks, sadness in by the fading paint. It is all this way, but it is still there.

Confusion and shame are too complicated—she is getting wearier by the moment. The bumps of steel on the door frame only elicit heavier breathing.

The more unbelievable of the two goes on the couch. It's an easy enough answer for now.

That leaves the unbroken bed. Guilt surges past the building fatigue for a moment. She breathes, and then she pulls with one arm, over her head. Gently places. Moves the dark shapes, sets them on the bed. Ungainly, one of them falls, but does not drag the sleeper, she's near the middle of the bed.

And then! Like a blessing, the cloud and night are broken. Light from the window.

One crack, a fissure from top to bottom splitting the light in shadow. Pale moonlight glints in the sky, and casts itself through the middle of the room.

A dull sheen from the bed sleeper's back. Her carrier breathes in softly, unnerved despite exhaustion, turns and sees the sleeper on the couch. It's all too much.

Because of this, she does not notice. The relics of their lives fortunate enough to meet the moon half way glisten, and in one quiet moment, she is gone from the room; she never notices the moon highlighting the past. Hinting at the future. A soft impact from outside the room suggests the living room sofa.

There is hope rekindled as had not been.

The calm of that full, peaceful love expands, and though their minds are quiet, though they are none the wiser, they feel it.

It is back. And it is beautiful.


In the mind of the carrier, however, it was nothing but nighttime.

The only thing left that could put her mind at ease. If she'd wanted that.

It went unnoticed. Her mind, blank, staring at the floor, exhausted. Exhausted, and too tired. To tired to sleep. So tired; it had finally caught up. All at once.

Would she dream? She wasn't sure.

A pulse, a thought: tired. Then nothing. Gasps, coughing.

A pulse, a thought: hurt. Then nothing. Before the question; the answer.

A pulse, a thought: done. Then nothing. Cold, and sweating.

Could she dream? She didn't know.

For hours it stayed like this. Finally, her body could take no more, and she fell limp to the cushion and lay flat, snoring softly.

Did she dream? She didn't remember.


It is morning, or really, not quite. The clouds keep the sun from being piercing, and from bringing the steady vibrancy of the new day. There is no sharpness to the rooftops, the shingles are dull in the gray, even from inside the window, where there is no mist. Lightly, beads of condensation drip down onto the windowsill, faintly blue this early in the morning. Both sides: the outside only marginally colder and paler than the quiet chipping of the paint in the living room. The starkness of this blue fills the room, sad and solid and full, drifting past the girl who restlessly shifts on the sofa, dark hair spreading into what will be a thick mess when she wakes up.

A houseplant in the corner, defiantly green despite the murk, quietly alive despite everything, can almost be imagined to feel the coming light, to stir and quiver ever so slightly despite so much trouble in the night. But in this not quite night or day, the rugged tenacity of the plant only makes the dulcet thickness of the morning haze only that much more powerful, and so it can only wait, smothered by so much melancholy.

And then at last, the sun! Bright and powerful and shocking, for only a moment, it cuts through the clouds, red and orange and pink and energy that lives. Though it is gone in an instant, and the pale blue remains, it now seems less somber, and more tolerant, if still so sad.

The plant is given its first taste of a lean day, and is grateful.

The tall crystal clock clicks past the hour, seven silent clicks, one hour before it becomes a chime, thoughtfully appended from its standard operation to allow everyone in the house to sleep a little easier, if just for an hour. Even in an hour, when the chimes do ring, no one will wake up.

Not yet.

Because there are clouds. The dullness will hang thick, and though the roar of starting automobiles will sound in the distance, and the city and people in it will live and move and contemplate, in this house, the lights will remain off.

The cool softness; the sad and patient early morning will keep the sleeping the sleeping. Night comes again, and deep navy becomes deep shadow. Because there are clouds, and no one is awake.

Not yet.


Cowardice. That's what it was.

Slow and infuriating. The sun simply refused to emerge; to doff its poor concealment by the clouds. All through the azimuth, a murky overturned bowl dominated the sky, blocking light, blocking all feeling and sense. It smothered the earth, defeating the day, which sulked and sat, head low and idle with futile hope. A somber idea that maybe sometime soon, it could find an ounce of will to shatter the nothing and bring... anything. Whatever it could to cast this dismal day into something good and wonderful.

But it sat, and it stayed, and it sank.

And so it became one with the cloudy detachment of the early evening sky.


Morning. The light's dim. She shifts against the sofa, trying to sleep. When she turns her head, she can see into the kitchen, the fruit flies over all the dirty dishes and stagnant water. Idly, she squints and fires her heat rays at them, in quick, tiny blasts. Several of them disintegrate in midair. Eventually there are more black spots on the wall than there were flies. She doesn't even acknowledge her misses. Finally, she lays back, bored, resting her head against the cushions.

Noon. It's too bright. Hungry but no appetite. She tosses, turns, rolls, crosses her legs, uncrosses her legs. Just can't sleep. Idly, she reaches for the remote. The television flipped through the channels; cartoons, sitcoms, black and whites. All boring.

Evening. It's getting dark. Shuts it off. More and more tired. Sit up, try to rest. Hits a position, twists her hips slightly. Doesn't dare move: like the upstairs has been all day.

She closes her eyes.

She drifts off.

All is night.


The empty gloom that kept the previous day from starting was gone, but the second day back home, slumbering in fading pink, still started slow.

Low lights, low thoughts, low dreams. The house beat the world, the walls and doors seducing and defeating the distant hurt. The mind and soul rested, and the body endured. The rain had gone in the night, and the sky was somber, no tears to wash waking hope.

In the living room, violent green eyes darted back and forth: nothing was happening, and now she was feeling it. She was twitchy. She didn't want to go into the bedroom. Her stomach growled her into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator.


On the bedroom couch there was little response from the pale figure.

From the unbroken bed came a morose sniffle from a blonde little girl. Her ending dreams were deep, and played on her long-suffering heart:

She loved but was unloved;

She found an apple and it was rotten;

She felt herself rest against a soft, warm lap;

She was an eagle, above the clouds;

A poacher caught her in his net and sold her to a wharf;

Millions of bright, tiny fireflies and glowworms danced around her and told her stories of ages past, present and future.

And from far away, Buttercup was asking for the time of day.

Her reply was muttered in her sleep; the first thing she had said in days.

"The sun is up... I'll help you... okay?"

And together, they flew around the world, making it spin, forever.

She cried peaceful tears against the soft, course texture of the couch.

She longed for such sweetness, ached as she felt its echoes.

Then she woke up.


Her sister managed to throw everything in the refrigerator into a large garbage bag and tied it off—and then double-bagged it. As she closed the lid on the trash can at the end of the driveway, she turned and saw Robin, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Buttercup! You're okay!"

The embrace was sudden, as were the tears streaming down. "I thought you'd... n-never come back to us. I was so afraid that you'd... that you would—"

She hugged back tolerantly.

"I'm fine."

Robin's face rose. "Is Bubbles okay?"

"She's fine." The response was automatic. What else could she say?

Robin gasped, and sighed with relief. "Is—is there anything I can do to help?"


She stopped disinfecting the refrigerator when the doorbell rang, and took the groceries from her.

"You didn't tell anyone we were back home, did you?"

"Nope, I just bought the groceries. I can keep a secret. Here's your credit card. I signed your name."

"Robin..." Her gaze began to drift, but she forced it to resettle. "Thanks."

"Are you... are you sure I can't see Bubbles?"

"No. Sorry."

"But... we're friends!"

"Robin, I... She... Not yet. Sorry. Bye." And she closed the door, leaning up against it with a sigh. She left the bags in the kitchen.

The dull musking smell of sleep warded her with sharp regard for her siblings as she glided through the door frame. She failed to ignore the metal arms, but her blonde sister managed it quite well. Her movements were slow and deliberate, arms low over the face of their impossible sister on the sofa, still unconscious. One hand supported the back of her head while the other hand held a cup, passing water, little by little; she kept swallowing, obediently. Blue eyes met green expectantly.

"I told her to go."

Her neck declined, the pigtails drooping over her ward's pale face, but when the cup came away empty, with no coughs or sputters, she nodded assent.


Another night. She closes her eyes. She can see it. It's getting clearer all the time. Outside, the house is for all practical purposes, constant, day or night. Rain-damaged, with the paint dirty, gray and spotted, with the white still showing through. Ugly, with the peeling paint at the corners and the walls, though not cracked, faded. The garage door is dented inward just slightly, warped with time and seasonal changes, enough so that it is rusted at the joints. Spotted. Caked with dirt. Decrepit. Illuminated in high definition, it hurts, so she is relieved as she moves away.

The red door mirrors it. The hurt continues unabated. The window on the left is cracked. All the windows are dirty. A lone car slides down the street, temporarily shattering a thoroughly silent night. She winces and passes straight through the door.

She is drifting back through the foyer, slowly spinning to face the cracks revealing the living room's drywall in the wall above the girl on the worn yet still austere sofa, a rich green that deepens the sleeper as well as the night. She is afraid. The turn into the kitchen reveals more obvious neglect. With no one in it for some time, all the kitchen utensils and cutlery are dirty. She does not disturb the thin layer of dust over everything as she passes by, inexorably pulled up the stairs, which remain relatively unchanged, except for the carpet: slightly matted.

She stops for a moment in the Professor's room, almost mourning. It is made up well, but for the distinctly thick dust covering his bed (its sheets neatly folded over it), the lamp on the nightstand (two drawers, mahogany, and empty), the dresser on the other side of the bed (three picture frames, two of which are turned down). His closet is empty.

It takes her a great deal of effort to back out into hallway. She can see the banister's recent dents, handiwork of her peculiar malady.

There, right across from the girls' bedroom, is the bathroom. Still white tile from top to bottom. Not exactly clean, but it's not as bad as the rest of the house. The tub is caked with a yellow ring against the white, and there is a stench of mildew coming from the drain. Her interest in it is passing. The large mirror pulls her in.

A numb feeling of horror passes over her as she realizes.

The mirror is empty.

Her eyes shoot open. She hasn't left the bed. One of the metal arms is aloft in the air above her, the weight pressing just slightly on her back. She stares at it in panic, and it begins to drop. Only when she sees it on bed beside her does she realize how hard her heart is beating. She breathes it slow. Closes her eyes again. This time it's dark.


The Mayor turned the key twice and pulled it out of the lock. A turn of the doorknob and she was inside. The click-clack of her high-heeled shoes was loud inside the small room as she stared at the paperwork in her hands. Police reports, ambulance records, all administrative. This woman, wrapped in a bright red blouse and matching dress, was reeling from a draining pressure. She slapped the documents onto her desk, sat back in the office chair, and ran a hand through her voluminous, bright orange hair. The one good thing about this day was that it was finally over.

The machine had been given several aliases: Tektite, Dragoon, Khagan... but now, it was destroyed. Had been for two days, now, but she was still dealing with the fallout. For all of it, she had Buttercup to thank, obviously. But something was... strange. Woman's intuition―or something along those lines―told her that there was more to this story, but she had no proof, nothing to go off of. It was almost like a void had been filled somewhere. But with what?

She continued perusing the documents, and had been for some time, when the door opened, and the Chief of Police poked his pale, balding head in the doorway. "Hello, Mayor," he drawled as he stepped inside her office.

She regarded him curiously. "Hello, Chief. Do you... have something for me?"

He took a slow, deep breath. "A dozen witnesses saw Buttercup taking out the trash at her home."

She blinked, rife with confusion under her thick head of hair. She screwed up her face and turned away slightly in contemplation. She turned it the other way as one thought led to the next. Finally, she shook her head, and turned to him, unsure of how to proceed. "Keep me posted."

He nodded and left the way he came. Sara sat back in her chair, and folded her hands over her lap. "Buttercup... what are you doing? Why aren't you out looking for Bubbles? She's not dead. I know she's not." She took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes in contemplation.

The clock on the wall clicked silently past eight as she reflected on the reports. She sat in silence for a moment more before she leaned forward, over her desk. The leather creaked beneath her as she picked up the phone, and punched the very last button on her speed dial.

It rang once... then twice... and before it had a chance to ring a third time, the call was answered by a very official-sounding woman.

The Mayor parted her lips and took a deep breath. "This is Sara Bellum, from Townsville. Mister Utonium will be expecting my call."

It wasn't long until she was patched through.

"Mister Utonium, I'm calling about the..." She trailed off as there was an interruption. "What about the robot?" Pause. "You know as well as I do that even though it's been destroyed—" Pause. "She apparently left after destroying it. Went home." Pause. "We... well, no, we didn't, yet." Pause. "Yes, I'll take care of it personally."

More instructions came, swift and unrelenting, then suddenly over. Did she understand?

"I understand, yes." Pause. "Thank you. Goodbye, General."