Chapter 23 – A Scanner Darkly

Please note: Explicit adult content

"Assemble your team."

Team.

I do not need a team. Anyone beyond myself will just emit a stronger scent. Why don't I just wear a billboard shouting, "Kill Me" on it. And as strange as this sounds I can picture the SOB killing me, after all the things we have been through - without a second thought.

I open my secured tablet and read all the evaluations. Well I read them while drinking a glass of wine and watching Game of Thrones. I now see what the big deal is all about. I really like Jaime Lannister. Aaaawwesome first episode.

Any-who.

The evaluations are full of the video footage of him answering inkblot question etc. None of it surprises me. It is just shocking to hear him talking and see him moving again. He exists beyond the confines of my own head. He is actually a man and not part of me. He is real not imaginary.

Curious.

I am sane after all…

…or at least at this moment.

The evaluations tell me nothing I do not already know, but it is scary watching a man lose touch with reality. He use to be a lot more centered and a lot more integrated in the world. Here he is so withdrawn like some distant star that no one can reach. I think about our first mission, the first time I saw him, his humor, his warmth, and…his self-sacrifice. He would move a mountain for a friend in those days. True we never were chummy, but there was a time he would initiate conversations with me…before I became his boss.

My eyes start to hurt from all the reading. I am living his life. Getting inside his head.

The girls invite me out for karaoke and drinking: a girl's night out. "Another night, just not tonight." (Send) They are holding me to that. I say that there is nothing more pathetic than a bunch of middle aged women singing Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive." They disagree and text out four or five things, none of which are appropriate for any audience.

I walk down to the city streets to clear my head. Funny, I find myself in the gym again. I hear the same familiar hovering sound I heard the last time.

And I see him, but he seems more distant. Stark's smile takes a half a second longer to turn on. He is distracted. We talk. We talk about the five adamantium iron men he built, the mission, and what went wrong. If he had to do it over again what would he have done differently? He starts talking coherently, then veers off topic. He is charming and he turns to flattery, asks about my life, why I took on this mission, where I have been hiding myself these past years… and….am I happy. Questions I do not remember answering in decades. He cares more about me than about the mission. He gives me little to work on. He never liked the mission, attacking other members of the operations team. He felt negotiations and talking would have been more effective, but he was out ranked. My heart feels calmer with him, my soul feels connected to my body, and I remember what it is like to have a conversation. The rare joy of being present with someone I trust. I realize the gift of this man. I do not want to use the word "spiritual," especially with someone as supposedly superficial as Stark, but my limited language fails to think of any alternative.

I did not know it at the time, but that was the last time I would see him alive.

I walk into the lockers to change. Insomnia had its hooks in me, but I suddenly feel tired. Stark did something to me; he robbed me of my manic energy. It has just evaporated.

I walk out and my eyes catch Cage doing free weights. I watch him work.

I stare.

"Wannabe" by the Spice Girls is being piped in through the speakers.

I want to say he repels me, but I cannot seem to muster the disgust. He put his cards on the table. He is not coy or hard to read. I can respect that in an age of metrosexuals, where men are so very sexually confused themselves. And let us not forget the man/boys who do not have a clue what type of signals to give off to a woman. There he is - pure testosterone. He slams the weights down. Who cares whether his equipment works or not. I suddenly find myself unable to look away from him. He drinks some water, checks his cell phone, texts away, maybe even takes a selfie - who knows. I could walk the other way; there are dozens of other rooms to work out in. I do not even use free weights, but my body finds itself walking towards him. I am not thinking clearly or I want the attention he is use to throwing. I hope – I pray - I will not be disappointed. He slowly takes note of me. He whistles.

Really? Whistling? (I thought they only do that in movies.)

I give him a look of disgust, but I love it. I begin to stretch in front of him. He immediately goes into the comments about my body and I tell him to be quiet if he knows what's good for 'im. I do not mean a word of it. He knows it or just does not care. Anyways it only makes him more aggressive as he approaches me. I tell him how disgusted he makes me feel.

"Leave if it's true."

He moves closer into my personal space – closer.

I am scared and goddess help me - I like it.

I thought there would be an end to this dance we are doing. That the DJ would turn off the music and floodlights would come on, but that is not happening. The DJ is still spinning and the dance floor is just getting warmed up. He stands over me, he is like a linebacker, and my knees buckle for a second. If he noticed he is keeping it to himself.

I am in over my head, this thing could go south at any second – and that is just making me more congested and bothered between my legs.

We hear footsteps. They approach.

They stop.

Someone stops outside the room.

His silhouette.

"Who is that," I ask.

"T'Challa."

The shadow at the door walks away.

I smell him. His stillness. Why am I am playing with a toy when there is something real, something more out there.

I find myself walking away as Luke yells back like some dirty south Young Money loser. Honestly I cannot make out half the words, but everything in this room suddenly feels like a mistake.

He slams the door in front of me.

I am in shock and before I can respond his hands are on me. He is testing me. I defend and block. I suddenly find myself in a battle. I could just fly, but I do not want to use my powers. It would feel like an easy win from this punk. I want to beat the shit out of this little boy. I block and sweat. I am slippery. My footwork is horrible. A few minutes in I realize I am treating this more like a training exercise than an actual act of violence that is how detached I am from it.

I think about the SOB, if I was fighting him, and how rusty I am. Cage is using the environment; I am tripping over dumbbells until he has me in a corner. Then he starts laying into me, regardless if I am a woman, real shivery. I blame myself, did I really think I could turn him on and off like a light.

I chose to come into this room - I deserve it. This is my lesson, my punishment.

I deserve this as he frees himself from his shorts. He struggles to make something happen - which it doesn't. He plays with himself before blaming me. Then he lays into me with renewed vigor.

I deserve this. "I deserve this," is all I think.

My mind is gone and it will take some brains to fight him and especially the SOB.

He gets a good one in.

One that smashes my head into the wall mirror. Concussion. My head bounces once on the floor before I go completely limp. He blames me. I lie listless.

He is about to leave.

Then the air conditioner spontaneously turns on -

- only –

- it is not the air conditioner after all..

…it is an indoor wind. Manifesting.

As the wind gets stronger and whips both him and myself up, I fly and my eyes go white on their own. Even though my consciousness wants to die, maybe V was right, my unconsciousness wants to live. Goddess I only hope that it is me and not some new personality. I do not think I could handle such a heavy diagnosis.

My brain is activating itself, unconsciously, just like at Forge's. Wind carries me, lifting me. We whip around in some tornado. Cage crashes into the wall mirror. Barbells follow us, barely missing my head as they collide into Cage. Together they collapse to the ground.

I fly – higher.

I regain consciousness. There is space on the top of the air conditioning ducts, enough room for me to hide. Hide from the world. I do not trust myself. How could I fall into such a situation? It seemed so innocent when it began, but I am a full-grown woman. What was I honestly thinking? I peer down around the air duct. At the next room from an unconscious Cage and I see him.

My Mr. Serious.

A solitary room. A solitary man. Standing poses – tiny stretches.

I feel like a bird on a wire. I feel attracted towards him beyond the carnal lust a moment ago. That seems like the distant past when I see Mr. Serious engaged in ancient movements. Stillness and breathing was never so inviting. Like Stark he projects life. I remember D.C. with him and I remember my journey down here. It feels so long ago.

I smell Wakanda on him. Mountain ranges. Laughter. Exotic foods. Sweet fruit. The winds. The foothills of civilization. Something that feels so foreign to me.

Me: so Americanized, so white inside, - so nowhere.

Him: with such purpose.

I am about to fly away when –

He looks up. He sees me. His eyes - look far into me. Like I am some kindred spirit. He looks into me and finds my African heart and pulls it up and out. Saying with his eyes, "it is okay. It is okay. You are part of this tradition whether you know it or not."

"Why do you hide up there little hummingbird," his eyes say.

I want to come down. I want to be closer to him, but my body flees. I have been too vulnerable already. With Cage it was make believe, down there, that is real.

There has been enough craziness for one night. And let's be honest getting sexually assaulted just destroyed my libido.

Why does everything have to be so hard?