I own nothing! Much to my great dissatisfaction, my name is not Butch Hartman, nor do I represent Nickelodeon…HOWEVER, I do own the plot, and so does Chicaalterego, the coauthor of this story. She said this chapter didn't need much work, just that I needed to extend the ending, so for this eensy, weensy bit, the chapter is all mine (plus the suggestion, written by yours-truly).
"There's someone that I need to meet!" She announces, fists clenched with determination.
"Marie, you won't be going, especially not on your own." Mystique declares swiftly, not allowing Marie to find an excuse.
"But-"
"No 'ands', 'ifs', 'buts', or 'ors'. Absolutely no."
Marie sighs and plops her bag on the floor, grabbing cookies from the cabinets and milk from the fridge.
Chapter 35: Time Crunch
Marie isn't sure what to do about her latest dilemma. Without the memories of all her future-visions, she doesn't know how to proceed. She remembers California, but not much else. With only the two distinct words she remembers of the past/future, California and Phantom, it's more than a little hard deciding how to leave, where to go, and what precisely she's looking for. It would be nice if she remembered a location, but it evades her, even in her dreams.
Having made the decision to leave, though, Marie now has the most basic of all problems to solve: should she run away or try to make the others tag along? After she solves that, she can figure out what else to do. She's already tried to convince Mystique/Rachel to take her, but if she pulls the "I'm a seer-mutant and something big is going down in California" card, she might have a hairline chance. Destiny might be more easily persuaded of the importance of the mission.
The good parts about taking them would be the lack of a manhunt, the support, and faster transportation. It is also more likely Rogue will reach her destination-whatever that might be-if adults come. The bad parts involved how manipulative Rachel can be, and that Destiny might know everything. Marie has no idea how that would affect things. Still, if the Phantom person knows anything, he'll probably realize something's up and be able to evade the problems she foresees.
Eventually, she decides giving it a try is worth it.
Less than a week after she brings up the idea of going to California with Mystique, she's dragged up enough information that she ought to be able to get by with a destination. She's filled a page with everything she needs to tell her parents, just in case if she almost forgets anything. She's prepared.
…
With a nervous grimace and a shuffling step, Marie sidles into the living room where their first confrontation took place. Irene sits near the icy fan, listening to Rachel's complaining from the kitchen. Mystique/Rachel recites her day, cooking up steamy tales of the boss's affairs and okra at the same time. Quintessentially southern, the okra is fried to perfection, the result of Rogue's endless complaining every time Rachel had undercooked or boiled it. The two northerners still aren't great fans, but Rogue is converting them piece by piece. They'd already come to like heart-attack green beans. She isn't anywhere near making them like boiled peanuts as much as she does…yet.
Baked spaghetti and meatballs await as well, and Rogue isn't quite certain when to bring up the trip she has in mind. The lined notebook paper crinkles in her pocket, opening terrified, gaping holes in her stomach, black pits into which it falls, only to discover a blender's lying in wait, turned to full, churning potential. Deeply uncomfortable, she digs her toes into the faded blue-green carpet to anchor her to the earth. Tracing wrinkle patterns into the floor, she stifles impatience as her elders fail to notice her apprehensive fidgeting.
Absently, it occurs to her to wonder how old Mystique is. She vaguely remembers from a vision that Rachel has always looked the same and observes that it could be shapeshifting or genuine immortality. Rachel had admitted to possessing a healing factor some time ago, so theoretically it could prevent her from aging. According to her calculations, the visions came from about thirteen years into the future, so it's a valid question.
Marie takes to chewing on her bird and pointer fingers, hoping somebody asks her what's wrong. As it turns out in many scenarios wherein someone actually wants attention, they seem to be deliberately ignoring her signals. What do they want her to do? Stand on her head? In the end, she realizes she has to start. They'll never notice unless she brings it up.
"Um, Mom, can we go?"
The clumsy start is bad enough, but Rachel's reply is worse, once she realizes what Marie is talking about. "To California? I know you want to-you brought it up just last Thursday. I already said no."
Marie protests, "But I even know where! Amity Park sounds like a really cool place! There's this weird website that says it's the most haunted place in America and a ton of conspiracy theories! It'd be so awesome!"
"It's not a good idea. For one, going to a place because there's a bunch of conspiracy theories isn't a good motivation. Another thing, there's no reason to go traveling. You're behind in your schooling since we let you have a break after your episode," Rachel firmly interposes.
Interrupting, Irene suddenly asks, "Marie, does this scheme have anything to do with your talent?"
Choking, Marie falters. If she could convince them to go to California without telling them what it was about, that would be ideal. Irene's picking up on her plan has blown a sun-size crater through that plan, however feeble it was.
Irene hears the freeze and Rachel fills in, "It is about that, isn't it?"
Marie's ashen complexion is a tell-tale for her thoughts and the reality of the situation.
"Marie, if you'd tell us what you learned, we might help you. We might even take you to this Amity Park place you mentioned, but you've got to tell us what you're thinking," Irene insists.
"It's…it's none of your business! I don't want you changing things! You'd scare him! If you don't take me, I'll run away and you'll never, ever see me again!" Marie goes from a 2 to 10 on the scale of frustrated and scared within milliseconds. They'll manipulate Phantom and he'll never help her figure out what's going on. Without any idea of who Phantom is, she has no idea how he'd react to an attempt at manipulation.
"Marie," Irene interjects, "it's our job as your parents to keep you safe. If you have a really good reason to think you need to go to California, we'll take you. If you don't, we won't let you leave the house without adult supervision until you do tell us or you convincingly agree not to run away."
Marie examines the direness of the situation, struggling to decide whether telling the truth is worth the risk. Maybe she can make them promise to not interfere, but then she doesn't know if they'll keep their promises. It gives her a vomity feeling when she thinks about it, remembering that they can't be trusted with everything. She doesn't remember why anymore, but a thread of fear has sewn her lips shut for the past few months.
The problem for deciding whether she should tell them everything lies in her inability to recall why she needs to go to California. In fact, she knows full well she doesn't need to go there. The only thing she remembers for absolutely certain is that this Phantom's life is in danger, and that she must stop him from doing something at some point in time. She doesn't think it has anything to do with the flashes of visions of a dark future.
Rachel interrupts her calculations. "At least give us some idea of why you need to go."
Reluctantly, Marie releases the minor details she knows about the future, speaking of the Phantom and of her foreknowledge as to his demise. The words float in midair, smoke-like, waiting for the wind of refusal to blow them, useless, away.
Surprisingly enough, Irene volunteers support. "Rae, it might be a long shot, but you know how vague my visions are. I can't foresee far in most cases and I rarely get more than a feeling. I knew Marie would be one of us, but I never realized what mutation she'd get. Remember how I said she'd do something important to the world? This might be it."
"But it's just a feeling and she's only six!" Rachel protests protectively. Marie banishes thoughts of the bizarre fear of saying anything of importance, but grumbles internally at the unfairness of being excluded from conversation.
"You trained with Luis Hardin and what's-his-name Goodrich and I might be able to see their attacks," Irene justifies. "If she's precognitive, it might be best if we try to help her, even if she doesn't know what the outcome of her intervention could be. And since we homeschool her, we can bring the books. She doesn't have to drop behind, especially since she said she just needs to stop him from doing something crazy. It shouldn't take more than a week or two and it'll set her mind at rest."
Rachel offers a last objection, "I'm not up to the hero thing. You know I told you changing the future wasn't my thing. That's why we stopped following your maps. With him breathing down my neck, I'm not sure I'd get away with a road trip. Just taking time off to raise Marie barely qualifies as an excuse. I can't lose another child."
Marie knows for certain now that they've forgotten her. What other child? She doesn't remember another one, not anymore at any rate.
Irene comforts her, "I know. But maybe now it's time to take a risk again. We can protect her together. Maybe we can even find other people to help us keep her safe. If you could read over my books and try to find anything about this, we could be certain if this is what we need to do. Maybe there'll be some hints about who can help us or something. We can even check up on him after this if Marie agrees to come along."
Rachel sighs, "Maybe. I…I just miss him. I guess it's better the way it turned out, though. I wouldn't have been a good mom back then."
…
It's decided, then, that they'll leave in a few days, though Marie struggles against the length of time, not knowing when they need to leave to get to the Amity Park place to stop whatever will go down. They pack the whole house into their trunks and leave Caldecott, Mississippi behind in their newish, 1992 Volvo station wagon.
Watching the place of her early life slide away from the car, Marie notes that the only pieces left of the town are the caked, red-mud dust and pollen coating the car in a camouflage of parched sweet corn gold and cerise shoe leather after about ten years of wear, tear, and staining. Rachel finally stops by a car wash on their way to the airport, slushing all the accumulated sludge of almost two years of ownership with less than five washes-none during that summer-onto the previously cleanish cement floor of the car wash. The suds stubbornly try to stay on the station wagon, showing true resilience until most burst.
Finally, they leave, the wet silk of the water spraying off as they drive with increasing speed to the great terminus, where broiling heat greets their feet, turning flesh to skin chips upon contact, even through the thick soles of flip-flops. Security isn't extremely tough to get through and Marie steals a window seat which she barely squeezes into, an extremely obese woman having stolen the seat nearest the aisle. With nowhere else to sit, Irene shuffles in behind Marie, sandwiched between the woman and Marie herself. Rachel sits across from them, a little nearer the cockpit, beside a balding man and his wife.
The trip is a giant pain, a true example of uncomfortable flights. About three times across the course of twenty hours, they have to come down from the air, inducing popping ears. One seat change occurs, the obese woman having left the plane on the first drop-off point. A crying toddler and her dad replace the woman. The baby must have hated flight, because she doesn't stop wailing until they leave. During the final halt, due to a mix-up in scheduling and turbulence, the plane is delayed for almost fifteen hours and they spend the night in a cramped hostel near the airport. They get up at four so they don't miss the plane and drag themselves into the terminal for another brief security check (as if any of them carry bombs). Somehow Marie feels glad it isn't in the 2000s. She seems to remember a security increase about then.
The plane trundles in at 6:00am and they drag noodle-limp limbs down the ramp. Rachel calls a car company, renting a small, deep green chevy with the scent of wet dog fur. This is what they get for such a small rental fee. Finally, they arrive in Mendocino County, on the border of desolation.
A sign looms above the trio, blocking out the sun, leaving a westward-cast shadow well over ten car-lengths in full. Written in black script on a yellow background, it reads, "Amity Park: A Safe Place to Live". From their vantage point as they cross the hill leading into the city, they see modernistic skyscrapers, so tall their tips almost skewered the sky like marshmallow sticks. A few seem to smolder faintly green. Around the outsides of the town, bricks and planks are cracked in the walls of ant-like houses, tiny compared to the monsters a few miles away. The town's borders lie deserted, though a few buildings, like the pearls cast before swine, yet gleam with newness and repairs. All in all, it seems rather as though a fairy ring in reverse had taken place, a disease tearing apart the outer immune system of the city, leaving the innards alone.
The words on the billboard are ironic in nature, it seems, especially since holes fracture even its surface, and petty vandalism in the form of all kinds of words seems to have been painted across the sign. Even at this distance, in the lurid light of dawn, coupled hearts are visible if one squints, along with public displays of scorn-red hearts erased with black paint, cupid's leaden arrows, even curses.
The car chugs over the border of the city, into the rot within, and a chill passes through their bodies, a foreboding and a physical sense that they've passed the line of no return. Deeper into the city they drive, past more houses, a ghost town if ever there were one.
Why hasn't this been on the news?
What caused this?
Questions unanswered, Rachel uneasily speeds up, driving faster than the limit, wary of whatever things might come their way. Potholes and craters line the streets, a hopeless maze. A few humans wheel past on bicycles, creaking their way to work. It's the safest way to go, they can see, since they narrowly evade potential downfalls. In fact, when Rachel had told the companies where she was going, they had refused to let her use their cars. She had been forced to lie just to obtain a car.
As they near the mostly-industrial parts of the city, an unzoned amalgamation of buildings with the residential spots in the middle, a black and white streak shoots past their window, blasting a hole in the ground at their wheels with some form of brilliant green light, before disappearing.
Finally, they reach a hotel, a little to the left of center in the town. Its sign hangs lopsided, but it stands. They park in the tiny lot outside the building, before Rachel goes in to check them in. Marie and Irene stay in the car, each gathering her thoughts on what could possibly be wrong with the city.
Rachel comes back with the keys to Room 126 and they move their piles of luggage from the car to the room in an incredibly short time, each having packed so much and chosen such a small room that they didn't bring in most of the stuff, just the clothes and absolute necessities.
The hotel isn't ostentatious, but it's designed well. Still, it has its oddities. For instance, the walls are made of a queer, steel substance, glowing the same faint green as the skyscrapers. Marie runs her finger along the wall, and small flakes of the substance rub onto her hand. She wipes it into the hem of her shirt and steps into the bathroom to relieve herself.
By the time she exits, Irene and Mystique are slumped across the bed, exhaustion felling even the seemingly-tireless shapeshifter, who appears corpselike from the instant she closes her eyes. The only thing destroying the image of her as a body is the snoring which issues from her mouth. Irene follows suit and Marie, equally exhausted, pulls out a sleeping bag and snuggles into its depths.
Wow, that chapter took longer than I thought it would! It was kind of fun to write, though. What do y'all think happened to Amity Park?
If y'all could send a special thanks in the reviews to Chicaalterego for making the plot get this far, that would be amazing. She forced me to think the plot out ahead of time, something I rarely do unless strictly necessary. I know I've said this before, but I started with only a few scenes in my head and the idea that the DoFP arc would be involved somehow. She made me flesh it out, preventing it from sinking into the sewage pits of lost, abandoned stories.
And yes, I'm a southern gal when it comes to culture. I live in the DEEP south-no, not in hell. Just in the regular, old USA. That's how I know about fried okra, the food of the gods. Seriously, if you haven't had grits, fried okra, and boiled peanuts at least once, you can't say you really know the south. Boiling okra just makes it slimy, but when you bread it in cornmeal and flour and stick it in vegetable oil in a frying pan, it morphs into the best thing ever. Cornbread is great and all, but it doesn't compare with okra. If you can have them at the same time, though, it's pure heaven. My mema (maternal grandma) has a great recipe for cornbread.
-MiaulinK