(Dive)
Ah, nothing like spending a cheery afternoon in a storage closet with an amnesiac who thinks I'm the one who's crazy. And he does; I can see it in his face, the set of his mouth and the way it tightens while he reads. It took me a long time to figure out human facial expressions, those little tics that make up that whole non-verbal thing, and right now I kind of regret it. Nothing like seeing a good friend's face reflect the look of all those teachers and social workers I had as a kid: pity and disbelief. He's going to put that thing down, pat me on the head and go get the happy pills.
Whatever. I'll just wait until we're outside, whack him upside the head and drag him home. End justifies the means, and all that. So I eat my lukewarm ravioli, even though I'm not hungry, so Wing can tease me when this is all over. 'Geez, Dive, you really can eat anything.'
Even if it doesn't feel like it can get past the knot in my chest.
The pages rustle as Duke sets them down. I glance up to find him staring at me, way more intensely than anybody with one eye should be able to. I shrug a little, shifting under the weight of it, because, hello awkward moment? If I could make a pissy comment, I would, but instead I get to squirm in silence. Yay, me.
Finally, Duke sits back. I can't really read the look on his face, but it's not pity anymore. Steepling his fingers in his lap, he says too softly, "Nosedive, huh?"
Ew. I reach out and cover the first half of my name.
Duke glances down and corrects himself, in that same gentle voice, "Dive. You want me to believe that you really came from another dimension? That we're all in danger from an ancient race of evil lizards who escaped from limbo, only 3 of which managed to get here, chased by a crack commando team that included, beg your pardon, a 17 year old kid?"
I know it sounds insane. But hey, that's reality for you. Stranger than fiction. I didn't even try to explain that he happened to be one of the crack commandos he's currently making fun of. Might as well leave that one to Wing. I'm having a tough enough time nailing down the basics while he treats me like the village idiot.
18 now, damn it, and I'm a pretty good commando if I do say so myself. Which I have to, most of the time.
"Never mind the prison camp part. If they hurt you as bad as you said, you shouldn't be walking. You shouldn't even be standing. You should be dead. No kid, even an alien, could survive-"
Sadly, I'm with Duke. I probably shouldn't have survived, and that's not a value judgement; that's anatomy. There's only so much a body ought to be able to stand. I should've died three or four times down in those mines, but I didn't, and that's the end of it. And at the end of it, all I'll got to show for it are a few scars that I can't even let Wing see. Scars that I've never shown anybody, safely tucked away under clothes. I've been careful.
But that's what it's going to take.
I roll my sleeves up, past the elbows. The shirt's loose anyway. The scars start at mid-forearm, spiderweb thin lines that wind up and end in patches. I don't know where they came from, but they're ugly and they make an impression.
Duke looks at it, and his eye flinches a little, but he keeps going. "Kid, I figured that you'd been hurt. A lot of people down here have been hurt, but that doesn't mean-"
I keep rolling, the other sleeve this time. More of the spiderwebs, the edges of a forcewhip scar. Claw-marks from a mess-hall brawl that killed about eight, the first night of many that I almost managed to run. The back scars are a consequence of that 'almost' part. Saurians don't seem to admire a little initiative in their prisoners.
That, at least, is enough to make Duke falter. He even squints at the scars for a moment, trying to piece together what happened, then shakes his head and keeps resolutely going. "It doesn't mean that you have to make up this fantasy story to protect-"
I'll give him points for a pure stubborn streak. With a sigh, I reach to tug up my shirt, and he stops me by grabbing my wrist. I make the mistake of glancing up, and the look on his face is enough to make me stop... well, everything, basically. Duke draws in a breath, but doesn't seem to know quite what to say. When he does speak, it's not what I expect to hear. "Who're you trying to protect? Yourself? This guy who came up in your story, this Wildwing? Did he give you those sc-"
I don't even realize I've wrenched my wrist away until the pain hits. I ignore it, in favor of cocking a fist and glaring holes through Duke. Friend or not, stupid risk or not, he says one more word about Wing and I'm going to punch him out down here and improvise a way to the upside.
"Whoa, whoa." Holding up his hands, Duke sits back, out of range. "Okay. All right. It wasn't Wildwing. No offense intended."
I lower my fist. Slowly. Duke, I'm a little too satisfied to note, waits until it's all the way down before starting again. "I'm just saying that you have to realize it's a little hard to believe. That's all. If I had a nickel for every kid with scars in juvi who tried to tell everybody that they were really on a secret government mission, or Michael Jordan's kid, or an alien, or whatever. well, I sure as hell wouldn't be down here."
I gesture for the notebook, and he passes it over without comment. /I'm not lying,/ I write, and then for emphasis underline it twice before handing it back.
Duke reads it upside down, and sighs. "I'm not saying that you're lying. Sometimes you've got to find a better story than the one life handed you, or you'll go crazy."
/I'm not crazy, either./
"Uh-huh. You jumped off a building earlier, in case you don't remember."
/I was pushed. You jumped./
"Ah. Damn. Knew it was something like that." Sitting back on his hands with a little wince as his ribs protest, Duke shakes his head. "If you didn't want to tell me, you could've thrown the notebook at me."
/I'm trying to tell you, and you're not listening./
Duke looks at that, then takes the notebook away and tears that page off. Crumpling it in one hand, he tosses the new paper ball behind him. It skitters off into one corner. "You're right, I'm not." With that done, he sets the pad down in front of me again. "Blank slate. I'll tell you right now, kid, you can keep your secrets to yourself, but I'm not fond of being lied to or playing make-believe. If you're staying down here-"
Maybe it's a touch immature, but he's using the 'shadow puppet' voice again. Just when he was starting to be cool, too. In big letters, I write, /Who said I wanted to stay here?/
Duke blinks at that, like he didn't quite mean to say it in the first place, like I threw him a curveball on top of it. "Good point. Suppose we should've asked you."
/That the royal 'we'?/ I start to write, then shake my head and scratch it out. Snark isn't getting me anywhere. Over the blacked out place, I write instead, /Make you a deal./
Tilting his head, the way he does when I've got his interest, he asks, "Yeah?"
/We go to the Anaheim Arena. They've got a game scheduled tonight. If Wildwing doesn't recognize me/
I pause, long enough that Duke prods, "Then what?"
Even the words look strange. 'If Wildwing doesn't recognize me'. It's a gamble, but hey, the Mask's never let anybody down before. If anything could pick up Saurian magic, the Mask would be it. It picks up on Chameleon, after all. And whatever weird mutant clones that're in our place will probably immediately freak out or melt down or something, because as evil plans go, Saurians? Not exactly the grandmasters of subtlety.
Of course, by my own reasoning Wing should've noticed by now, and therefore cancelled the game. But then, there I go trying to be logical about my life again. This is probably a grand scheme by Wing to lure out both me and Draggy, and he's being all subtle trying to send messages by telepathy or the spaces in the newsprint or whatever, thus proving yet again why he's the hero and I'm the frycook.
Anyway. It'll work out. That's me, the eternal optimist, and never mind that open manhole right ahead. I'm sure it'll patch itself up before I get there.
/Then,/ I start writing again, /it's up to you. You can drop me in front of juvi or welfare services or whatever./
Duke muses over that for a minute before pointing out, "I could do that anyway."
/And I could tell the cops where you live./
"Yeah, don't remind me." Dropping the two cans of food into the wastebasket with a sour look on his face, Duke mutters, "I really ought to kill you."
You know, as many times as I've had variations on that snarled at me, I'm getting a little jaded. Shame, really. But, as Wing raised me to be polite, I try to look intimidated.
With a heartily disgusted sigh, Duke takes his almighty forks, wipes them on a rag and deposits them back into the hidey-hole. "What time is the game?"
I hold up 7 fingers. Might as well spare the paper. Save the trees, man.
Duke nods. "Great. I'm going to sleep."
Um, hey? I grab the paper and scribble, /Practice at 4, better chance of getting noticed./
"I'm. Going. To. Sleep. Your deal said nothing about sneaking into practice. If he can recognize you at 4, he can recognize you at 7." Duke seats himself on the sleeping bag, considers for a moment, then grudgingly zips it open so there's room beside him. Gee, thanks, pal. "Besides, that gives the cops more time to get distracted and forget about this morning. And before you can start scribbling, I'm not opening my eye for anything short of World War 3 after right. now."
And true to his word, the jerk closes his eye. Out of spite, I write /Real mature, Duke./ on a piece of paper, which I stick to the wall. I can wait.
But hey, while I'm waiting, the sleeping bag is looking really comfortable right about now.
****
Duke is, at least, good as his word. That much hasn't changed. One rude awakening via an elbow to the ribs, an unpleasant walk through a slightly better lit sewer, and we're standing in an alley by the Pond. I can see the lights from here.
Ah, home sweet home, I never thought I'd be quite so glad to see you.
"Oh, fabulous. It's crowded." Another thing that hasn't changed: Duke's still an utter grouch until he gets coffee. "And they have security at every door. How wonderful."
Captain, I'm sensing... sarcasm. I give him a 'you agreed to this' look, which may or may not translate since my notebook got 'accidentally' left behind. Then, just in case it didn't translate, I grab his arm and drag. Translate that, Cyclops.
Gate security, as always, gives new meaning to the word 'slacker'. I mean, considering how many evil overlords/traitorous aliens/murderous electro- demons and everything that they've let into the building, they'd kind of have to be. All it takes is a little bob and weave, let one think that the other got my ticket and vice versa. My morals are bendy. I'll have to be sure to slip them a few extra bucks the next time I'm bribing myself out of being grounded to the Pond, that's all.
When I turn around, Duke is giving me the slightly startled 'but he looks so young' stare. Yeah, I've gotten it enough times for it to get its own qualification. I smile right back, sunny and clueless and sparkly, then go back to dragging him. There has to be a seat by the aisle into the lockers.
We're late, and so they're already playing by the time I find a seat. Dragging along an one-eyed, slightly psychotic looking guy behind me sure does clear those seats. And they say Anaheim doesn't count as the South. Heh.
Duke settles in on the next chair, squishing me into the wall a touch to avoid getting touched by the people on the other side, and generally getting more cuddly than he did when we shared a sleeping bag. But hey, I was careful to leave him room. Duke the first didn't get cuddly, so Feral!Duke the second sure as heck isn't going to appreciate having the crazy guy climbing on him in his sleep.
But this? This is kind of... nice. The arena smells familiar, like ice and too many people and grunge, bright lights and spilled soda. This whole Earth thing has probably messed me up irrevocably, even before we start talking about the evil overlord thing, and that's not going into the publicity stunts. Thanks, Phil. I'll be sending you my therapy bill.
It doesn't escape me that this, a circle of ice in a concrete building, is probably the closest thing I'll ever get to going home again. Even if we make it back, which is doubtful, the damage's been done. The dust might settle and the scars might be covered up, but it'll never be home again.
But there I go, getting philosophical. First the rationality, now this. Apparently if there's no Wing or Grin around, the voices in my head make up for them. Wonder if I'll start getting the urge to ransack a Radio Shack next.
Speaking of our happy family, we've been here ten minutes and haven't seen one glimpse of them. The guy in front of me is bobbing and weaving in his seat, which might not be annoying if he wasn't about half an inch taller than I am. I have to settle for glances over his shoulders, which coincidentally only happen whenever the away team is blocking my view. I think I catch a glance of blond hair on a Ducks uniform, but they're gone before I can make sure it's Tanya.
Flopping back into my seat, I blow out a breath hard enough to move my hair. Change of plans it is, if you want to call sitting in the seat and waiting to catch Wing's eye a plan. Half-time isn't that much longer to wait, anyway. I turn in my seat to play the next round of charades with Duke, and.
And Duke is fixating on the ice. He's even shaken off the Rico Suave wannabe act for the moment, sitting straight in his seat to see over the top of the boards. I tap his arm and he jerks, pulled out of his concentration. Rather than turning and snapping, he looks a little sheepish at getting so involved. Rubbing the back of his neck, he settles back into a slouch and mutters, "Never seen hockey played before."
This would be the point where I grab my chest and gasp, "Heathen!", if I could gasp anything. Instead, I get to gape at him in mute culture shock. Considering that I was on skates before I could even walk, I think I'm entitled.
"Hey, now, don't give me that look. Couldn't really afford to get tickets, now could I?" Duke fakes an unconcerned look, though I notice his eye doesn't stray from the ice for more than ten seconds at a time. Maybe some sort of memory's sneaking through? He looks nostalgic for a minute there, which softens the lines and edges of his face. Makes him look younger, a little less sharp. "Besides, in general New York's a bit more obsessive about its baseball teams than its hockey."
Ah. Nostalgia over a fake memory. And here I was like an idiot, thinking he was almost cute...
Cute like kittens, and puppies, and frolicking things. Not at all cute like Estella Warren or Lucretia Decoy or any other very female and unlikely-to- induce-Wing's-heart-failure example, thank you very much. We now return you to your regularly scheduled heterosexuality.
Anyway. While I'm repressing and denying that... Since Wing isn't here, it's my job to be crafty and subtle and such. Maybe if I make Duke look at the past he thinks is real, he'll see a gap or something. Saurians aren't exactly known for being thorough with their mind games, either, and hopefully this is no exception. Maybe whatever magic dimension swapping amnesiac body switching thing that Wraith or Draggy pulled has a nice convenient loophole. They're usually good about that. And if not, well, witness me winging it. That works out pretty well.
I tap his leg again, tilt my head and try to look as innocently prompting as I can.
Duke looks at me for a moment, long enough to be uncomfortable, long enough that I almost regret asking. Nothing like being stared through. Just before I crack under the pressure, he glances away, looking at the ice without seeing it. Finally, he says in a voice so low it's nearly lost under the murmur of the crowd in its lull, "Left the city when I was about 13. Took me about a year, but I ended up in Anaheim in the back of a police cruiser."
His voice dies off, and he doesn't keep going from there. If the first bit of nostalgia made him look softer, this one leaves him looking sharp and cold as a knife. I don't recognize this Duke. I don't think I'd want to, anyway.
I shouldn't have asked. Now he's pissy again, and I'm left wondering if this is the same history Duke the First had, transferred from Puckworld to Earth. I can picture that too easily, some gawky angry version of Duke being thrown in the back of a police car. My childhood wasn't exactly Hallmark, but I was warm and safe most of the time, and I had Wing. Duke didn't even get that much.
It's funny, but I never really thought of his reasons. I kind of figured Duke was born the Duke L'Orange, jewel thief, leader of the Brotherhood, glamorous and stylish Robin Hood guy ready with a bad joke and a wink. I never factored in that he had to have been a kid, once upon a time. An angry teenager on the run, on the street.
Small wonder he lost an eye. Amazing he lived long enough to see the Saurian takeover.
Even more amazing, how much he manages to tuck behind a quip and a reputation.
An elbow catches me in the ribs, and hello, reality. Duke is looking at me, and there's techno crackling on the speakers. Half-time, already. I didn't anticipate being caught off guard. I can already see someone whipping past me, into the locker room, and the glint of bright light off a very familiar mask. Rather, The Mask.
I don't have time to be polite about this.
On my side, the side not being taken up by Duke, is a guard rail of three bars. I guess security didn't figure on our stalkers being stupid and crazy enough to divebomb us from on high. I guess I'll just have to be the stupid crazy stalker who proves them wrong.
Two guardrails vaulted in less than 24 hours. Guess Mom and Dad knew what they were doing when they named me Nosedive, after all.
I land, luckily enough, on the concrete instead of the ice. My pride thanks me; my knees do not. It hurts enough to distract me, just for a minute, but a minute is all that it takes to find myself suddenly pinned to the wall by one big gloved hand.
Well. I wanted to get his attention. Looks like I succeeded. Go, me.
I don't remember Wing being this tall, or this wide. It's a bit like being pinned between two walls, and yeah, I'm a little freaked out.
I trust Wing. I do, damn it. I just could've done without the bruises. Note to self: next time, make Duke do this part.
With the hand that's not wrapped in my shirt, Wing reaches up and taps the side of the Mask. There's a little crackle of electricity, and then... well, it's a weird feeling. Like I said, nobody likes being looked through, dissected with a pair of eyes and an ancient artifact.
C'mon, Drake Ducaine, help me out here. There's no patron saint for little brothers of great and mighty heroes, and we need all the help we can get.
Please, Wing. Please.
Finally, after what feels like a short eternity, Wing lowers me enough that my feet are touching the ground. He doesn't let go of my shirt. With his free hand, he reaches up to tug the Mask away, and-
And suddenly, a very familiar, very concerned voice breaks in. "Canard? What's up?"
That was Wing's voice. And whoa, whoa. Canard?
Both me and the Wall-Formerly-Known-As-Wing turn to face my brother, who's standing Mask-less at the end of the walkway. No Mask isn't the only change. He looks both better and worse, less stress but more scars, less tired but more grim.
I look back and forth between them, fast enough that it's probably funny to somebody who's not me. Canard, and it is Canard, pulls the Mask the rest of the way off. There's a nasty scar bisecting his face, three jagged stripes from one side of his jaw to his eyebrow. Saurian claws. He looks at me with that same bemused, pissed off expression that he's always worn around me, and I wait, half-hopeful and all pathetic, for the wry back-handed comment, probably something about stupid risks and wasting their time. I wait to be let in on the cosmic joke.
Were they attacked in the last couple days? Did Canard come home? Was that why they played the game, a brief break to declare Canard king of the hill again before they go looking for Duke and me?
Canard looks from me to Wing and, letting go of my shirt, says shortly, "A fan."
A what? He doesn't recognize...?
I look from Canard to Wing. Maybe, maybe there's some way he'll... he has to know me. It's Wing, for stars' sake. He always...
Wing tilts his head. "Not a Sa-"
"Civilian," Canard grits out.
Wing looks briefly guilty, then glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. "Security's coming. Go on, I'll wait for them."
With a curt nod, Canard turns on his heel and is shortly gone. It sounds surreal, to say that of the guy we all assumed was dead. It probably sounds ungrateful to say that new-Canard is even more of a jerk than the one we left in Limbo, but-
A hand settles on my shoulder, and I glance up into eyes everybody joked were taken right from my father, eyes that don't seem to recognize me at all. Wing smiles, a rueful but sincerely nice smile, the one he saves for strangers. "Next time, wait until after the game." Dusting off my shoulder, he adds, "You okay?"
No. No, I'm really not. I swallow against the boulder in my throat and try to force out words, anything. You've changed. You have to know me. You have to help. You can't just walk away. I can't do this on my own.
Nothing happens.
Wing blinks, and for a split moment I can almost feel the nightmare falling away. "I'm sorry. Do I know-"
Security tumbles into the tiny hallway, almost falling over themselves to separate the huge hockey player from the small mute guy. It'd be funny, otherwise. Wing looks away, any déjà vu forgotten, and offers security the same smile I got. "Hey. We had a visitor."
"So a few thousand fans saw," the rent-a-cop says wryly, then grabs my arm. "C'mon, you. It's down to the station-"
"That's a little excessive, don't you think?" Shaking his head again, Wing orders, "Drop him outside the arena. Eject him from the game. It's not like he was trying for aggravated assault."
"Sir," the security guard starts, with a sigh in his voice.
"Come on," Wing mutters, then drops his voice and says in what was probably meant to be a conspirator tone, "He's just a kid, okay?"
My heart does a hard, painful jump in my chest. Not one hint of recognition. Not one glance. Not one hesitation. It's like we'd never met before, and the last 18 years of my life were all in my head.
I barely feel security grab and drag me outside. I barely hear the jeering crowd or the doors slamming in my face. I barely notice when my knees give outside and I end up on the sidewalk, staring at the light in the windows.
I didn't show up on the Mask.
Wing didn't know me.
It's like there isn't, like there never was, a Nosedive Flashblade.
It's like maybe Duke was right, after all. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe it's all a story, with an extra chapter tacked on for one Duke L'Orange, pieced together from the sports section and things I heard on the street or in juvi or Stars knows where, gaps filled in by my imagination.
The door opens, closes, and Duke meanders out. He seems to pause when he sees me. With a sigh, he makes his way over and kneels, without regard to his clothes. We sit in silence for a minute, and I close my eyes. With my eyes closed, it doesn't seem so real. Maybe I'll wake up.
After a long moment, Duke's voice breaks the silence with a question. "That was your plan?"
I nod. A few pieces of my hair slide into my face. I leave them; I'm a little busy remembering how to breathe.
"Pretty stupid plan."
I nod again. Not like I can argue.
Something presses into my hand, and when I open my eyes I find it's a pen wrapped in napkins. Duke shrugs. "Figured you might need these."
With maybe a bit more bitterness than he deserves to have to deal with, I take the pen and write, /You win./
"I figured that, too. I'm sorry."
I shrug. It's not his fault, none of this. All he's been is a very tolerant stranger. Emphasis on the stranger, apparently. Under the first sentence, I write, /I don't know what to think./
"Can't blame you for being confused." Another moment of silence, then, "You really believed that story, didn't you? That you were an alien?"
/I did,/ I write, and start to add that I still do before it occurs to me that it'd be lying to say so. I don't know what to believe, either. The only thing I know is that I've been thoroughly mind-fucked this time, by the Saurians or by myself. I'm starting to think that I'd be the nastier enemy. I add, instead, /I think I may be crazy./
Duke tilts his head to read that, then shrugs. "Eh. Not a bad thing to be. Crazy is subjective. Maybe the craziest, stupidest thing any of us do is get up in the mornings."
What fortune cookie wisdom. That shouldn't be nearly as comforting as it is. Comfort and shock make me stupid, stupid enough to write, /To juvi?/
Juvi might be a relief right now. Then again, so might any place where I'd be too distracted to wonder about my state of crazy anymore. No more thieves or aliens or evil overlords to worry about. No time to wonder how, if this has all been in my head, I'm supposed to start life over again alone.
For a moment, Duke is silent, the kind of silence that says volumes. Then he gets up, brushing off his knees, and turns back to me. Holding out his hand, he says simply, "C'mon, kid."
I look at his hand, for the first time really concentrating on it without the image of the Duke I knew, or thought I knew, as a backdrop. Nice hands. Solid, thief hands.
Maybe he was right. Maybe there's no Wing, not the one I thought I knew. Maybe there's no overlord, no war, no past, no great heroes to live up to. Just me, an eighteen year old kid who owes nothing to nobody.
If no one remembers me, there's nobody to miss me, either.
Blank slate. Reboot.
I reach out, take Duke's hand, and let him pull me up off my knees. He pats my shoulder once, twice, then starts walking like he knows that I'll follow. We've gone two blocks before it occurs to me that juvi's in the other direction.
I look at Duke and he smiles, a little crookedly. Looking at the sky, he says with an annoying sort of ease, "So, kid, I meant to ask you. What're your feelings on petty theft?"
Ah, nothing like spending a cheery afternoon in a storage closet with an amnesiac who thinks I'm the one who's crazy. And he does; I can see it in his face, the set of his mouth and the way it tightens while he reads. It took me a long time to figure out human facial expressions, those little tics that make up that whole non-verbal thing, and right now I kind of regret it. Nothing like seeing a good friend's face reflect the look of all those teachers and social workers I had as a kid: pity and disbelief. He's going to put that thing down, pat me on the head and go get the happy pills.
Whatever. I'll just wait until we're outside, whack him upside the head and drag him home. End justifies the means, and all that. So I eat my lukewarm ravioli, even though I'm not hungry, so Wing can tease me when this is all over. 'Geez, Dive, you really can eat anything.'
Even if it doesn't feel like it can get past the knot in my chest.
The pages rustle as Duke sets them down. I glance up to find him staring at me, way more intensely than anybody with one eye should be able to. I shrug a little, shifting under the weight of it, because, hello awkward moment? If I could make a pissy comment, I would, but instead I get to squirm in silence. Yay, me.
Finally, Duke sits back. I can't really read the look on his face, but it's not pity anymore. Steepling his fingers in his lap, he says too softly, "Nosedive, huh?"
Ew. I reach out and cover the first half of my name.
Duke glances down and corrects himself, in that same gentle voice, "Dive. You want me to believe that you really came from another dimension? That we're all in danger from an ancient race of evil lizards who escaped from limbo, only 3 of which managed to get here, chased by a crack commando team that included, beg your pardon, a 17 year old kid?"
I know it sounds insane. But hey, that's reality for you. Stranger than fiction. I didn't even try to explain that he happened to be one of the crack commandos he's currently making fun of. Might as well leave that one to Wing. I'm having a tough enough time nailing down the basics while he treats me like the village idiot.
18 now, damn it, and I'm a pretty good commando if I do say so myself. Which I have to, most of the time.
"Never mind the prison camp part. If they hurt you as bad as you said, you shouldn't be walking. You shouldn't even be standing. You should be dead. No kid, even an alien, could survive-"
Sadly, I'm with Duke. I probably shouldn't have survived, and that's not a value judgement; that's anatomy. There's only so much a body ought to be able to stand. I should've died three or four times down in those mines, but I didn't, and that's the end of it. And at the end of it, all I'll got to show for it are a few scars that I can't even let Wing see. Scars that I've never shown anybody, safely tucked away under clothes. I've been careful.
But that's what it's going to take.
I roll my sleeves up, past the elbows. The shirt's loose anyway. The scars start at mid-forearm, spiderweb thin lines that wind up and end in patches. I don't know where they came from, but they're ugly and they make an impression.
Duke looks at it, and his eye flinches a little, but he keeps going. "Kid, I figured that you'd been hurt. A lot of people down here have been hurt, but that doesn't mean-"
I keep rolling, the other sleeve this time. More of the spiderwebs, the edges of a forcewhip scar. Claw-marks from a mess-hall brawl that killed about eight, the first night of many that I almost managed to run. The back scars are a consequence of that 'almost' part. Saurians don't seem to admire a little initiative in their prisoners.
That, at least, is enough to make Duke falter. He even squints at the scars for a moment, trying to piece together what happened, then shakes his head and keeps resolutely going. "It doesn't mean that you have to make up this fantasy story to protect-"
I'll give him points for a pure stubborn streak. With a sigh, I reach to tug up my shirt, and he stops me by grabbing my wrist. I make the mistake of glancing up, and the look on his face is enough to make me stop... well, everything, basically. Duke draws in a breath, but doesn't seem to know quite what to say. When he does speak, it's not what I expect to hear. "Who're you trying to protect? Yourself? This guy who came up in your story, this Wildwing? Did he give you those sc-"
I don't even realize I've wrenched my wrist away until the pain hits. I ignore it, in favor of cocking a fist and glaring holes through Duke. Friend or not, stupid risk or not, he says one more word about Wing and I'm going to punch him out down here and improvise a way to the upside.
"Whoa, whoa." Holding up his hands, Duke sits back, out of range. "Okay. All right. It wasn't Wildwing. No offense intended."
I lower my fist. Slowly. Duke, I'm a little too satisfied to note, waits until it's all the way down before starting again. "I'm just saying that you have to realize it's a little hard to believe. That's all. If I had a nickel for every kid with scars in juvi who tried to tell everybody that they were really on a secret government mission, or Michael Jordan's kid, or an alien, or whatever. well, I sure as hell wouldn't be down here."
I gesture for the notebook, and he passes it over without comment. /I'm not lying,/ I write, and then for emphasis underline it twice before handing it back.
Duke reads it upside down, and sighs. "I'm not saying that you're lying. Sometimes you've got to find a better story than the one life handed you, or you'll go crazy."
/I'm not crazy, either./
"Uh-huh. You jumped off a building earlier, in case you don't remember."
/I was pushed. You jumped./
"Ah. Damn. Knew it was something like that." Sitting back on his hands with a little wince as his ribs protest, Duke shakes his head. "If you didn't want to tell me, you could've thrown the notebook at me."
/I'm trying to tell you, and you're not listening./
Duke looks at that, then takes the notebook away and tears that page off. Crumpling it in one hand, he tosses the new paper ball behind him. It skitters off into one corner. "You're right, I'm not." With that done, he sets the pad down in front of me again. "Blank slate. I'll tell you right now, kid, you can keep your secrets to yourself, but I'm not fond of being lied to or playing make-believe. If you're staying down here-"
Maybe it's a touch immature, but he's using the 'shadow puppet' voice again. Just when he was starting to be cool, too. In big letters, I write, /Who said I wanted to stay here?/
Duke blinks at that, like he didn't quite mean to say it in the first place, like I threw him a curveball on top of it. "Good point. Suppose we should've asked you."
/That the royal 'we'?/ I start to write, then shake my head and scratch it out. Snark isn't getting me anywhere. Over the blacked out place, I write instead, /Make you a deal./
Tilting his head, the way he does when I've got his interest, he asks, "Yeah?"
/We go to the Anaheim Arena. They've got a game scheduled tonight. If Wildwing doesn't recognize me/
I pause, long enough that Duke prods, "Then what?"
Even the words look strange. 'If Wildwing doesn't recognize me'. It's a gamble, but hey, the Mask's never let anybody down before. If anything could pick up Saurian magic, the Mask would be it. It picks up on Chameleon, after all. And whatever weird mutant clones that're in our place will probably immediately freak out or melt down or something, because as evil plans go, Saurians? Not exactly the grandmasters of subtlety.
Of course, by my own reasoning Wing should've noticed by now, and therefore cancelled the game. But then, there I go trying to be logical about my life again. This is probably a grand scheme by Wing to lure out both me and Draggy, and he's being all subtle trying to send messages by telepathy or the spaces in the newsprint or whatever, thus proving yet again why he's the hero and I'm the frycook.
Anyway. It'll work out. That's me, the eternal optimist, and never mind that open manhole right ahead. I'm sure it'll patch itself up before I get there.
/Then,/ I start writing again, /it's up to you. You can drop me in front of juvi or welfare services or whatever./
Duke muses over that for a minute before pointing out, "I could do that anyway."
/And I could tell the cops where you live./
"Yeah, don't remind me." Dropping the two cans of food into the wastebasket with a sour look on his face, Duke mutters, "I really ought to kill you."
You know, as many times as I've had variations on that snarled at me, I'm getting a little jaded. Shame, really. But, as Wing raised me to be polite, I try to look intimidated.
With a heartily disgusted sigh, Duke takes his almighty forks, wipes them on a rag and deposits them back into the hidey-hole. "What time is the game?"
I hold up 7 fingers. Might as well spare the paper. Save the trees, man.
Duke nods. "Great. I'm going to sleep."
Um, hey? I grab the paper and scribble, /Practice at 4, better chance of getting noticed./
"I'm. Going. To. Sleep. Your deal said nothing about sneaking into practice. If he can recognize you at 4, he can recognize you at 7." Duke seats himself on the sleeping bag, considers for a moment, then grudgingly zips it open so there's room beside him. Gee, thanks, pal. "Besides, that gives the cops more time to get distracted and forget about this morning. And before you can start scribbling, I'm not opening my eye for anything short of World War 3 after right. now."
And true to his word, the jerk closes his eye. Out of spite, I write /Real mature, Duke./ on a piece of paper, which I stick to the wall. I can wait.
But hey, while I'm waiting, the sleeping bag is looking really comfortable right about now.
****
Duke is, at least, good as his word. That much hasn't changed. One rude awakening via an elbow to the ribs, an unpleasant walk through a slightly better lit sewer, and we're standing in an alley by the Pond. I can see the lights from here.
Ah, home sweet home, I never thought I'd be quite so glad to see you.
"Oh, fabulous. It's crowded." Another thing that hasn't changed: Duke's still an utter grouch until he gets coffee. "And they have security at every door. How wonderful."
Captain, I'm sensing... sarcasm. I give him a 'you agreed to this' look, which may or may not translate since my notebook got 'accidentally' left behind. Then, just in case it didn't translate, I grab his arm and drag. Translate that, Cyclops.
Gate security, as always, gives new meaning to the word 'slacker'. I mean, considering how many evil overlords/traitorous aliens/murderous electro- demons and everything that they've let into the building, they'd kind of have to be. All it takes is a little bob and weave, let one think that the other got my ticket and vice versa. My morals are bendy. I'll have to be sure to slip them a few extra bucks the next time I'm bribing myself out of being grounded to the Pond, that's all.
When I turn around, Duke is giving me the slightly startled 'but he looks so young' stare. Yeah, I've gotten it enough times for it to get its own qualification. I smile right back, sunny and clueless and sparkly, then go back to dragging him. There has to be a seat by the aisle into the lockers.
We're late, and so they're already playing by the time I find a seat. Dragging along an one-eyed, slightly psychotic looking guy behind me sure does clear those seats. And they say Anaheim doesn't count as the South. Heh.
Duke settles in on the next chair, squishing me into the wall a touch to avoid getting touched by the people on the other side, and generally getting more cuddly than he did when we shared a sleeping bag. But hey, I was careful to leave him room. Duke the first didn't get cuddly, so Feral!Duke the second sure as heck isn't going to appreciate having the crazy guy climbing on him in his sleep.
But this? This is kind of... nice. The arena smells familiar, like ice and too many people and grunge, bright lights and spilled soda. This whole Earth thing has probably messed me up irrevocably, even before we start talking about the evil overlord thing, and that's not going into the publicity stunts. Thanks, Phil. I'll be sending you my therapy bill.
It doesn't escape me that this, a circle of ice in a concrete building, is probably the closest thing I'll ever get to going home again. Even if we make it back, which is doubtful, the damage's been done. The dust might settle and the scars might be covered up, but it'll never be home again.
But there I go, getting philosophical. First the rationality, now this. Apparently if there's no Wing or Grin around, the voices in my head make up for them. Wonder if I'll start getting the urge to ransack a Radio Shack next.
Speaking of our happy family, we've been here ten minutes and haven't seen one glimpse of them. The guy in front of me is bobbing and weaving in his seat, which might not be annoying if he wasn't about half an inch taller than I am. I have to settle for glances over his shoulders, which coincidentally only happen whenever the away team is blocking my view. I think I catch a glance of blond hair on a Ducks uniform, but they're gone before I can make sure it's Tanya.
Flopping back into my seat, I blow out a breath hard enough to move my hair. Change of plans it is, if you want to call sitting in the seat and waiting to catch Wing's eye a plan. Half-time isn't that much longer to wait, anyway. I turn in my seat to play the next round of charades with Duke, and.
And Duke is fixating on the ice. He's even shaken off the Rico Suave wannabe act for the moment, sitting straight in his seat to see over the top of the boards. I tap his arm and he jerks, pulled out of his concentration. Rather than turning and snapping, he looks a little sheepish at getting so involved. Rubbing the back of his neck, he settles back into a slouch and mutters, "Never seen hockey played before."
This would be the point where I grab my chest and gasp, "Heathen!", if I could gasp anything. Instead, I get to gape at him in mute culture shock. Considering that I was on skates before I could even walk, I think I'm entitled.
"Hey, now, don't give me that look. Couldn't really afford to get tickets, now could I?" Duke fakes an unconcerned look, though I notice his eye doesn't stray from the ice for more than ten seconds at a time. Maybe some sort of memory's sneaking through? He looks nostalgic for a minute there, which softens the lines and edges of his face. Makes him look younger, a little less sharp. "Besides, in general New York's a bit more obsessive about its baseball teams than its hockey."
Ah. Nostalgia over a fake memory. And here I was like an idiot, thinking he was almost cute...
Cute like kittens, and puppies, and frolicking things. Not at all cute like Estella Warren or Lucretia Decoy or any other very female and unlikely-to- induce-Wing's-heart-failure example, thank you very much. We now return you to your regularly scheduled heterosexuality.
Anyway. While I'm repressing and denying that... Since Wing isn't here, it's my job to be crafty and subtle and such. Maybe if I make Duke look at the past he thinks is real, he'll see a gap or something. Saurians aren't exactly known for being thorough with their mind games, either, and hopefully this is no exception. Maybe whatever magic dimension swapping amnesiac body switching thing that Wraith or Draggy pulled has a nice convenient loophole. They're usually good about that. And if not, well, witness me winging it. That works out pretty well.
I tap his leg again, tilt my head and try to look as innocently prompting as I can.
Duke looks at me for a moment, long enough to be uncomfortable, long enough that I almost regret asking. Nothing like being stared through. Just before I crack under the pressure, he glances away, looking at the ice without seeing it. Finally, he says in a voice so low it's nearly lost under the murmur of the crowd in its lull, "Left the city when I was about 13. Took me about a year, but I ended up in Anaheim in the back of a police cruiser."
His voice dies off, and he doesn't keep going from there. If the first bit of nostalgia made him look softer, this one leaves him looking sharp and cold as a knife. I don't recognize this Duke. I don't think I'd want to, anyway.
I shouldn't have asked. Now he's pissy again, and I'm left wondering if this is the same history Duke the First had, transferred from Puckworld to Earth. I can picture that too easily, some gawky angry version of Duke being thrown in the back of a police car. My childhood wasn't exactly Hallmark, but I was warm and safe most of the time, and I had Wing. Duke didn't even get that much.
It's funny, but I never really thought of his reasons. I kind of figured Duke was born the Duke L'Orange, jewel thief, leader of the Brotherhood, glamorous and stylish Robin Hood guy ready with a bad joke and a wink. I never factored in that he had to have been a kid, once upon a time. An angry teenager on the run, on the street.
Small wonder he lost an eye. Amazing he lived long enough to see the Saurian takeover.
Even more amazing, how much he manages to tuck behind a quip and a reputation.
An elbow catches me in the ribs, and hello, reality. Duke is looking at me, and there's techno crackling on the speakers. Half-time, already. I didn't anticipate being caught off guard. I can already see someone whipping past me, into the locker room, and the glint of bright light off a very familiar mask. Rather, The Mask.
I don't have time to be polite about this.
On my side, the side not being taken up by Duke, is a guard rail of three bars. I guess security didn't figure on our stalkers being stupid and crazy enough to divebomb us from on high. I guess I'll just have to be the stupid crazy stalker who proves them wrong.
Two guardrails vaulted in less than 24 hours. Guess Mom and Dad knew what they were doing when they named me Nosedive, after all.
I land, luckily enough, on the concrete instead of the ice. My pride thanks me; my knees do not. It hurts enough to distract me, just for a minute, but a minute is all that it takes to find myself suddenly pinned to the wall by one big gloved hand.
Well. I wanted to get his attention. Looks like I succeeded. Go, me.
I don't remember Wing being this tall, or this wide. It's a bit like being pinned between two walls, and yeah, I'm a little freaked out.
I trust Wing. I do, damn it. I just could've done without the bruises. Note to self: next time, make Duke do this part.
With the hand that's not wrapped in my shirt, Wing reaches up and taps the side of the Mask. There's a little crackle of electricity, and then... well, it's a weird feeling. Like I said, nobody likes being looked through, dissected with a pair of eyes and an ancient artifact.
C'mon, Drake Ducaine, help me out here. There's no patron saint for little brothers of great and mighty heroes, and we need all the help we can get.
Please, Wing. Please.
Finally, after what feels like a short eternity, Wing lowers me enough that my feet are touching the ground. He doesn't let go of my shirt. With his free hand, he reaches up to tug the Mask away, and-
And suddenly, a very familiar, very concerned voice breaks in. "Canard? What's up?"
That was Wing's voice. And whoa, whoa. Canard?
Both me and the Wall-Formerly-Known-As-Wing turn to face my brother, who's standing Mask-less at the end of the walkway. No Mask isn't the only change. He looks both better and worse, less stress but more scars, less tired but more grim.
I look back and forth between them, fast enough that it's probably funny to somebody who's not me. Canard, and it is Canard, pulls the Mask the rest of the way off. There's a nasty scar bisecting his face, three jagged stripes from one side of his jaw to his eyebrow. Saurian claws. He looks at me with that same bemused, pissed off expression that he's always worn around me, and I wait, half-hopeful and all pathetic, for the wry back-handed comment, probably something about stupid risks and wasting their time. I wait to be let in on the cosmic joke.
Were they attacked in the last couple days? Did Canard come home? Was that why they played the game, a brief break to declare Canard king of the hill again before they go looking for Duke and me?
Canard looks from me to Wing and, letting go of my shirt, says shortly, "A fan."
A what? He doesn't recognize...?
I look from Canard to Wing. Maybe, maybe there's some way he'll... he has to know me. It's Wing, for stars' sake. He always...
Wing tilts his head. "Not a Sa-"
"Civilian," Canard grits out.
Wing looks briefly guilty, then glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. "Security's coming. Go on, I'll wait for them."
With a curt nod, Canard turns on his heel and is shortly gone. It sounds surreal, to say that of the guy we all assumed was dead. It probably sounds ungrateful to say that new-Canard is even more of a jerk than the one we left in Limbo, but-
A hand settles on my shoulder, and I glance up into eyes everybody joked were taken right from my father, eyes that don't seem to recognize me at all. Wing smiles, a rueful but sincerely nice smile, the one he saves for strangers. "Next time, wait until after the game." Dusting off my shoulder, he adds, "You okay?"
No. No, I'm really not. I swallow against the boulder in my throat and try to force out words, anything. You've changed. You have to know me. You have to help. You can't just walk away. I can't do this on my own.
Nothing happens.
Wing blinks, and for a split moment I can almost feel the nightmare falling away. "I'm sorry. Do I know-"
Security tumbles into the tiny hallway, almost falling over themselves to separate the huge hockey player from the small mute guy. It'd be funny, otherwise. Wing looks away, any déjà vu forgotten, and offers security the same smile I got. "Hey. We had a visitor."
"So a few thousand fans saw," the rent-a-cop says wryly, then grabs my arm. "C'mon, you. It's down to the station-"
"That's a little excessive, don't you think?" Shaking his head again, Wing orders, "Drop him outside the arena. Eject him from the game. It's not like he was trying for aggravated assault."
"Sir," the security guard starts, with a sigh in his voice.
"Come on," Wing mutters, then drops his voice and says in what was probably meant to be a conspirator tone, "He's just a kid, okay?"
My heart does a hard, painful jump in my chest. Not one hint of recognition. Not one glance. Not one hesitation. It's like we'd never met before, and the last 18 years of my life were all in my head.
I barely feel security grab and drag me outside. I barely hear the jeering crowd or the doors slamming in my face. I barely notice when my knees give outside and I end up on the sidewalk, staring at the light in the windows.
I didn't show up on the Mask.
Wing didn't know me.
It's like there isn't, like there never was, a Nosedive Flashblade.
It's like maybe Duke was right, after all. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe it's all a story, with an extra chapter tacked on for one Duke L'Orange, pieced together from the sports section and things I heard on the street or in juvi or Stars knows where, gaps filled in by my imagination.
The door opens, closes, and Duke meanders out. He seems to pause when he sees me. With a sigh, he makes his way over and kneels, without regard to his clothes. We sit in silence for a minute, and I close my eyes. With my eyes closed, it doesn't seem so real. Maybe I'll wake up.
After a long moment, Duke's voice breaks the silence with a question. "That was your plan?"
I nod. A few pieces of my hair slide into my face. I leave them; I'm a little busy remembering how to breathe.
"Pretty stupid plan."
I nod again. Not like I can argue.
Something presses into my hand, and when I open my eyes I find it's a pen wrapped in napkins. Duke shrugs. "Figured you might need these."
With maybe a bit more bitterness than he deserves to have to deal with, I take the pen and write, /You win./
"I figured that, too. I'm sorry."
I shrug. It's not his fault, none of this. All he's been is a very tolerant stranger. Emphasis on the stranger, apparently. Under the first sentence, I write, /I don't know what to think./
"Can't blame you for being confused." Another moment of silence, then, "You really believed that story, didn't you? That you were an alien?"
/I did,/ I write, and start to add that I still do before it occurs to me that it'd be lying to say so. I don't know what to believe, either. The only thing I know is that I've been thoroughly mind-fucked this time, by the Saurians or by myself. I'm starting to think that I'd be the nastier enemy. I add, instead, /I think I may be crazy./
Duke tilts his head to read that, then shrugs. "Eh. Not a bad thing to be. Crazy is subjective. Maybe the craziest, stupidest thing any of us do is get up in the mornings."
What fortune cookie wisdom. That shouldn't be nearly as comforting as it is. Comfort and shock make me stupid, stupid enough to write, /To juvi?/
Juvi might be a relief right now. Then again, so might any place where I'd be too distracted to wonder about my state of crazy anymore. No more thieves or aliens or evil overlords to worry about. No time to wonder how, if this has all been in my head, I'm supposed to start life over again alone.
For a moment, Duke is silent, the kind of silence that says volumes. Then he gets up, brushing off his knees, and turns back to me. Holding out his hand, he says simply, "C'mon, kid."
I look at his hand, for the first time really concentrating on it without the image of the Duke I knew, or thought I knew, as a backdrop. Nice hands. Solid, thief hands.
Maybe he was right. Maybe there's no Wing, not the one I thought I knew. Maybe there's no overlord, no war, no past, no great heroes to live up to. Just me, an eighteen year old kid who owes nothing to nobody.
If no one remembers me, there's nobody to miss me, either.
Blank slate. Reboot.
I reach out, take Duke's hand, and let him pull me up off my knees. He pats my shoulder once, twice, then starts walking like he knows that I'll follow. We've gone two blocks before it occurs to me that juvi's in the other direction.
I look at Duke and he smiles, a little crookedly. Looking at the sky, he says with an annoying sort of ease, "So, kid, I meant to ask you. What're your feelings on petty theft?"