Part 2/3
"I am become Death; the destroyer of worlds." -- John Oppenheimer.
The black numbers blurred a little. He rubbed his eyes, shook out the cobwebs, picked up the pen again. All night and morning had been spent going over possible leads, possible connections. Then, he'd had to get up at seven to open, spending most of the day in the Saturday rush. The only shift he'd actually been scheduled for was closing, and Darcy couldn't do it by herself. While the money problem had disappeared with Tiffany, trust was fragile. He rubbed his eyes again, refusing to let them slow him down.
His third time that night counting out the registers.
A loud clatter sounded from the kitchen, the sort of fridge-falling, oven-exploding noise a person could live their whole life without hearing. He had to muster up strength to care.
"Are you alright?" he called, separating the clipped twenties from the scattered. No one answered his call.
Shiver up his spine.
"Darcy?"
Nothing again.
Becoming more alert by the second, Warren stood from the table and cautiously moved toward the kitchen. Part of him wanted to just leave, pretend nothing had happened. After all, if something disastrous had befallen, he'd have to deal with it. Part of him felt a little guilty about being mean to Darcy that evening, hoping she wasn't seriously hurt. Then he'd feel guilty for an even longer time – guilt was not his forte.
Warren pushed open the swing door, holding it with his foot.
She was sprawled on the floor, mousy brown hair creating a halo, limbs akimbo in the broken way. Her eyes were partially open, showing only white. She'd been reaching for something high up, probably had used the bottom rail on the cabinets to prop her up the two more inches she needed. He'd always told her not to use them. The shelves that were supposed to be bolted to the wall had tipped over, sending large metal bowls, knives, and several sacks of prep food crashing down on her.
He felt a little sick.
"Darcy?" Then, he noticed it. Smeared across her forehead, some along her shirt, bright red blood. Strange, how it wasn't movie blood, how it looked almost neon in the florescent light.
His mother, collapsing, a thread of blood trickling down her mouth.
Shaking the image out of his head, Warren got to work clearing things away from Darcy. It seemed that nothing had fallen directly on her. The knives were to her far left, the bowls above her head, the sacks on her right. But the shelves weighed hefty, and they hadn't stayed attached to the wall. He reached down, getting a good grip on the shelves. He wasn't Stronghold, but there'd been strength somewhere in his line, and he'd gotten a smattering of it. If this had happened to him, the little bit of invulnerability he'd gotten as well would've prevented injury.
Warren strained, trying to bring up the shelves. They were heavy; too heavy. Why had they picked now to fall? Darcy was out cold, and he didn't know if she was breathing. Panic, a small stream of never-ending whispering voices, swelled from the base of his skull.
He took a step back. Looked at it. Assess the problem. The shelves were constructed in such a way that if you were to cut at two points, it would break off into thirds. More manageable thirds.
Risky, just popping out with his powers like that, but it was the easiest solution in the shortest amount of time. Besides, when was the last time he'd flared up? Entirely too long. Stepping back, Warren set off his hands, the warm rush of rightness settling into his bones at the flames leaping off his palms. There was too much goodness in turning on his powers, too much heady relief, like he'd grown so used to a headache, he had forgotten it was there. He crouched, concentrating on making the flame burn hotter, smaller, contained.
The first cut, the second, quick succession without too much hassle. It hadn't been that hard, and Warren felt smug threatening to come out. Instead of fighting it, he pushed the shelves off of Darcy (vowing to come back later and weld them to the wall). This time, he knelt to check if she was breathing, hand to her collarbone.
A rise of the chest, then a cough, sputtering. She jolted up, nearly knocking heads if he hadn't pulled back. A hand came up to her forehead, then she swayed, but he steadied her with one arm. He guessed she'd lost her breath when the shelves fell on her. Once Darcy was lacking in the wobble department, Warren let go, sitting back on his haunches.
She smiled up at him, hand on her forehead smearing the blood there. Slowly, Darcy moved to her feet, Warren holding an arm to stabilize as she shook so much. Then, running trembling hands through her hair in attempts to either calm it down, or nervous gestures, she turned to look directly at him. She hadn't done that since the night they played 'the game.'
"So, pyrokinetic, huh?"
For one moment, he imagined so clearly choking on water – spit-take, that he had to bring his hand nearly to his chin before it faded. There was not enough time to deny it, to take it back, to make her think that she'd been seeing things. But he opened his mouth anyway, prepared to say something to that effect.
"I mean, that's what Johnny Storm is in Fantastic Four, right? The whole moving fire thing." Darcy knuckled her eyes a little. "I saw you… burning through the metal. That was…"
He didn't, couldn't really, say anything.
"Are the shelves pretty much un-repairable?"
"Yeah."
"Well, they weren't good shelves anyway." She put a foot out, attempting to walk. Instead, it turned into a sort of wobble, followed by hesitantly flailing arms.
"Here," Warren said, putting an arm around her shoulders. Darcy looked at him again, eyes saying what mouth never could.
"Don't go getting any ideas now, Tolstoy. This is not going to lick me. I'm gonna live through this."
"Alright Scarlett. Just remember, I don't want you to faint."
She stopped, the side of her mouth pulling up. "You know it?"
"Watched it more times in Mandarin than any growing boy should have."
"Probably enjoyed it more than any growing boy should have too."
He laughed, a quick burst of noise that surprised him. Darcy was smiling, lips pulled back over her teeth, blood still curving a path down the side of her face as they limped into the dining area.
This felt as though they were… friends.
"I can't keep doing this. We have to tell someone."
"Don't worry. The less they know, the better it is."
"But I can't hide this from them. It's too big. It's too much."
"Do you trust me or not?"
"I do! I just feel like, I dunno, I'm betraying them."
"You could see it that way, I guess."
"Hey – I'm sorry. I just… I feel weird. But this is the only way it will work. I don't know if they'd allow it any other way."
"We have to do what's in our best interest."
"We have to do what must be done."
"Ooh, you sound so protective."
"I'm just… adamant."
"You won't tell them, then?"
"Of course not. I can't. Not like this. They shouldn't see this. They'll understand, I hope."
"They're your friends."
Ethan sighed. "It doesn't take much to turn friends into enemies."
She'd taken steps to ensure that she wouldn't get hurt. She carried her cell phone, fully charged, loudest setting, everywhere. There was a can of pepper spray in her right front pocket, and she kept the feeling of a shift at the forefront of her mind constantly, always imagining. It was exhausting.
Taking care to look all around her, especially in the shadows, Magenta crossed the street. Zach had asked if she wanted him to walk her home, or to have his mom just fly her, but she declined. She wasn't some invalid. She could very well walk home by herself. Besides, they hadn't figured out the connecting factor. And it was not like she'd be chosen. What was so special about her? Well, other than what Zach said.
Zach again. He seemed to be popping up in her brain more often than she wanted. She'd been fine without a boyfriend. She had been fine being snarky little Maj who cared for no one but herself, who told jokes and got laughs, but rarely did anything else. Then came Zach, bumbling his way into her life. Geez, he was annoying. Cute, but annoying. She liked him a lot more than she should. Hadn't her parents' marriage taught her anything?
Getting involved was dangerous. Getting involved got you hurt. She'd been hurt enough.
Shaking the thoughts out of her head, because, really, what help would they be right now, Magenta scanned the area again, clenching the pepper spray in her hand. She turned the corner, but it didn't seem right. That house three doors down should've had a fence in the front, shouldn't it?
She went closer, body tensing. Actually, that house was familiar. The area was very familiar. It was the path she usually took to Will's house. How the heck…?
In hindsight, she should've seen the blow coming. But, you know what they say about hindsight and perfect vision.
"You're late."
Warren raised an eyebrow to this, Stronghold just a bit too familiar and angry for his liking.
"There's a designated time now?" he said, not so much expecting an answer as putting off the volatile hero so he could slip inside. Stronghold moved to block. Warren didn't step back, wouldn't, and couldn't help the bemused expression over his face.
"This is serious."
"Do you really want to start this, Stronghold?" He flexed his arms, feeling the tingle shoot through his veins. Barron Battle wasn't called that for fun, and he had almost a sixth sense, almost a way of feeling the fight before. Stronghold was incensed, maybe could take him, maybe not. But it'd be real stakes, not playing. Not playing.
Stronghold, though, was not a fighter. He was a justice upholder and a righteous defender. He wasn't a fighter. For one strange perfect moment, Warren knew that if their positions had been reversed, Stronghold wouldn't have made it. The thought calmed him.
"Not worth it." Warren made to side-step him again, and Stronghold held firm again. This time, he leaned down, using his height. "How important is it for us to get into this?"
Finally, finally, sense flickered back into those brown eyes. The healthy film of anger dissolved into embarrassment, remorse, sadness, and fatigue. Things were not well at Camp Heroes.
"Sorry. It's just – Magenta's gone missing. We think she's been taken too."
For all that he'd tried to stay out of this little group, dread and sorrow took over his limbs, his pores. Warren sat down a little too hard on the stairs. He'd tried to not get involved, he'd tried to pretend that they were all a nuisance, he'd tried so hard to get rid of them all, but… One of their own was missing. His own. And since none of the other kids had shown up, and Dana had been kidnapped weeks ago, things were not looking up.
"What are we going to do?"
Stronghold swung his arms around uselessly, shrugging his shoulders, glancing around like there'd be an answer written on his walls. "I don't know! We've been brainstorming, but nothing's come up. We can connect Magenta to Dana, but neither to Nathan. Nothing makes sense."
"Well, we're obviously not looking hard enough." So, they got up, and tried to look again. When after seven hours, they didn't find anything still, everyone left the Stronghold house, more dejected than they'd been in weeks.
Tired, Warren didn't even notice the shadow trailing him.
His first Saturday off in five months. He'd counted them, looking at the weekends that dwindled into nothingness. Five months ago, Winnie had still been an active part of his life. Five months ago, he would go out with Stronghold's group and stand off to the side, menacing. Five months ago, his biggest problem was passing Mad Science.
Funny how things change.
Warren circled Saturday on his calendar Friday night, admiring the black ring amidst a graveyard of xs. Only two rings marked this month, a paltry quantity compared to five months ago. Saturdays always brought that warm feeling of nostalgia: cereal, cartoons, and waking up at noon. It brought a half-smile to his face right there.
A knock on his door. Shrugging into the shirt he'd discarded for sleep, Warren pulled open the door to his room slightly, a sliver of light.
Mr. Chiang. His face wasn't a 'Good-night, enjoy the fourteen hours of sleep you'll be getting on your first Saturday off in five months.' Instead, it was the hesitant hopeful 'I know I promised something to you, and this isn't really breaking it, but please be willing to do this for me.' He hated that look.
For revenge, using the worst most slang Mandarin dialect he could think of, Warren said, "What's up?"
The grimace was little reward.
"You have tomorrow off."
Games were not appreciated. "What do you want me to do?"
Mr. Chiang hid a smile. He'd certainly raised the boy right. Even if he did hate delivering bad news (surely Meilan practiced rock, paper, scissors, while he was out), at least it was to a kid who took it well.
"We need to use the attic to store what's in the garage, but it's full of junk. Separate it into trash, charity, and keep. Okay?"
Biting back a groan, Warren couldn't contain a sigh. "Okay."
Inspiration struck. "Make that girl help you. Darcy. Give her a few hours' pay for it."
Warren nodded, Mr. Chiang left, and then Warren growled and set his calendar on fire. So much for Saturdays.
·······
"You know, what if I didn't want to do this today?"
"I'm doing it; you're doing it." Darcy huffed, folding her arms and stomping around the attic. They'd been at it since eight that morning, and it was nearly finished. The westernmost wall had several boxes stacked against it and that, along with a few chairs, was the last of an attic filled with mess. The front yard was a museum of monstrosities and oddities. They'd found old newspapers, several boxes of toys Warren denied were his, and an old loom.
Meilan had interrupted about noon, bringing them Moo Goo Gai Pan and mooncakes (she'd claimed that she was preparing for the festival in September), but they had little reprieve during the day. It'd been quiet, though not as tense as he would've thought.
"I was afraid," Darcy said, bending over and opening a box. He didn't say anything, but she elaborated anyway. "That's why I came here. I was afraid of my father."
"Hard," he remarked, finally, wiping the sweat off his forehead. She nodded, picking through what looked like leaflets from the sixties.
"For the best. I couldn't stay. My mom…" She trailed off, shook her head. "Anyway. When did you first learn about your powers?"
He pulled a box next to her, opened it, found a bunch of dusty yarn. "I was seven years old. Meilan set out clothes for me to wear to school and I didn't want to. So, I set them on fire." She laughed. They both picked up their respective boxes and headed outside. "What do you want to do with your life?"
"Talk about hard questions!" Darcy sat in one of the chair they'd brought down from the attic, rocking back and forth. "Hmm. I think I'd like to work in archaeology. I know they hardly dig up stuff anymore, but I can write a mean proposal, and I think I could get a grant to dig somewhere. I love history. Maybe I'll work in the British Museum or something."
In all her introspection, Darcy lost her footing going down the stairs and nearly dropped the box of kitchen utensils on herself. Warren caught them, leaning against her so that they were a little too close in the cramped staircase. From there, he could see that she had grey flecks in her eyes, so light they almost looked silver. She leaned closer, licking her lips.
"So Tolstoy, what do you look for in a girl?" Several things washed over him: anger, disgust, annoyance, and a little embarrassment. But Darcy just laughed and pushed him back. "I'm just kidding Tolstoy. You ever think of me like that and we'll have words."
He glanced back at her.
"Or, you know, you'll just kick my ass. Hey, that works too."
"Hmm. I like them tall, funny," Warren started, ticking things off his fingers. Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and blonde and not named after Jane Austen characters."
"Oh haha. You're so hilarious." She pulled another box to her, and began to read the papers she found inside. While it seemed as though she'd say more, Darcy's face turned serious as she kept reading. He paid little heed, going through his own box of track medals. Apparently Meilan had been quite the runner. Finally, he noticed she wasn't participating in the banter anymore.
"What?"
Oblivious. Absorbed in whatever she was reading. Warren came over, snatched it out of her hands. Blood turned cold.
My dearest Louisa,
I have only one regret and that is we are parted. Had you not sided with my enemies, I would never have left you. But as things are, I can't continue. Surely, you can understand that to establish myself as a real villain, I must sever any sympathies I may have towards the hero world. I must be taken seriously. A lover, especially amongst the Hero Coalition, would undermine all that I've done. Sorrow wreaks my heart at the thought of leaving you. Should you ever decide you wish to live your last days with me, I will always leave my door open. I doubt your convictions would ever let you, and that is why my love grows so strong. Need requires my ending at present, but should you wish, we could further our correspondence. I would enjoy it immensely.
Forever my love,
Barron
"He sounds a little overdramatic, but this whole box's fully of them! I wonder who they were, Louisa and Barron. Sounds like Shakespeare." She reached over to grab another letter. However, her gaze wandered instead to Warren. "What's wrong?"
"They're my parents."
"What?" Her mouth dropped; she yanked the envelope out of his hand and looked at the front. Louisa Peace. "Whoa. That's… unreal."
He didn't say anything, staring at the paper in his hands. Stillness, though, had left him, and the air around his arms began to shiver with heat. She sat back automatically, pulling the box closer to her so it didn't catch on fire, should that explode from his hands.
Darcy spoke, quietly, almost to herself. "What happened to them?"
And even though it wasn't his turn, Warren replied. "He killed her. My father killed my mother."
·······
Certain Darcy had left, Warren hauled the box containing his mother's letters up to his room. Then, he went to his closet, got to his knees, searching near the back, under dirty clothes and trash and junk, he found the other box. He'd been the next of kin for Barron Battle, and all his father's belongings had been sent to him. That was how he got the suit. All along he'd known there was something more in that box. But, he couldn't quite bring himself to dig through all the mess, all the images.
At least Darcy was good for one thing.
Warren opened both boxes, lifted up his father's clothes without even taking a second to breathe them in, and shifted aside a few more items to get to the letters bundled at the bottom. Those would be written by his mother. He'd been with the Chiangs eleven years. Mrs. Chiang was Meilan, Mr. Chiang was still Mr. Chiang, on occasion Ken, but he'd never called them mom or dad. He'd been five, and he'd still known those weren't his real parents.
Lifting out the bundles of letters, Warren set them next to each other.
"Hello Mom. Hello Dad." He said nothing else, as he began to arrange them chronologically. Maybe, he'd even read them. Someday.
Frankly, solving the mystery with the Scooby Gang was just not on the forefront of his mind. Warren was sorry Magenta was kidnapped, yes; he was pissed someone had messed with his forming family. However, real family was lurking in the back of his skull, connections he'd known to be severed were trying frenetically to reattach themselves. For all his supposed lack of caring, Warren wasn't stupid enough to lie to himself and pretend he didn't want a family. He'd wanted to know. He'd always wanted to know. Maybe it would help him find out why Barron did it. Why Barron had killed his 'love.' Usually, Warren just played the role of apathetic, cold-hearted bastard.
Today was not that case.
So, he could hardly be to blame when he came into the Stronghold home a little more irate than usual.
"Who's missing this time?"
Layla, the sting haunting her eyes, frowned a little. "No one's missing now. We didn't ask Zach to come because he's a little emotional right now-"
When Warren scoffed, she flinched. "and Ethan said he was too busy with some Honors homework. I just wanted to see if you'd figured out anything new."
Too much hope in her eyes and didn't she know he couldn't save them?
"There were four of you working on this, and I'm the one who's supposed to come up with something?"
Her eyes flickered again. Layla was the key. It was easy with Stronghold, who'd always been held at a distance. Too much history for them to be good friends so fast, though they were working on it. But Layla, Layla had taken the first step, had initiated contact, had torn a hole in his wall and poked her head through. If he were going to hurt someone, it was through Layla. He didn't want to, not really. But he had to find out; he had to know what happened. So, in this situation, what else could he do? What else?
"We've all been working hard Warren. I was just wondering-"
"If your gamble pulled through? If making friends with the enemy would help you out?" She was already protesting, fire lighting in her eyes, fighting. "Congratulations."
He tossed a piece of paper that she caught, opened. Eyes narrowed, confusion dotted her face. "What is this?"
"Katrina Libowitz. She's the only connection between the three people. I found her address. I'm going there Wednesday to ask her questions." He turned, started leaving, the itching in his palms anticipation of the letters and not the usual fight. The good upbringing welled in his mind, reminding him that he needed to establish friendships, not drive people away. But he'd never gotten anything from a friendship he couldn't live without. Knowing who his parents were, how they lived, how they died – that might be worth more than anything.
"Warren – what's wrong with you?" A little disbelief, a little distance, and he hoped she managed to nurture that, make it grow like everything else she touched.
Smiling, the cold cruel one that haunted his dreams, cocked his head and said, "Maybe you're finally seeing the real me."
He was nearly gone when she rushed forward. Her hand came around his wrist, eyes pleading, and his powers flared, burned her, before he could control it. She cradled her reddened fingers. If he'd wanted to look that deep, he would've found a kernel of fear kindling in her eyes.
"I don't believe that."
His eyes flickered to where Stronghold was walking with purpose, and he dropped his smile. "Then you're only fooling yourself."
When he finally left, Warren had to fight everything in him not to go back. It was for the best. At least, that was what he used to try to convince himself.
A shadow followed him, but Warren almost wanted it to overtake.
The next night, having convinced Mr. Chiang that cleaning out the attic was work enough, Warren had off. He had already arranged the letters, sorted through them, had an order of what to read. Now that everything was done, he wasn't certain how to begin. How did one prepare to divulge the intimate secrets of one's parents?
He'd found a good start, though. His mother had been a bit of a writer, making several non-letters to people. One was addressed to a clerk at the grocery store, censoring him for racist remarks. Another had been to her junior high chem teacher, berating her for coming down so hard on non-science inclined students. Most of them were to herself. A diary, of sorts. There were a few that dealt with observations she made about her powers, ones he kept to study, including the use of heat to fly. Many, too many, were about Barron. His parents had started dating the second day of freshman year. Even when Barron supposedly broke off their relationship, they saw each other every day. Mostly without knowledge from either one's affiliated group. They were scared of being caught. The ones that really caught him though, were those a few months before his birth and those following. Barron didn't know he had a son until Warren was nearly three years old.
He wasn't sure when people started forming memories, but he had none of his father.
After that, Louisa had them meeting in secret, a little thrilling for them, being risk-takers and all, and it wasn't until Barron went officially 'evil' when Warren was almost four that she cut him off. But that was only at the insistence of the Hero Coalition. Even then, she would meet up with Barron, swearing that they would live happily together once she figured out a way for them to disappear. Her last letter was the most confusing of all.
Barron,
I've done it, at last. I told you my parents had a home down in Aruba. Turns out, they never really owned it. Some of their friends just up and left, saying that they wanted it for property value, but didn't want anything else. My father told me we could stay there. It's out of the country, so the HC won't have jurisdiction. I hope Steve doesn't get over-excited and contact the WHAE. No, I know he won't. I know it's harder for you to get out of EVA, but we'll get through this. Don't do anything dumb or showy before next week, okay Barron? One week, and we'll be clear. One week.
Complete love,
Louisa
Where did that go? It didn't sound like they were having problems or intended to part ways. It didn't sound like Barron was ready for some major battle where he'd kill Louisa. It didn't make any sense.
"Warren?" He tensed up, glancing at all the letters littered around his room. Opening the door a crack, he did his best to prevent Mr. Chiang from seeing the state of his room.
"Yeah?"
"That girl-" Mr. Chiang-speak for Darcy "is closing tonight by herself. She'll count out the registers, but go help her. It's her first close."
Protestations threatened to leak from his mouth, but Warren drew them back in, nodding. "Sure."
Even Mr. Chiang looked disappointed with the quick acquiescence.
"But, ah, I won't like it. I might even call her a name."
"Don't be mean to her!" Mr. Chiang said, satisfied, leaving.
Warren got to the restaurant in what had to be ten minutes longer than it should have. If there were things he'd want to be doing, helping Darcy was the least of them. A wave of grudging respect washed over him as he unlocked the front door – Darcy had remembered to lock it, something he was notorious for forgetting. He went straight to the kitchens, seeing that they'd already been cleaned. It would make sense for her to do what she knew first, probably had one of the busboys help her, then sit down to count out the registers. When he came out onto the main floor, sure enough, Darcy was there, money sprawled out in front of her. A small amount, though; she probably had trouble ringing up things on the register.
"Stumped?"
She jumped, sending a nice thrill of pleasure. Oh, to scare the prey. "Oh you. Mr. Chiang didn't say you'd come by. What are you doing here Tolstoy?"
"Making sure you don't pilfer a couple of grand." She rolled her eyes.
"I can take care of myself." And she could, but the retort lacked the sting, and it wasn't like her. Warren came a bit closer, cocked out a hip to stay a while.
"Looks like you undercharged the customers."
"This isn't the registers. I already did those. This is tips." She said the last a little down with a little sigh.
"Tips?" Eyebrows up. "You didn't give the waitresses their tips?" Did she get hit in the head again and lose her common sense?
"No. The waitresses took their tips. This is," hesitance "from the tip jar on the counter."
They kept a tip jar. It was only there for hopes in gaining more money, obviously. The waitresses were tipped, but the person who rang up the orders, including carry-outs, rarely got tipped. There just wasn't enough interaction to get in the customer's graces. Actually, the jar was usually used as a reservoir of change patrons didn't want. Money did not come from the tip jar. This much, easily three hundred dollars, was unheard of. No. It was impossible.
"No one makes this off the tip jar."
"I know." Small, whispered, shoulders hunched. She'd done something wrong.
"No one makes this."
"Ask me a question," she said, eyes shining with desperation.
"What?"
"It's my turn. Ask me a question; ask me the right question."
Too eager, and he leaned back. He'd gotten used to Darcy over the summer, but she was still a stranger. This was clearly a sign of some previously hidden mental disorder. "Where did you get all this money?"
Shook her head, pressed her thin lips together. "Not the right one. Please, just think, just ask the right question."
There was a fairytale, he thought, maybe a fable or a folktale or something equally quaint and moral, if fictional. There was a fairytale he could barely remember where a girl was under a curse, but couldn't tell anyone what it was. So, she had to drop hints, had to act in certain ways, in order to get people to guess the curse. Was she mute in that story? He didn't remember that, but this reminded him, and he never really liked it all the much. Besides, games were only fun when he knew he could win.
"You need to stop that. Why do you have all this money? Why did the customers put it in the jar?"
"There. That's it. Because I made them." She got up, coming over to where he was. "I've been trying so hard to hide it, but I made them do it tonight. You don't understand. I was just so happy to be trusted again. I was so happy to just be normal again. I thought that I could contain it. I thought I could control it. But I got to comfortable tonight. That's why it happened."
Low, dangerous, the fire already sparking in his voice. "What did you do?"
"I have powers."
A smile broke out over his face. It was not a happy or pleasant smile. In fact, it made Darcy draw inward more, taking a step back before she lifted her chin and took the step forward again.
"Warren-"
"Whatever you heard about my father is wrong. I won't help you."
"Your father? What? I don't care, listen – I didn't come to talk about your father. I came to see you." The sheer disbelief must've shone on his face, because she sighed, exasperated. "Look, you want me to show you? Fine. Here."
It didn't take more than an instant. It was a little quicker than Magenta changing into a gerbil, but creepier, in a way. Where Darcy had taken her hair down, the mousy bushy mass of it matted to her face by sweat, this hair grew black. Well, it was black, super-jet black like night, with bursts of silver. Actual stars in her hair that gleamed with a metallic sheen, so you didn't mistake them for gray. Her hair turned from bushy to a soft curl, bouncing around her face just so, wisps trailing over her eyes seductively. He'd always liked her eyes, mostly because they were leaf green and made him think of his friendship with Layla, but now they were a vibrant throbbing green, and the specks of gray he'd suspected burst into full-blown silver. Her eyes were heavily fringed with long curled eyelashes. The character-filled, if somewhat hooked, nose turned into a straight thin thing that filled out her heart-shaped face (had it been that before?) better. Her cheekbones weren't dangerously sharp, but instead high and prominent, making her eyes seem almond-shaped and exotic. Her thin lips filled out, the bottom moreso, so she was sullen, like only you would ever be able to fulfill what she wasn't getting. He tried to ignore her body, which suddenly grew into its lankiness, a tall shapely figure that hadn't even looked like a girl's in the restaurant's uniform. In short, she was gorgeous, a man's dream.
Warren kept that to himself. "Your power is to look pretty?"
"This isn't looking pretty," Darcy said, with a voice that was hers, only with the accent more prominent, the Southern coming through that he hadn't really noticed. It was just a touch more sultry, a touch enough. "This is me. This is what I look like. This over-made, fashionista, damn Gap model thing! The other look is what I've managed to change myself into when I concentrate. This is what I look like when I sleep or I'm not actively keeping it up. For the most part, I can maintain that other look but…" She sighed. "Sometimes I get tired."
"But you were unconscious…" Why did that feel like his priorities weren't straight?
"No, I wasn't. The shelves fell on me, yes, but I wondered if you'd show your powers, so I pretended that I was unconscious. I…" Sighed again, pushed a long-fingered delicately shaped hand through her wave of hair. "I don't know what I'm doing."
He should've been angry. There were several parts of his brain telling him that anger was the appropriate emotion. Instead, he felt mostly confused, a bit hurt, and an unhealthily portion of amused. "It's not a very frightening power."
"It is. I – well – I'd heard about you. Your mother, first. Firefly was one of the best pyros in the world, and if anyone knew how to control their powers, she did." Darcy sat down, using her hands to explain. He wanted her to switch back; she was distracting like this. "There's research on people with powers, you know. Pyros, at least the ones who generate their own fire, have a little built-in shield. They have to have one that reacts as a reflex so they don't burn up themselves. It gets stronger when you actively use your power, but it's on all the time. That's why pyros are hard to kill. They have an automatic resistance to powers. I figured that if I got close to a pyro, they'd be able to resist. And if they were active, they would resist even more. And maybe, I could be normal. Maybe I could…"
"This being pretty thing, I'm not really seeing the danger."
Darcy rubbed her eyes, sighing again. She was gonna pass out, breathing heavily like that. "This isn't my power. It's part of it. It's… it's desire. That's my power. But it's not like 'oh I want a cookie,' it's powerful and it makes people do things they would never do otherwise. It makes people insane."
"… really."
"You don't have to believe me," she said, rubbed her face again. "But I can't use it against you. It… it never goes away. Look, when I'm around you, I don't have to be on constant guard. You're naturally resistant enough that I just keep up the glamour and everything's fine. I can be myself."
Too close, too far in. "You get that from a fortune cookie?"
"Greeting card, actually." Half-smile, hair bleeding back into brown. "I'm sorry. You know, that I'm a big liar and I don't deserve to be trusted and pretty much you should just kick me out on the street and give me a beat-up cardboard box to live in. I'm sorry."
He believed her. Not because of what she'd said, or that she obviously had powers (even if they were just to look pretty). He'd read that his mother participated in research, that she had learned about the shield pyros projected. Somewhere along the way, he had started to trust Darcy. Damnit. When did that happen? He'd have to figure it out, so he could stop it from happening again.
So. This was it. Here he was, trusting some lying, shape-shifting, pretty but creepy girl who he'd know less than the time he had some people who had been very nice and accepting to him that he'd just torn down. Sounded like a perfect high school situation. Besides, he needed the help at the restaurant. And damn if he would train another person.
"We don't get that many cardboard boxes. You should come by tomorrow, break down the ones we do have."
Her face lit up before it closed down, and he had the sinking feeling that she wasn't done sharing. Great. "Thank you. And keep the money, put it into the restaurant."
He nodded, bending over to collect it while she left.
"My real name is Helena Troy, by the way." He stared at her.
"I'm not calling you that."
Shrugged. "Yeah, didn't think so."
He was halfway down the street leading to Katrina Libowitz's house when he noticed the group on the other side. If maybe their groups started to merge, that had little to do with him. They'd been walking for some time when Layla broke the rules and spoke to him.
"So, do you know anything about her, other than that she's connected to the missing people?"
"Nope."
"Do you think she has powers?"
"She kidnapped kids with them, so yeah."
Silence again.
When they made it to the house, which loomed ominously and had a huge freaky-looking garden between the gate and actual house, no one moved forward to step into it. In fact, they stood there, staring at the slightly open gate, watching it sway just a little in the breeze.
"You call yourselves heroes," Warren muttered, pushing open the gate and striding through. A trail behind him, and they all waited anxiously when he knocked. Nothing. He knocked again, harder, and the door swung open.
"Maybe we shouldn't-"
"Hello?" Warren called, looking in, pushing through, stepping inside. He wandered through, calling greetings, glancing back to find the rest of them had come inside as well. When he came upon the parlor, there was someone sitting in a high-backed chair, one arm draped over the side. "Hello?"
"A bit impolite, don't you think, to come in my house uninvited." A whispering voice, nothing special, definitely a woman. She didn't sound like she should be friends with the rest of them.
"Are you Katrina Libowitz?" The swinging arm tensed, straightened.
"Don't call me that!" And suddenly, everything shifted.
They were no longer in a parlor with floor-to-ceiling bookcases or mirror-shined hardwood floors, but instead outside, in the garden, dead flowers crackling beneath their feet. Tingling shot up Warren's arms, fighting for control, a heady mix of fear and anger, weakness and strength.
"What the…"
"We're not really here," Layla whispered, pointing to a dark copse of trees. "Look. You can see the outline of books and their shelves in the foliage."
"This is definitely not right, man," Zach whispered.
Far left to them, the rose bushes shimmered, and out stepped a girl. She was tall, too tall, long awkward limbs, a gait unfolding from her like a jerky marionette. Her hair was pulled severely back from her rounded face, some sort of concealing make up, made of jagged red stars and black stripes, masking most of her features. Her costume was the same red stars and black stripes, a combination wetsuit and ballroom gown. Warren did not approve.
"So, you've come to see the great Katastrophe."
"'The great?' Are we supposed to know her? Because, uh, I didn't get that memo," Zach whispered.
Will had been paying even less attention. "Did she just say her name was Apostrophe?"
"Uhm, we've never heard of you." From Layla, who came forward to get a closer look.
"What? You haven't? But, I paid my dues, I was supposed to be – oh never mind. You've come into my lair. You think you can defeat me?"
"Oh man, oh man, we have to fight her? I didn't even bring my utility belt!"
"We don't want to fight. We just wanted to know if you if you knew anything about the missing kids."
"Of course. I kidnapped them."
"You-!"
"How did you do that?" Layla shot him a sharp look, but Warren ignored. "How did you make the parlor the garden?"
Katastrophe grinned, arms coming up to fold and she leaned back a little. "You noticed that, huh? That's my power. I'm a Re-Alter."
"A what?"
She ignored Will. "You look familiar. Have I seen you before?"
"What's a Re-Alter?"
But Katastrophe wasn't listening to anyone. She came closer, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "I've seen you somewhere… oh my God. You're Barron's son."
Even if she hadn't been able to change their surroundings, Warren was certain the world would still have tilted. "You knew my father?"
"Are you kidding? Barron's the best Re-Alter out there. He could make up landscapes; he could actually transport people – everyone wishes they could have his abilities. You didn't… I mean… you didn't… you didn't get his powers, did you?"
"No. I take after my mother."
"Warren!" Will whispered, lost somewhere between bewildered and furious. "You're not actually chit-chatting with the villain, are you?"
"Oh Firefly! Great girl. Too bad about what happened."
Too bad? Too bad? "You mean too bad that he killed her?" Anger, so hot and thick, coursed through his body, the heat flickering around his arms.
Everyone stopped. Layla gasped, Will choked on his whisper, and Zach started glowing. Even the wind, whistling through the braches of the large morose willow trees lessened to a thin breath. Warren clenched his fists. Katastrophe's eyes widened.
Then, she laughed.
"Barron? Kill her? Barron couldn't kill anyone! He had EVA pissed because all he would do was challenge heroes to battles then let them leave! He saved puppies and kittens and adopted skunks and made drawings of clouds and stuff." Then, solemn took over her face. "Did they tell you that he killed her? Is that what they said? Is that how they explained the four life sentences? Man, the HC has really gone downhill."
"He didn't… he didn't kill her?" No hope, no he burnt that out, but somewhere, he could feel the pain lessening and he couldn't trust the word of someone who kidnapped kids, could he?
"If you want answers, you should talk to your father. He's the only one who really knows what happened."
She seemed to fall back into focus, to notice that all of them were standing around, staring at her. Then, Katastrophe raised her arms, twirled a bit. "See ya!" then smashed a smoke bomb so that she could disappear.
No one moved.
Then – "Warren-" from Layla.
He left, and tried to pretend he wasn't fleeing.
Before he'd had time to process, before he'd gotten even out of the neighborhood, Warren slammed into the dark shadow that had been following him, haunting him. He was almost surprised it was a person.
"Who are you?" voice dangerously low, actual fire flicking out of his fingers. "Why are you following me? What do you want?"
The person hefted himself from the ground, shaking off. Then, he tossed back his hair so Warren could see his face.
Bruno Chiauci. The man he'd almost hired to help out at the Lantern. He still had the too-long dark brown hair falling into his face, the lanky under-fed quality to his body, the sharp and rodent-like picture of his features. For a moment, Warren was so stunned, he just gaped.
"Hello Warren."
"Who are you?" The fire, which had gone out at his bafflement, flared again, and it licked up to his wrists.
"Bruno Chiauci. I used to be known as Fixer. A weak techopath, but efficient. Your dad found me good enough."
Warren scoffed. "Been meeting a lot of friends of my father."
"Yeah? Strange. I used to be his sidekick. We were best friends. We are. We are best friends."
"What do you want?" and the fire spread to his elbows, growing because of the wind, growing.
"I was supposed to look out for you. Barron hears about the kids getting taken, he gets upset, asks his friend to help him out. You know, you don't get out enough."
Swallowed. "You have contact with my father?"
"Sure. He's my hero, ain't he? That's how it works. You don't separate heroes and their sidekicks. I'd find it a little creepy if I wasn't there myself. I still can't figure out where they keep him, but I will. One day. Then I'll break him out. Well, shouldn't've told you that one."
"Katastrophe said-"
"Kat's still around?" Chiauci smiled, ran a hand through his lank hair. "Wow. Nice girl, terrible Re-Alter. You know she can't even make solid illusions? She the one behind this then? That's really bold. But, it's a stupid plan, so, makes sense."
"She said that Barron didn't kill my mother." Chiauci's eyes widened almost comically.
"Of course he didn't. Barron had a hard time eating meat. Guy just liked to fight. It was in his blood, you know. You grandmother was a fighter, invulnerable, super-strength, super-speed, sixth sense about danger. She was a tough bird. It was your grandpa who had the Re-Alter blood. Surprised you didn't get it, usually follows in the line it's made. That's why Barron likes the fighting. S'right there. He was a boxer, you know, back in school."
"I only knew he was in Oklahoma."
"Oh yeah. I remember that." Chiauci chuckled, remembering. "He only wanted that part because Louisa was Laurey."
If he asked, then he might find the answers. So, Warren sucked in a breath. "Can I contact him?"
"Who? Barron? Naw, kid. His mail gets read and processed. He says all my letters come half blacked out. They wouldn't let anything from you go through. Or not anything you wanna know."
"What happened? Why is he in there for four life sentences? What happened to my mother?" And the flames darted up to his shoulders, not too intense, but there, a shield almost.
"Sorry kid. I don't know the answers to those questions. They put him in for killing Louisa, but everyone in EVA knew that was a lie. But who's gonna believe a buncha villains?"
"I have to talk to him."
"The only way that's gonna happen is if you get someone to tell you where they're keeping him. If you get that, and go there, those damn heroes will believe you've been sent there. They're gullible like that."
"Then I will," Warren said, more to himself. "I'll get there."
Chiauci put a hand forward, like he was going to clasp Warren 'round the shoulder, but he drew back before contact. This wasn't some friendly reunion. Chiauci had information, important information, and Warren was better off for having it.
"Kid-"
"Stop following me."
"Don't need to. Not if Kat's behind this."
Warren turned, left, never glanced behind him. But Chiauci watched him leave, nostalgia burning in his eyes and sadness searing his heart. Poor kid.
to be concluded...