This chapter is in regression thanks to broughtfromxp and Undead Robot.
Chapter 2: Good Intentions
Cura was working on her fifth patient when the call came in. She dug for her phone with her free hand. "I'm sorry," she said, tweaking the nerves and blood vessels of the patient into normal locations as the largest tumors dissolved. "I need to take this."
"Take all the time you need," the woman smiled. "I think I can wait a few minutes."
She nodded thanks as the phone went to her ear. "This is Cura, how can I help you?"
"Sergeant Brian, BBPD. We've got several officers down, multiple gunshot wounds. Are you available?"
She frowned. "I'm doing volunteer work at the moment. Are any of the injuries life-threatening in a way paramedics couldn't stabilize, or can it wait another half-hour?"
"I…I hate to leave them hurting, but they're all stable. The injuries are cape-related, so your fee is pre-approved. We can send a squad car to pick you up?"
"In twenty minutes, and I'll just need an escort. Thank you for understanding." She hung up and went back to tracking down metastasized cells. Finding none, she started working on other problems.
"You don't have to keep going, you know," the woman – Charlize – said. "You already told me you made everything benign. The doctors could do the rest."
"They could, but I'd rather take another minute to repair the damage for you. You've been off your feet so long your legs have atrophied. Your follicles needed a kickstart, your GI tract was completely imbalanced, and your neurochemistry is off from stress and chemo both. All of that, I can fix better than new, and save you months of pain and recovery." As quickly as she listed each problem, it ceased to be one. "Just like that, I'm done." She took her hand away and stood. "The doctors will be in shortly to walk you through your recovery regimen, but I'm happy to report that you're cancer-free."
The woman smiled weakly; Cura could tell that she was trying not to break down. "I can't thank you enough," she managed to croak out, clasping her hands at her chest as if to pray. "You've saved my life."
"Glad I could help," she replied absently as she walked out. The praise was undeserved, but it was far too common for her to bother correcting anymore.
She volunteered as much for the charity work tax write-off as it was for the sake of helping people; curing terminal illnesses and impossible cases was as easy for 'The Miracle Cure' as filling out paperwork or making burgers was for a normal person. The healing was often rote and boring, but then again, what work wasn't? There was a kind of zen to it that couldn't be found in the injury repair she offered at a discount to the police and government. Too few clients were willing to pay for more interesting modifications.
She sighed and started walking to the next patient's room. Fifteen minutes left on today's hour of volunteering, then she just had the job after, and hopefully the Protectorate wouldn't get themselves in a serious fight tonight…
Her work phone rang again. Biting back a curse, she answered it the usual way.
"This is Cura, how can I help you?"
Amelia finished healing the boys in blue in under half an hour, then made record time to the Protectorate base to fix Miss Militia's major concussion and lacerations. A few thousand dollars richer, she changed clothes and scooted her little souped-up Vespa home as fast as she dared. Today had been taxing, and she needed to relax a bit before the next task.
Pulling the moped around the parked car and chaining it to the back fence, she made a shortcut through her carefully grown and tended bushes to get to the door. Swinging it open, she called, "Carlos, I'm home!"
The sound echoed through the empty house. No response as the door closed. It wasn't like him to be out, but she supposed this wasn't a normal week for either of them.
She hung up her purse, went to the fridge, and got out a beer. Amelia wasn't legally allowed to drink yet, but nobody was going to stop her. Popping the top, she grabbed a plant out of the kitchen window and made her way to the living room. She plopped down on the couch with the items, turned on the TV to the channel the news would be on in a few minutes, and wrapped one of the vines around her finger. As she sipped her beer, her power examined the plant. It wasn't getting enough light up in that window, if the glucose levels were any indication; she'd need to move it outside soon. Maybe hang it over the table on the back patio?
On TV, a big man in a plaid vest was reclining in a beat-up chair, holding a beer. "Hey Merlene, didya hear that new fancy-like clothing store Impressions is having a big ol' sale?" he called to the kitchen.
"Naw I didn't hear none of that. Why, you want some fancy duds so you can go lookin' like them big movie stars?"A record scratched, and the view switched to the store's interior.
"Do not fret my lovelies," a thick, posh-sounding German accent said. "Even when Impressions' clothing iz on sale, ze unfabulous will still not be able to afford shopping here. But to ze upper-middle-class slaving away in your cubicle farms? Zis is your chance to make something of your life. Impressions: You only get one, so make it count."
Amelia realized she was procrastinating, sighed, and took another deep swig of bitter liquid. This wasn't going to be any easier once the alcohol started giving her a buzz. She leaned forward and picked up a clipboard from the cluttered coffee table. She'd wanted to do this with Carlos, but he probably wouldn't do it with her anyway. He'd taken things a lot harder than her. She plopped back and began to reread the documents.
Becker Funeral Home
To the family of Milo Mendoza, we would like to offer our sincere condolences in this time of mourning…
She signed the appropriate lines of the form. Their brother would receive a fine black granite cross, resting right next to Mama like he would have wanted. It would have to be a small, closed casket service. She left the inscription space blank, resolving to use it as a bargaining point to reach her brother past all of his grief and anger. When she reached the eulogy planner, she found it too hard to continue. She had to set it aside a minute to stop herself from tearing up, taking deep breaths and immersing herself in the little houseplant next to her and its photosynthetic dance. By the time she got herself under control again, it was time for the news.
"Good afternoon. We open with an urgent report," the woman onscreen said. "Johnny Gat, a dangerously violent criminal, escaped from police custody mere minutes before his trial. We here at channel 9 have acquired exclusive video of the masked gunman responsible for Gat's release. A warning to our viewers, the following footage is graphic."
They cut to smartphone video. People were screaming as a man with a pistol walked up to a prone, injured police officer, taking his weapons. His white tank top was soaked through with blood, a dark red-and-black mess spreading down his torso. He said something unintelligible to the disarmed officer and turned away, rubbing his chest. The people on the news began talking over the footage, but Amelia was staring at the screen.
On the man's shoulder was a tattoo. It wasn't clear, but she could make out a very familiar set of wings. Once the suspicion was there, she noticed other things. The station silently played the video again while the anchors talked, and she saw the build, the clothing, the way he walked. It was Carlos.
She felt all of her grief turn to confusion and fear. What was going on? Where was Carlos now? She had to call him; she scrambled up off the couch and grabbed their landline, messing up the dial once before getting it right. She heard it ring, then heard the familiar sound of Aisha's 'Leave The Ho' upstairs. "Of course he left his phone," she said, hanging up.
Amelia walked back to the couch and collapsed, not knowing what to do with herself. Carlos could be dead. She wasn't sure if she could take that kind of loss right now. Even then, she had very little idea what he was doing, although she could guess why he was doing it. With a shuddering hand, she took a big gulp from her half-empty bottle.
She had to calm down. Carlos had some kind of healing ability now; the day after Milo died, he'd cut himself badly while making dinner. It had been an accident, and she was there to fix him anyway, but it had sealed up in the time it took her to walk to the kitchen, leaving no sign of injury. They just didn't know how effective it was, and besides that, why the hell would he think it was okay to risk his life like that!
Her fear was slowly fading, but as it lessened it was replaced by simmering anger at her impulsive, idiotic brother. He'd hurt people, badly. Because of him, she'd had to cut her volunteer work short, trading low-intensity charity for high-stress professional healing work. He'd rather go out and break a murderer from prison than stay home and help her arrange their brother's funeral?
She felt her clenched hand start to bleed. The houseplant, tendril crushed by her angry grip, had grown wicked spines and thorns. She let the pain course through her a moment, bringing clarity with the rush of endorphins, then retracted the thorns and got up to get a few paper towels for the blood.
Getting angry at Carlos would only make things worse in the long run.
There was the sound of a car pulling up. She rushed to the window. Carlos, now shirtless, got out of an unfamiliar car. A moment later, another vehicle pulled up to the curb and two other people, a man and a woman, followed him up the driveway. She went to the door as Carlos opened it.
He smiled weakly. "Hey, sis. We need to-"
She slapped him, hard, to make sure he felt it.
"You idiot," she yelled in Spanish, "what were you thinking?" Before he could say anything, she wrapped him in a hug, pulling him inside. "I was so worried about you," she said into his chest. She checked him for injuries, but aside from the handprint she'd put on his face she thankfully found none.
"I deserve that," he said, rubbing his cheek with his free arm. "Can I go get a shirt, then we talk?"
"I'll get one. You just get them inside before the neighbors see," she said, holding him a second more before heading upstairs.
She wasn't sure what Carlos was up to. She didn't care about the criminal activity; well, that wasn't entirely true, but they both knew that the authorities were uselessly weak, powerless to stop anything in this godforsaken city. If he wanted to join a gang as a cape and make a living that way, she'd worry, but she wouldn't hate him for it. But Johnny Gat? He was ABB, and last she checked they didn't recruit either his or her race, cape or no.
She grabbed a tee out of his mess of unfolded clothes- honestly, she felt like a mother sometimes, couldn't he keep things organized?- and went back downstairs.
Carlos had shown in the two guests. One, the man she had heard so many stories about from Milo, the almost mythical Gat. More than a few capes had (allegedly) died by his hand, including half of the original Teeth. Milo said he had once killed a trio of would-be hitmen while he was drunk, pumped full of sedatives, and armed with a cheap spoon.
The woman sat apart in the kitchen, obviously pissed off. She was as different from the slick-haired convict as could be. She had cappuccino skin, short, well-groomed hair, an impeccable fashion sense, and wore expensive jewelry. Amelia got the distinct and unexpected feeling that she knew the woman from somewhere, but couldn't place it. She assumed it must have been some passing acquaintance from work or school, and moved on.
Carlos was reading the paperwork with an empty, faraway expression. As she walked down, he set it aside numbly, staring ahead a moment before coming back to reality. She knew what he was thinking about. She'd had the same kind of thoughts after Mama died. He needed a distraction.
"Put a shirt on, skinny," she said, balling it up and chucking it across the room at him. She grabbed a chair to sit on from the kitchen. "Now let's talk," she demanded, sitting down confidently. "Why do I see my brother on the 4 o'clock news?"
Carlos looked sheepish, but before he cold say anything, Gat spoke up. She noticed he'd helped himself to the last of her beer. "Your brother here wants me to help him start a gang," he said.
"Revive the Saints," Carlos corrected.
"You're fucked in the head if you think there's any 'revival' about it. The Saints died out years ago. Dex is in the slammer, Châsse is Caged, I lost to Lung, and Milo went legit. It's a new gang, old name."
Both of them flinched at the casual mention of Milo and her father. Gat noticed. "What?"
"Fuck," Amelia said. "You didn't tell him?"
"...Not yet," Carlos mumbled. "Gat, Milo's dead. He died last week when he and I got caught up in a fight between Lung and Scrapper. We're his siblings."
Gat took that in for a moment. "...Fuck," he agreed. He looked at his empty beer. "You got anything stronger than this? I need a drink."
Amelia waved at the kitchen. "i think there's some whiskey in the freezer," she said. Carlos was staring at the ground again, lost in thought. She got up to follow Gat.
"Look," she said as he opened the fridge, "Carlos is going through a lot right now. I don't know what he said to you, but he's not thinking right at the moment. Go easy on him."
He turned to her, whiskey bottle in hand. "No, you look. Your brother might be a bit crazy right-"
She grabbed his wrist. "Don't you call my brother crazy," she warned. He tried to break her grip, and she effortlessly stopped the impulses after the muscles began to twitch, giving the impression she was stronger than she appeared. "I don't care how dangerous you think you are. You mess with him or use him when he's hurting? I'll break you so bad they'll never identify the body," she hissed.
"Ha! You've got some bite. I'll keep that in mind," he said, unfazed. "Now you wanna let me go so I can pour us a toast?"
She allowed him to pull out of her grip. He reached up and grabbed five glasses.
"Like I was saying, the kid's crazy, but he's good crazy. There ain't no justice in this city, not like the Saints used to bring. I'll stick with this suicide mission to the end." He poured. "Aisha, Milo's gone," he commented to the sulking woman at the table, offering her a glass.
She set down her phone and took it. "Shit. He was a good kid." She raised her glass and took a drink. Gat handed her two glasses and took two himself. She handed one to Carlos, and Gat set one on the coffee table opposite them all.
"To Milo," he said, raising his glass towards the unaccompanied one. "We all die sometime."
They drank, silently deciding not to complain about his choice of words. The whiskey, Milo's favorite liquor, burned all the way down. She coughed a bit.
"So, to business. I'm guessing neither of you have run with a gang before?"
They shook their heads. Amelia spoke. "We know a few people who've joined up with one gang or another, but decided not to join the Sons, and the others weren't options anyway." Carlos nodded assent.
"Well, first issue is muscle. The other gangs have capes, and while healing and jacking cars instantly is nice, it ain't enough."
Amelia opened her mouth, but paused. She had to think.
She had a good thing going as Cura. She was a famously versatile healer, bringing in clients across the country and making a lot of money in the process. Joining the Saints with her brother would not only end that, but make her a criminal and turn the PRT's attention her way. They knew her identity and would likely move on her if she went villain.
But on the other hand, there was no way she was letting her brother do this alone. So the question was, how could she remain Cura, yet also be a cape villain?
She glanced at the plant on the table, then at her still-healing palm. The seeds of an idea took root.