Side-Step C
"What do you mean she isn't available?!"
The girl had some lungs on her. Her shouting reverberated through the entire house. Were her parents home, they'd likely chastise her for it.
Unfortunately, she didn't have very good timing.
Raising her watch, Count began to wonder if she'd lost her touch over the years. Laying in wait in the dark for someone to come through the door was one of life's tiny joys.
Cheesy sure, but quite a bit of fun all the same.
Even if the room was entirely too pink to set the proper mood. One would think a fashion model, even an amateur one, would have better tastes than to put pink on every surface of her room.
"That's not good enough! I want to talk to her right no—What is that supposed to mean?!"
Almost pitiable. Almost. The silly child really had no one to blame but herself. Life can be just that way, from time to time. A shame she likely wouldn't see it. Not yet. Not for some time really. The needs of the many and all that.
"Don't you dare hang up on me! Do you—You fuck!"
Justice for one damaged girl would need to wait.
As the footsteps came up the stairs Count sighed in relief. She needed to return soon or someone might start to worry.
Count adjusted her position, crossing her legs and folding her hands together. Theatrics might be silly fun, but they mattered. It projected power, intent.
The door flung open, a mane of red hair trailing as the girl storm into her room. She crossed the threshold quickly, her night clothes flying off as she snarled.
"Think you can hang up on me you fucking paper pusher," she grumbled. "Wait until I get down there."
Count checked her watch with a sigh. The girl paid her no mind, continuing to undress and beginning the search for fresh clothes.
Eventually, she tired of not being noticed.
"Going somewhere, Ms. Barnes?"
The girl stiffed and spun.
Count reached over and flipped the light switch. Perfect timing. Finally.
She wore a somewhat classical military uniform. Tall black boots and white pants, an ornate red jacket with golden pins. The white helm covering her head hid everything but her mouth and cheeks, long black hair flowing down her back in a braid.
She never much liked costumes, but theatrics still mattered even when she didn't like them. At least hers was practical in most regards.
"Who are you?"
"I think a more appropriate question Ms. Barnes, is who are you?"
Count relaxed her shoulders, tilting her head to one side.
"You model yes? You are quite beautiful."
The girl looked down at herself, and apparently remembering her frantic undressing quickly covered herself.
"What are you?" She shouted. "Some kind of perv?"
"I'm afraid that if I swung that way, I'd look for someone with a little more inner beauty." She paused, waiting the appropriate amount of time before saying, "Someone stronger."
The girl tensed, her cheeks flushing as red as her hair. She pointed one hand while the other covered her chest, shouting, "Get out of here before I call the cops!"
Anger. Good. Saved time explaining away fear.
Fear of the cape in the bedroom, anyway.
"Well, if you want to save them the time of coming on their own."
Count stood and folded her hands behind her back.
"Betrayed your best friend. Reduced her to a thing to be tormented for your own self-conscious. What kind of person does that?"
The girl flinched, silently eying the door.
"Your number is up. The PRT is aware of Shadow Stalker's behavior. I imagine that's why you haven't been able to contact her the past few days. They'll come for you soon enough."
The girl started to turn pale, a rather unpleasant complexion given her hair color. She looked away, eyes searching the floor.
Count turned to the door.
"Have a good life, Ms. Barnes."
Best to let her take the step.
"Wait!"
Count stopped, hand on the door knob.
"You want something, right?"
When Count turned, the young girl bore a determined look on her face. Good.
"What is it?" she asked.
Lowering her hand and turning back around, Count brought her heels together and stood up straight. It emphasized her height and figure. Brought to the fore the obvious differences in physical maturity.
"I want to offer you a choice."
"A choice?"
"There's more than one kind of strength, Ms. Barnes. I will offer you a path to two. You could be a better person. Accept responsibility for your sins. Perhaps your friend will even forgive you some day, given time."
The girl turned her jaw, eventually saying, "Sounds like a long way of saying roll over and get bent."
"Hmm. Alternately."
Count rolled her wrist, the narrow cylinder dropping from her sleeve into her palm. She held it up, and after letting the girl get a good look, set it on the dresser.
"You could consume the contents of this."
The girl eyed the cylinder with the suspicion of someone not completely gullible. The once shiny surface looked dulled, and the label long since faded.
"What's in it?"
"The strength to escape responsibility, or maybe a way to understand responsibility itself."
The girl frowned.
"So what, your bit is being all cryptic and creepy and handing girls unknown test tubes like they're idiots?"
Count leaned forward, "Is it working?"
"No," she snapped, with all the confidence of someone not nearly as smart as they thought they were. "What's in it? And not some, 'nowhere near as clever as you think you are' bullshit answer."
Count remembered a time she never questioned. Her power gave her the path, and she followed. She never received a choice. The Thinker took that from her, and now after the many years, she wondered.
What role did such a detestable play? She never knew the end, or even the why of the pieces. Not anymore. The Warrior took that.
Even so.
"Power," she answered. "Of a sort."
"Power?" The girl's eyes lit up. "As in a power, power?"
"That sort of power, yes."
The girl grabbed the cylinder off her dresser, turning it in her hands.
"Bullshit."
"It's quite genuine."
"You can't get powers from a bottle. Everyone knows that."
Everyone would be wrong.
"Is it that hard to believe?" Count asked. "Everything tinkers have achieved? Trumps? This is hardly the strangest thing in a world gone mad."
That got her thinking. She looked at the object with renewed interest, her imagination clearly running wild.
"What power is it?" the girl asked.
"I can't say."
Her brow went up. "Can't, or won't?"
"Take your pick."
The girl scowled. "What's the catch?"
"I wouldn't call it a catch," Count answered.
"Call it whatever you want." The girl tested the top. "What is it?"
"It's fairly simple." Count raised her hand. "Door."
A small portal opened beside her, and she reached her hand through. Her fingers took up the cold metal on the other side, and then continued.
"First, we will keep this conversation to ourselves."
Count tilted her head to one side.
The girl turned her face, eyes looking right down the gun barrel. A simple but effective trick. A clear way of saying she could reach anywhere and end her.
"If it helps," Count continued, "You don't want anyone knowing we had it. Quite a few parties would be very interested in powers from a bottle. They might even take you apart to figure out how it works."
At least the red head had the sense to look frightened.
"I trust my point is taken."
The red head looked away, her face taking on a false sternness. Her voice betrayed the nervousness as she spoke.
"Y—Yes."
"Good."
Count withdrew her hand, keeping the gun as it came back over the bedside table between the portals.
Both closed.
"Second, you will join the Wards when the offer is given."
The girl flinched.
"That is not debatable," Count clarified. "You will join the Wards, accept whatever restriction they place on you, or"—she held the gun up—"I think the point is clear."
The girl frowned.
"And that other choice was?"
"No powers. You accept the weight of your sins. I think I mentioned something about your best friend forgiving you some day."
The girl scoffed. "Sounds like I get punished either way."
"And your friend?"
"She's not my friend."
"If you say so."
"And why does it matter that I join the Wards?"
Count shrugged.
"What? No answer?"
"The answer is inconsequential," Count answered.
She doubted that. Her power, even as it began to miss, never quite sent her to do something pointless. However muddled the path became, she remained on it. This girl had a role to play. Some part in the design yet to unfold.
And the time for it to unfold ran short.
The girl hesitated, of course.
They always did. Not even the promise of a power, something many sought, necessarily overrode common sense.
It made things interesting. The left or right. Up or down. Forward or back. Sometimes two, or three, or four. There was always a choice. A choice to endure. To learn. To become less.
Such curious things, fate and destiny.
The girl removed the top of the cylinder, peering down at the contents. She started to lift the rubber stopped vial from its shell, but Count held her hand up.
The girl frowned. "What?"
"Why?" Count asked.
"Why what?"
"Why that choice?"
The girl's brow furrowed. "You want me to take the power, don't you?"
"I want to offer you a choice. Which you take is ultimately up to you. You've chosen. I'm curious why."
"Why not? It's a super power, right?"
"Yes."
"So, duh?"
Not a particularly enlightened answer, but then most of them were not. Such an inconsiderate creature, man.
Oh well.
"Remember the terms. You will not see me again." She turned. "Door. Hotel."
"Wait!"
Count glanced over her shoulder.
The girl held the vial precariously close to her face.
"Why do you care?"
"Care?"
"What choice I make?"
Why indeed.
"I regret." Count stepped through the portal, and let it close behind her. "I've only ever followed the path before me."
The room was more opulent than she'd like. Ornate wooden furnishing and molds, with rich red carpets and drapes. Such luxury rarely interested her. A bed and a fridge. She needed little else. Perhaps the occasional ice cream.
Alas, appearances mattered.
The path advanced to its next step. Or three. She'd work out which to take later.
For the moment, she bent forward and inhaled.
The small tendrils radiated from her stomach The pain spread rapidly, climbing along her spine and singing between the bones. Her fingers curled at the edge of the bed, sheets bunching under her grip.
"Count?"
The door creaked, and she quickly bit back the pain and sat up straight.
The young woman stepped into the room and glanced around. She wore an evening dress. One she no doubt intended to wear for the night's now canceled event.
"Apologies," Count offered. "I was occupied with a bit of business."
"Where?"
The girl leveled her eyes. She always knew when Count lied.
"I looked all over for you earlier. No one knew where you were."
Fortuna allowed herself a small smile.
"Worried for me, Relena?"
The girl stepped into the room. "You're in pain. Should I fetch the doctor?"
Her smile faded at the phrasing. "It is mild."
Relena's hand fell on her arm. "No. It's not."
Count straightened her back. She knew pain well after the many years. She would endure.
"I will be fine."
Relena frowned, but likely knew better than to argue the point.
She sat on the bed, and her look made it clear she intended Count to do the same. She did as expected, the position offering a little relief.
Such a contrast. One girl so damaged she'd forgotten how to be human, and so human Count feared she'd become damaged.
"You canceled my speech," she lamented.
"My apologies," Count offered again. "Events have not transpired the way I'd hoped."
The Butcher has always been a violent creation, and Teacher a petty annoyance.
Relena closed her eyes.
"I'd like to make the speech regardless,"
"As your chief of security, I must refuse. It would be reckless to put you in that kind of danger." Count reached out and took the girl's hand. "The people need you." More than they know.
The girl sighed.
"That's that then." She hid her disappointment well. "You suggested relocating for the moment yesterday. I assume you've made a decision?"
"Yes."
Count raised her head, looking out the window as the lights continued.
Perhaps she'd become somewhat senile in middle age?
It was simpler back then. Even with the doom of the Earth and all humanity on the horizon, it all felt so much simpler.
And such a familiar scene.
Boston wasn't New York, but the fires burned either way.
Flashes of yellow in the distance, and an occasional shot of green or blue.
Legend.
She hadn't been near an old friend in many years. Rebecca searched and searched, but she never came any closer than a country or so.
"Where would we go?" Relena asked.
"I think Brockton Bay might be nice. Things are much quieter there than here. You could still give your speech, though the forum might not attract as much attention."
"That's fine." Relena sighed. "It needs to be said. I can't hold my tongue merely because it would be convenient."
Count nodded.
"We can leave tomorrow."
Relena's choice.
To be a voice for the path no one in power wanted to follow.
Yet.
