Origin 1.6

May 16, 2006

There was a certain level of melancholy when you entered an empty house.

Paul, our neighbor and a friend of my fathers, had been coming by occasionally to keep up on the property, but it was clear he'd limited his interference to perimeter checks. There was a layer of dust on everything, though someone had thoughtfully draped linen sheets over the furniture.

With all the grubby white cloth, it resembled a house of budget deprived ghosts.

I grimaced and resumed putting away our mostly untouched Chinese feast. It was almost three in the morning, and Hannah and Riley had gone to bed a couple hours ago; to be fair, Hannah had been moving and cleaning all daywithoutthe benefit of super durability, and Riley - well, Riley was an actual eight year old.

"Suppose I'm just weird," I muttered, closing the fridge and walking outside.

The Daniels home was a family home. If I were forced to summarize it in a single word, that word would be 'quaint.' The Daniels, like most of the families around here, had been in the orchard business for the better part of a century. My father had grown up on the farm, tending to trees and hanging out with the unskilled labor. The moment he inherited, he promptly sold the surrounding orchard to one of the neighbors for a scandalously low price.

Much like me, my fatherhatedpeaches. He went from farmer to politician, turning name recognition and neighborly goodwill into votes.

I smiled nostalgically, staring out past the barn. The moon was only a waxing crescent, but the clouds were sparse tonight and light was plentiful. It was a good night to sit on the porch swing. Even before I possessed the durability to ignore the elements, I'd slept here on several occasions; most of the time I woke up in my bed, mysteriously tucked in during the night.

The screen door opened. Hannah walked out, still in her 'going out clothes.' Judging by how little luggage she'd brought, I suspected she didn't have very many spare outfits.

Without a word, she sat down next to me. For a few minutes, the only noise was the gentle creaking of the chain.

"So," Hannah said, crossing her arms against the pre-morning chill, "is it all working out the way you hoped?"

I shrugged, tangling one arm in the chain. "Mostly. I didn't really have a master plan."

"Hmph," she muttered, tousling my hair. "Could have fooled me."

I let her mess my hair up for a moment, then shrugged her hand off. "Still have a lot of things to do. Riley's going to need schooling, psychiatric evaluation, PRT power testing. . ."

She snorted. "Don't worry about that."

"How can I not?" I asked, surprised. "I'm the one who talked you into this, it's my responsibility."

"Responsibility, he says." Hannah laughed. "The moment she woke up, she latched on to you and wouldn't let go. In fact, she didn't let go; if you remember, and I know you do, she was right next to you until she went to bed, and you sat there with her until she dropped off."

"What's your point?"

"My point," she said, leveling a finger, "is that she has a legal guardian, and she doesn't need another one. I'll take care of the paperwork, the school, the PRT and the psychiatrists. You just focus on being her brother. I can tell you right now without asking her which she'd prefer to have, so leave the boring complications to me and make sure you're there with her like - like an older brother's supposed to be."

I stared at her. It was good advice, but it made me wonder - did Hannah have family?

I didn't ask.

See? Even I could show tact sometimes. My memories of family mostly had to do with parents, and it wasn't like I'd thought about it a lot before I triggered.

I was the youngest in a family of five, so unless you get an older sibling. . .?

There was a soft sound on the stairs, like socks sliding on old carpet.

"I know what I've gotten myself into," I told her quietly. "We'll be going to the same school. I'll keep her out of trouble."

She nodded, satisfied.

"Josh?"

We turned. Riley was standing behind the screen door, peering uncertainly out. Her eyes were bloodshot; the last few days hadn't been easy on anyone.

"Morning," I told her blandly.

"It's not morning yet," Hannah scolded, "and now that I think about it,bothof you should be in bed."

I opened my mouth to protest on grounds of parahuman superiority, but closed it without speaking at the look she shot me.

Ah.

"I can't sleep," Riley admitted, eyes on the ground.

I stood and walked over to the door.

"Lot of that going around. Come on," I told Riley, grabbing her hand and leading her up the stairs. "I'll tuck you in."

--

The next day - well, in a few hours we started going through the house again. We weren't really unpacking, seeing as how Hannah had two suitcases of possessions and Riley had none, but there was a certain air of 'moving in.'

My room was alien to me now. Sports paraphernalia lined the walls, despite the fact that I'd never played sports; I suspected Dad wanted me to absorb athletic skill through osmosis. In one corner, a box of discarded toys sat sullenly, silently weirding me out with how realistic the action figures were.

I used to think dolls were pretty bad, but having Alexandria and Armsmaster giving you a stern glare while you try to sleep was a new level of creepy. I suppose it was a matter of perspective - younger me considered it comforting.

I dumped them in the recycling box without reservation and carried it outside. On my way back up the stairs, I heard Hannah curse and paused.

"Everything alright in there?" I asked, sticking my head in. Dad's office was, as always, a mess. For years, he'd moaned about his lack of a proper secretary, but Mom - his 'official' campaign manager - had put her foot down. Small town politics, as it turned out, didn't actually pay that well.

"Yeah," Hannah said, scowling at the stack of papers on the desk and nursing a bloody finger. "Just a paper cut."

"Ah, the dreaded paper cut," I said loftily, trying to provoke a smile. "Surely, there is no wound so grievous, so deadly. Truly, those papers have laid low many an experienced hero."

She grimaced at me, which counted as a smile. I dropped the attitude and walked in.

"Finished with your room?" She asked, running through another stack of papers.

"Mm. Just took the last box down. I figure I'll let Riley look through it later, see if she wants any of it." Poor girl got what I called the 'old folks room.' I knew now why she'd been unable to sleep there; all the family photos were decidedly unnerving, even when you knew who they were. If I wanted my bed back, I'd have to stick them in the attic. "How's this room going?"

"I believe I've found your birth certificate," she admitted, "but not much else. Ididfind a package addressed to your dad - Paul must have dropped it off a long time ago."

She handed it to me. Intrigued, I ran my hands over it. It was a long, rectangular box covered in brown wrapping paper. There was no address, just the words 'To Mr. Daniels' written in large print. Carefully, I ran one finger under the seam, letting the tape come off with a minimum of damage. The material underneath was a rich leather, embossed with a large R.

I felt my breath catch in my throat the moment I saw it.

"His briefcase?" Hannah asked, curious.

"Y-yeah," I stuttered briefly before getting myself under control. "His old one was damaged, and he sent it to be repaired."

"Lot of effort for a briefcase," Hannah murmured, looking at me oddly. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," I said, breathing deeply. "I'm fine. It was . . . just a shock."

She hugged me. Normally I'm not a touchy-feeley kind of person, but neither was Miss Militia, so I put up with it. After all, I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

At least, that's the excuse I was going with.

"How are you doing?" She asked quietly, not talking about the briefcase.

"Not bad. Not so much sadness as nostalgia." I told her, quirking a grin. "It's actually kind of nice; I prefer to remember what happened in the house, rather than. . . how it ended."

We sat there a moment, listening to furtive movements upstairs. There was a loud crash, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass.

"Sometimes it sucks to have a good memory, huh?" Hannah said, squeezing me lightly before letting me go.

"Sometimes," I told her sadly, staring down at the briefcase. "Do you mind if I keep this?"

"Go ahead," she said without hesitation. "I'd better check on Riley, see what mayhem she's cooking up."

I nodded my thanks and brought it back to my room.

The latch was a combination lock. Five numbers, arranged in three groups. One number, then two, then two more. I tried my birthday, but it stayed stubbornly closed. I thought for a moment, then tried myotherbirthday.

Ratchet. Ratchet. Ratchet. Click.

The lid opened smoothly, the hinges perfectly constructed and well oiled.

I let out a deep breath, but the knot of tension in my chest refused to dissipate.

Inside, ten vials glittered with malicious promise.