The Descent

Chapter 2: Hit-Girl Returns

Do you remember that Superman movie back in the day? The one in which Superman returns? This was what it felt like, when the call came in from Dr. Paul about Mindy. Funny, how I'm so used to calling her Mindy now, instead of Hit-Girl, but I guess the latter's just too full of bad memories. Regardless, this was the next big blockbuster of my life: Hit-Girl Returns.

"Could you come over to the institute at, say, 11?" Dr. Paul said. Even through the phone, through his professional disinterested façade, I could tell that he, too, had a boy inside who was beaming with joy, who can't wait to show his achievement to mom and dad. I knew it was in me, and the feeling was even better than getting a Marvel anthology for Christmas. All these months as Mindy rotted in the Jameson Psychiatry Institute, I was down and out, dead. I felt alive again.

"A.m., right?" I beamed like a disco ball, I could barely think, but the good doctor's laughter told me he understood, and he replied yes, "Hell yeah! I'll even be earlier than that!"

Cue the phone getting put down, and I was jumping with joy. It was a huge shame that I never knew how to do a backflip or a cartwheel, because it felt like the moment. I could have backflipped across the room if I knew how, but instead, I had to knock my knee into my desk. In light of Mindy's recovery though, even THAT felt good. I didn't even mind missing school for the day, which I had been burying myself in ever since the fiasco at the D'Amico tower. Todd and Marty wouldn't mind and the teachers and principal wouldn't care – my workaholic attitude for most of the year had given me enough aces to get excused.

Flipping open my wardrobe, I was a kid on his birthday, flipping through my selections to pick out the best outfit. Denim jeans, a shirt and… A jacket. I took off the brownish jacket, looked at it. It was an old possession that I've had for a few years. There was simply no reason to toss it out, especially after my last growth spurt was over. I eyed its right shoulder. Mindy's bite mark was still there – Scuffs and a bit of tear. Would she mind? After a bit, I smiled anyway – Might as well, we might even laugh it off.

After getting on my socks, I was sliding down the stairs, absolutely floating into the kitchen. It felt like being Green Lantern for once. Even my dad was surprised when I hummed a random song out while I poured some milk into a bowl, followed by cereal.

"Hey pal, what's the good news? New girlfriend?" My dad caught on, and he was positively glowing, his grey hair silver. I might have infected him with my happy of the spiderman-ray kind.

"Even better!" I couldn't help but to exclaim like a girl getting her first fur coat, but I didn't care, "Remember that girl I told you about?"

"The one you cried over for months?" Dad guessed. Well, he was right. I did cry my heart out for the first 6 months or so, not just for Mindy, but for my pathetic self. After-all, Demoness' words stuck, and the worst thing of all was that she was right, and then there was the comic-book twist – since Demoness' was Mindy's other personality created by what Doctor Paul termed as Dissociative Identity Disorder made worst by Depression, Psychosis, a ruined childhood and insurmountable tragedies, it meant that Hit-Girl, or Mindy, was also saying it, "Mindy was it? Hit-Girl? That Batwoman-type you've been teaming up with back then?"

"Y-yeah." For a while, I could feel it seeping out of me, upon remembering everything that went wrong back then. Even to this day, it had that kind of power. It was the Dracula of Draculas I had to contend with every single day, and it wasn't the traditional kind of Dracula, but the kind with all the modern reinterpretations and super CGI effects, "That's her. You don't mind, right?"

"Wait… Are you..?" My father'd stopped eating, and that was big news in our family vocabulary. I looked at him wide-eyed, a little confused at what he's driving at. It had the effect of driving away the memories for a bit.

"What..? Dad?" I replied stupidly, not getting it at all. What was he driving at? He knew about my superhero alter-ego, so that can't be it. He knew about Mindy and HER alter-ego as Hit-Girl and the DID resulting in Demoness…

"Dave, I understand everything you've been going through. You've been friends with her for almost 2 years now, fighting together, watching each other's backs, going through what people twice your age could only dream of… together." My dad's monologue started. He's been doing that quite a bit lately, especially when I'd hit rock bottom with my Mindy anxiety back then, and back then I appreciated it, but now, "It's only natural that you'd… You know, even if she's almost half your age. I'm your dad, it's really fine to talk about it…" Then, it clicked all of a sudden.

"Oh! What? Dad, no." I nearly spat back out my first bite of cereal, but I swallowed without chewing all the way instead, nearly choking or vomiting, "Don't even go there. We've talked about this a few times. She's like a sister to me." Despite what I said, he still looked worried, unconvinced, "Dad! I'm not a paedophile!"

For some reason, a smile started curling up his face, his seriousness fading away like the moon in the morning. I was thoroughly confused, especially more so when he started chuckling, then laughing, "Dad! No! Don't go Joker on me!" At this, I was just as serious as he was. After Mindy, I was always worried that everyone around me would go nuts. If I had the money to do it, I'd check myself out for PTSD at the nearest psychiatric hospital.

"Just kidding, buddy!" Dad managed to squeeze out as he was absolutely laughing out loud. He had to push himself away his bowl of cereal in case he knock it over. He looked like he was just a step away from rolling on the ground. I could only feel relieved at this – it was surprisingly new, my dad developing a healthy sense of humour. I had to wonder myself, what allowed him to develop that sense of humour? Eventually, however, I was laughing with him – it really was funny after all, in retrospect. After calming down, he continued, "See, Dave? Thing's aren't that bad in the end. You know what I'm trying to tell you, right?"

"That… I'm not a paedophile?" After getting a suckerpunch-joke, I was getting thrown off a bit, and confused at what he was trying to say.

"Well, other than that," I couldn't tell whether he was joking this time, but from his post-joke chuckle, it was obvious he was stretching it a bit. Don't get me wrong though, it was still funny in retrospect, "I'm fine with it, adopting her. The Lizewski family could use another kid."

"You know, your mom and I wanted more than you… You know?" He was, very quickly, looking down, solemn. At first, I expected tears from him, but it didn't come out. As for me, I understood a long time ago that life goes on regardless, although admittedly, her death happening just a few years back helped, for some reason. Was it because I was tougher? Or was I just desensitized enough not to be slitting wrists by living in a city – that rationalisation has had me confused for years myself, "Funny. We've always wanted a daughter. Thought you could use one, you know?"

I kept silent. The day had only just begun, and already, it felt like the climax of Batman Begins. It was evident that he was still a little upset over my mother, at what was, what is, and what could have been. Even after all these years, and now, I've gotten along even better with him, and with Mindy going on for the past year, tragedy was no longer just confined in a book by Shakespeare or Jerry Siegel any longer.

"I'm so proud of you, Dave. You've grown so, so much, fighting crime, and now... There's Mindy." Dad continued. He was still not touching his cereal, but at his arms were on the table, "I just wish it wasn't as tough as it was."

"An adopted daughter for me and an adopted sister for you. Who would've thought?" Dad continued to ramble on. A burning question, in the meantime, occurred to me.

"Dad, I know you have a shift coming up, but do you want to take it off and meet her?" I asked my burning question. I, on the other hand, had no idea what was best.

"Nah, you pick her up today. I figured you deserve some time alone with her." He continued. I still couldn't help but to read his me-as-a-paedophile joke into that for some reason, "Besides," He continued as he was standing up. He'd been rapidly shoving cereal into his mouth between words that he was nearly done, but he still could not finish, "I've got to work hard now that I have a new baby girl to take care of."

At first glance, anyone would think that he took it begrudgingly, but he wasn't. Not even a tiny bit, not a chance. He was smiling, full of energy. Before this, I thought I'd done him in where taking care of kids were concerned, but it turns out he still had the strength to carry on. The grey hair on his scalp don't mean shit at all. With that, he marched off animatedly towards the front door, but before he leave, he continued on, just when I thought it couldn't get any more awesome, "I'll set aside some money, make a room for her. I bet she's the pink-and-purple type."

Later…

The cab I was in pulled over before the Institute. I paid the taxi driver his due, and then even more as a tip, and because I was crazy with joy and excitement, with a little bit of anxiety thrown in. Sure, he called me crazy, but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered except for Mindy walking through the gates of Jameson.

My smile was pretty much a permanent establishment on my face as I walked through reception, skipped over to Doctor Paul's office, greeting every single doctor, orderly and patient I come across, including the grouchy orderly with a pirate patch on his right eye. Knocking on Paul's office door with a comical pattern, I opened it and entered. I could hardly wait to hear it from him.

Coming into his office, I noticed that it didn't change one bit. Heavy wooden furniture, red carpets and various sorts of instruments lined a counter. Bookshelves behind him, and his certificates, like trophies, hung on the right side wall, displayed proudly. He didn't change much either. Doctor Paul was still in his 50s, sporting a full head of grey hair, and is actually quite muscular due to the same hobby he had with Aldan, or Grandmaster. I could easily imagine him with a claymore, except… One of his arms, his left arm, was in a sling, and it was in a cast. My smile faded a little.

"What happened to your arm?" Before I even said it, I knew it had something to do with Mindy. The look of it took my smile right off. Something felt wrong. Immediately, I was looking around the room, my Kick-Ass-sense reactivated. I couldn't help it. I was Pavlov's Dog, and it refused to fade away even long after Demoness' defeat.

"It's fine, cheery, don't worry about it, happened a few months ago when I failed to hypnotise Mindy Macready." The doctor explained. He wasn't even looking at his clipboard anymore. Mindy must have made quite an impression upon him. There was a glass of whisky on his side – for a moment I thought he was, again, nervous, but I didn't see any beads of sweat, "It'd be out of the cast soon, so it's fine and dandy, yeah?"

"Please, have a seat." He waved his only working hand over the rather comfortable satin chair he had ahead of his desk, "Now let's get down to the patient, shall we?" Patient!? My paranoid mind screamed, Still a patient!?

"Look, I know you're absolutely, undoubtedly excited, happy, in cloud 9 over this, as I'm sure, but there are many things you should know first." I was wide-eyed and wide-mouthed before it even started. I was going, 'No, not another horrible twist again…', like when I was watching an incredibly horrible movie, except this was way, way worse. My stomach was wrenching itself, tied in an intricate knot that only a 50 year old boy scout could disentangle. Doctor Paul noticed my distress, not that I was a master at hiding my feelings, "Look here, son, it's not… that bad, considering the alternative." Now that he mentioned the alternative, I couldn't help but to agree – anything's better than Demoness running around the city, killing hundreds all over again, starting another mass funeral. I cared less about her vendetta against me. You wouldn't either, not especially after you'd seen the procession going down the city, the women and children in black, the walls of sympathy…

"What are you saying?" I feel like a soldier in Vietnam on an electrified bed, begging for a Rambo to save me from it, "What happened to Mindy?" Dr. Paul was looking at his clipboard again. I froze, tried to peek in on the details myself, but I couldn't read it from afar, and the words I could somehow make out didn't make half a lick of sense.

"Where do I start?" The good doctor said, still looking at his clipboard, and for the next few seconds, was silent. It felt like forever, as the cliché goes, but it was no cliché to me. I was dying inside, "Well, to start… She's not Mindy anymore. It's Mandy now."

"Man… Mandy?" It doesn't click with me. The most I could think of was that there was some kind of a new personality from her Dissociative Identity Disorder. Heck, I was running on nothing but a thread here. I couldn't even remember the DID term until I glanced it off the clipboard.

"Yes, she's not Mindy anymore, and certainly not Hit-Girl, and most importantly, she's not Demoness anymore." He continued. My heart felt like it needed a defibrillator. I would have been glad if she was cured, but this was something else entirely, I felt it down to the bones, and my bones weren't made of Adamantium.

"I've tried every treatment available. In the area of Psychotherapy alone, I've exhausted Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, Insight-Oriented Therapies, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Then there's Hypnotherapy, which of course, as you might gather, gave me this broken arm." I couldn't even understand half of what he was saying. All I could focus on was the bit where Mindy, the Hit-Girl I knew, the girl who I helped Marcus Williams to take care of, God rest his soul, the girl who I had to tuck in at night at the cop's house, who I had to comfort on many said nights to even get her to even take a nap ever since Big Daddy died, the strong girl who single-handedly took down the notorious D'Amico family, was no more, somehow gone, just gone like that, "- No doubt been exhausted as well. You wouldn't want to know the kind of chemicals I had to pump into her on a regular basis, and most of them don't work." He had continued droning on even when I was losing focus, remembering the Mindy Macready I knew, the Hit-Girl who saved me from being executed live in front of a camera, before the whole wide city.

"You… brainwashed her." I choked on my own words. My brain felt like it was expanding. I was clutching my head, covering my eyes. The dam broke again, just like it always did in the last year – Tears were spilling. I could feel pain, almost physical pain in there, in my skull. I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up in the asylum the next day, kept in a straitjacket.

"That's a crude term, not even half right, but excusable." The doctor continued. Despite understanding my distress, he seemed confident in what he was doing. I couldn't help but to imagine him in a corny Nazi SS Uniform, but half of me knew that it wasn't his fault, "It was an experimental treatment, a package of treatment I used to deconstruct and reconstruct her, deleting memories and personality traits at the root of her Demoness complex. In simpler terms, it's a combination of memory-wiping drugs, electroshock treatment, and various forms of procedural therapy." His last explanation was a little more on my level. I could understand, just barely, not that it made it any easier.

"I understand this is very hard, very difficult on you. I've read your accounts, all 129 pages of them, but this is the only way. We've worked together for the past year, that is over 320 days, and you would have to trust me." The doctor continued. The next time I looked up, he had already put down his clipboard, "Dave, listen to me. What I say next will be substantial, important, very essential." And I was thinking at the time, isn't everything you've said so far extremely substantial? Too substantial?

"Her treatment is not over. The next phase falls upon you. I've done the deconstruction, I've cut away the tumour, x-rayed the cancer. She's a clean slate now, and you're her new author." The doctor continued. His clipboard was down, but he had switched to his computer, "She doesn't even know her new name, Mandy. You could choose to give her a new name, but I recommend Mandy Lizewski, just not Mindy and especially not Mindy Macready. I need you to stir her clear from all that nonsense that drove her down to my Institute, do you understand?"

I could only nod, and nod away. Mindy… or rather Mandy, had to be given a life far away from violence, from all that military and police training Big Daddy had given her, from all that experience she had taking down petty criminals and the bigger mobs and mafia. No more superheroes, no more comic books, not even that sort of cartoons, "Give her a feminine life, something normal. There might be some residual memories – maybe an odd muscle memory, or an unclear emotional response, but with time, she will completely forget, as you call it, get over it, get a move on, and she will then live the normal life she deserves."

"Are you ready to meet her?" The doctor said as he was switching off the monitor on his computer, putting his only good hand over his clipboard ceremoniously.

"Yes, yes, please." I said, my voice visibly shaking, but not from straight-up happiness or excitement any longer. I was terrified, somehow, of meeting this new vulnerable little girl the doctor told me about as opposed to the Hit-Girl I knew who could kill a man with his own finger. I was more used to the rough Hit-Girl as opposed to… Mandy. I regretted not convincing dad to come with me.