Flying High
Chapter 7 – 'Tis The Season
By: CountessMorgana
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The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.
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Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to do.
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.
It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right.
I hope you had the time of your life.
Green Day, "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)"
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31 October 1952: Gwynns Residence, 143 Greenspan Road
"Miss Enid Gwynns?" The two men outside her door were garbed in business suits. The one who spoke did so in a formal, yet direct manner. Enid had left the chain on the door just in case, and answered cautiously; "Yes."
The first man inclined his head. "Miss Gwynns, my name is Henry Grier and this is my associate Daniel Pollard. We're from the National Supers Agency, overseeing metahuman activities throughout the United States." It sounded like a rehearsed speech (and for all Enid knew it probably was.) The man handed over a pair of thin leather wallets embossed with the NSA logo. The photographs inside matched the faces of the two men, and everything else – authorization, signatures, the gold stamped NSA seal and its holographic double – seemed authentic.
Enid closed her eyes. 'Tradewind. It had to be.'
"I suppose I've just been found out?" she asked, returning the IDs.
"Not quite," said Henry Grier. "We've actually had you under surveillance for some time now."
"'Some time'?"
"Since early September." There was a pause, Enid a bit dazed from this bit of news. "Ah, Miss Gwynns, if we could—"
"Of course." Enid quickly unlatched the door. "Come on in."
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19 December 1952: Riverview Heights Preparatory School
Tick... tock... tick... tock... tick...
It was the last day of examinations for the fall term, and the last assessment that the freshmen of Riverview Heights' upper school had to undertake was English. Bernie Kropp had, in his usual unsubtle fashion, proclaimed several times that his exam would be every bit as tough as his class was probably imagining. And in this respect Kropp did not disappoint, much to the dismay of the students foolish enough to assume he'd only been joking.
Two hours had been allotted for the exam, and two hours only. One hundred and twenty precious minutes to analyze and answer three essay questions – no multiple choice or short answer questions, not even a 'True or False' segment, which many had hoped for.
Enid Gwynns stared blankly at the list of questions before her, lines of sharp black typewritten text swirling around, only incoherent fragments penetrating her thoughts. She'd studied for this, spent countless late nights reading, and had thought she was prepared. Then Fate had waltzed in and wiped her mind clean as a blank slate, leaving Enid to scramble for answers best as she could.
At least she wasn't the only person who was wasting time in one form or another. She glanced to the right, where Adrian Harper sat in a stupor dribbling all over his second essay answer, making the black ink of his words run into indecipherable blotches of dark grey (the odds were good that Mr. Kropp would take one look at the state of Adrian's paper, not bother to work any of it out, and mark a big red 'F' at the top before moving on). Peering over Adrian's sleeping head to the end of the row, Enid spotted Mackenzie Kintail, his brows creased in a frown, mouth moving silently, and usually neatly combed hair badly mussed. Enid barely had time to wonder why when Mackenzie grimaced and unconsciously raked a hair through his hair – a nervous habit, more likely than not.
Speaking of which, up in the front row sat Frank Amery, who had a tendency to tap his forehead with the end of his pen in times of stress. Only now Frank was absentmindedly tapping the pen's point against his skull, leaving a pattern that by all appearances resembled Morse code written in Braille. Tom Pecker looked ready to tear something or someone apart from sheer frustration, a notion seemingly shared by Eric Pritchard, and Danny Jefferson, and Jimmy Rockford, and – well, nearly all the boys in the room, really. Gemma Modern looked close to tears, and Patrick O'Malley actually was in tears.
Tick... tock... tick... tock... tick...
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Six Weeks Previously
The two NSA agents – Grier and Pollard – seated themselves in the sitting room's armchairs while Enid took the sofa after a mad dash to the kitchen for tea-making utensils. Years of living with a mother who was a major figure in Megalopolis society meant Enid had (somewhat unwillingly) developed the skills of a good hostess. When Pollard had settled down with a glass of brandy, Grier cleared his throat and looked at Enid with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
"Miss Gwynns, we understand it's been a rather trying evening for you, so I'll be concise. Would you consider joining the National Supers Agency?"
Outwardly, Enid instantly froze with an expression of wide-eyed shock. Inside, thoughts were whizzing about in her head, clashing and warring with each other, processed at hyper-speed.
'Oh. My. Gosh. This is it! This is the chance I've been waiting for!'
It had risks, to be sure.
'So does everything in life.'
And what if her parents found out?
'They don't need to know. I spend so much time out of the house already they'll probably chalk it up to more bird watching.'
She was still a minor.
'So are Tradewind and Macroburst. Nobody's out to stop them.'
Didn't she already have a prospective career ahead of her?
'Career? Yeah, as if etiquette lessons, Home Ec classes, finishing school, cotillions and society rounds all for a brilliant marriage and being a housewife count as a darn career! Be just like my mother and smile, simper, show off the kitchen, hang on to a husband's arm at parties and wear frilly dresses and produce children of good breeding to start the whole damn cycle over again. And that's exactly what's waiting for me down the road – I want to do something more!'
Harry stared at Miss Gwynns with increasing worry. She hadn't said anything for a few minutes now, and with her pupils dilated in fact seemed to be lost in her own world. Her breathing had started to increase too – short sharp gasps that didn't sound at all good. He glanced at Dan, who had set down his brandy glass and looked equally alarmed. Most of the supers to whom the NSA had approached with offers to join the ranks had initial reactions of surprise, caution, and occasionally incredulousness and paranoia. Cases of outright hostilities (like Elastigirl) and extreme shock were rare, but it seemed Miss Gwynns was going to be categorized into the latter.
"Maybe you were too concise back there, Grier," Dan said nervously. "Looks like textbook hyperventilation."
"I can see that, Pollard."
"Well we can't just sit here!" Dan Pollard began to fret. "There's got to be a paper bag somewhere she can breathe into—"
"Shut up. Miss Gwynns?" Harry said urgently. "Miss Gwynns, please, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. Take a deep breath, just relax, you don't have to answer right away. If you want some time to think it over, take as long as you need. There's no rush."
'Wait? What's there to wait?'
"I don't need to wait." Enid sat up, eyes clear. "I'll do it."
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Enid was soon aware of someone watching her. Breaking out of her reverie, she saw Kropp glowering from his seat, clearly angry she had the nerve to daydream during his exam. The message was clear – focus or flunk.
Oh God... Think. What did she remember about The Merchant of Venice? Darn Shakespeare, now she couldn't recall a thing! Kropp had turned away to glare at someone in the front row, so Enid found herself glancing at her incomplete exam again.
Tick... tock... tick... tock... Skeeeer-ink!
Anyone in the exam hall still awake raised their heads or twisted about in their seats to see Mackenzie Kintail standing awkwardly, with his chair pushed back. With an embarrassed shrug that passed for a silent apology, he gathered his exam papers in one hand and made his way to Kropp's desk. The teacher, who had heard Mackenzie's chair squawk just as well as anyone else, did not acknowledge him.
A discomforting moment or two passed. "Ah, Mr. Kropp—"
"I told you kids at the beginning of this exam, you would not be getting help from me," Kropp said finally, eyes still closed as he sat back in his chair.
At this, Mackenzie stared. "Actually—"
"You would not be getting help, because I expected you to study. You were expected to study because I know you can't expect to lead cushy lives all your livelong days."
Mackenzie didn't reply, only half-turning with an incredulous expression to meet the stares of his fifty-odd classmates, most of who were looking on with sympathy.
"I don't need help, sir." Enid thought she heard a small note of sarcasm in that mandatory title of respect.
"You don't?" Briefly taken aback by this, Kropp immediately retorted, "Well, if that's the case, you can go sit back down anyway since washroom breaks are prohi—"
"I'm done."
"Beg your pardon?" Kropp asked, surprised.
Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Mackenzie elaborated and enunciated clearly: "I've finished your exam and I'm handing it in."
Kropp almost tore the papers from Mackenzie's head and carefully scrutinized each page in turn. Finally he fixed Mackenzie with a baleful expression. "Fine, you're done. Pack your bag and leave the exam hall immediately. Any attempts to interact with your classmates on your way out and I'll be flunking you all."
Mackenzie shrugged, but he made a hasty exit nonetheless.
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Now that she'd agreed, Grier and Pollard were running over the particulars.
"We offer all of our people the full health package, including dental," Grier said. "Should you happen to spend any of your own funds on equipment, travel, or any other super-related essentials, your expenses will be completely reimbursed."
"So long as you remember to save your bills," Pollard added helpfully.
"We'll also require you to undergo four to six weeks of basic training. It doesn't have to be done all at once, but most supers find it easier to get it over with in one go. And then there's managing your powers, but from what we've seen and heard you've got a pretty good handle on them."
"Will I have to tell my parents?" Enid blurted out.
Dan glanced at Harry. "Not if you don't want to. It'd be advisable, in case accidents happen and we need to notify a next of kin. But you are underage, Miss Gwynns, and I won't deny that those of our supers who are or did work for us before turning sixteen had explicit permission from their parents or guardians." Dan shrugged. "Once they turned sixteen, of course, it was a different story – and even then the parents were usually aware of the situation and the risks it entailed."
"You don't think your parents will react well to this if you told them, do you?" Harry asked quietly.
Enid immediately thought of what she knew of Alan and Rebecca Gwynns. "No. Not in the slightest."
"How severe a reaction are we talking about here? Just think of the most feasible worst-case scenario."
Enid gave a humorless smile, one that didn't suit her face at all and chilled the men when they saw it. "They'll denounce me, disown me, and kick me out in that order. I'm supposed to be a showcase of New England high society wealth and privilege, and they sure as heck didn't spend all those years of hard work and keeping up appearances only to have their daughter turn into a vigilante."
Harry was concerned. "Well, if worse come to worst, we could arrange alternate living arrangements for you."
"Hang on Harry." Dan Pollard broke in. "Her father's a lawyer, and I've read up on what we know on the family. Trust me, he'll find some way to take this to court."
"Maybe not," said Enid. "It'd really hurt Mom and Dad's social position if something like that were to be made public. They'll go to any lengths to make sure of saving face and keeping everything quiet before the lawsuits start."
"And if they do, we have some of America's best legal minds on the NSA payroll." A thought occurred to Harry. "Miss Gwynns, how old are you?"
"I'll be fifteen on November 20th." Enid's face fell. "Looks like I'll have to tell them."
"Not necessarily," Harry smiled. "I think we can work around the rules here. Miss Gwynns, would you mind an extended training period? It's not official super business per se, but it will require some, uh, field work under NSA guidance. And once you turn sixteen we'll have you ready."
Enid was silent for a moment, a smile of her own growing. "That could work."
Agent Pollard stared from Enid to Harry in confusion. "What are you two talking about? Someone fill me in, please!"
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Half an hour later, Enid handed in her own exam, gathered her things, and left the stifling atmosphere of the exam hall.
She was surprised to see the door open for her on the way, and even more so on seeing Riverview Heights vice-principal Richard Thames outside acting as the doorman. In the hallway, an unidentifiable boy lay stretched out full length on one of the hallway benches, his snoring muffled from the hat covering his face. The only two armchairs were likewise taken by the smartest girl in class, Lauren Vanier, who'd dosed off sitting in one and using the other as a footrest and bag deposit. Mackenzie Kintail lounged on the second bench reading a book. He looked up when the door closed behind her.
"'Lo, Gwynns."
"What are you still doing here?" Enid instantly regretted the abrupt tone when Lauren shifted in her sleep and added hastily, "I mean, shouldn't you have gone home already? It's not school policy to force people to stay if they finish early! Unless they wanted to keep you in because of some snowstorm—" Here Enid quickly looked outside the windows to confirm inclement weather was not the case, and Mackenzie did too.
"Apparently not," he replied wryly. "And as to school policy, Branksome changed her mind on that one fairly recently. It's why Mr. Thames is standing guard, to 'ensure proper standards of academic honesty are upheld'." Enid bit her lip to stop from giggling at Mackenzie's near-perfect imitation of the principal's strong Boston accent.
"So what happened?" Enid asked, moving towards the bench, Mackenzie quickly removing his feet to allow her to sit.
"Yesterday afternoon, during the senior class's calculus final, some people got their friends to scrawl down formulas and other tips on whitewashed cardboard and show them through the lecture hall windows behind the teacher's desk. It wasn't until ten minutes before the exam finished that the teacher on duty realized what was going on. Hence, the calculus final's been rewritten and rescheduled, not only is there the change in policy but also in location."
"I wondered about that," said Enid. The new exam hall had been windowless and confining, even for her. "Felt like I was in a box."
"Don't I know it," her classmate muttered. "Do you know what's been up with O'Malley these days? I was leaving the hall, and it looked like he'd cracked."
"Bernie Kropp would drive anyone crazy," Enid retorted. Long past tears when Frank Amery had finished ten minutes before, Paddy by Enid's time of departure looked as though he had given up, having buried his face in his hands with shoulders visibly shaking.
Poor Paddy, Enid thought guiltily, as the Halloween encounter appeared to have left the youngest O'Malley permanently scarred for life. Genuinely believing he had run into Magdalene May and that his days were henceforth numbered, Paddy no longer walked around school so much as he skulked, and was always on the lookout for deranged axe murderers lurking around corners or some such imaginary threat.
Nowhere was this made more apparent to Enid than midway through November, when the freshman boys' gym class was interrupted when a careless comment about the local ghost had made Paddy panic. It had taken the combined efforts of Coach Laurence, Principal Branksome, a school ladder, and half an hour of cajoling before Paddy had consented to climbing down from the basketball hoop. The corners of Enid's mouth twitched upwards; guilt aside, the sight of Paddy stuck up there had been rather funny, and it would be a long time before Patrick could ever live that one down.
"Penny for your thoughts," Mackenzie said, noticing her expression.
"They're not worth it. Where's Amery?"
"Trying to scrub the ink off his forehead."
"Good luck with that!"
"That's what I said. I'll have to hitch a ride with him since my bike hit an ice patch last week." Enid winced, and Mackie nodded. "Insurance agreed to pay for damages, though." There was a brief pause. "I don't suppose you or Modern need help getting home?"
"Oh, no, we're fine. Gemma's neighbour agreed to pick us up."
"Suit yourself," Mackenzie shrugged, going back to his book.
They settled into a companionable silence, broken a minute later when Frank Amery returned from the boys' restroom with faint traces of grey still visible on his head. The resulting jokes and teasing at Frank's expense occupied the three students until the bell rang, ending the exam and dismissing all the freshmen for the Christmas break.
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"Oh my GOSH! Have you ever seen anything so sweet?"
"He's SOOOOO cute!! I think I'm in love!"
"Look at those big blue eyes!"
"Who's the cutest lil' guy on the block? Yes oooo are, oh yes oooo are!"
"Oh, oh! He's got those golden curls! Awwwww, he's a perfect little angel!"
"Great, now I want a little brother! Gemma, you're soooo lucky!"
Standing well away from the knot of sappy-faced girls clustered by the shotgun window of the sedan, said older sister smiled and nodded graciously. Once the admirer went back to sighing over the baby of her affections the smile slipped off Gemma's face and was replaced with a vexed frown.
"Enid, you're my best friend, tell me the truth. Are we the only ones here not reduced to cooing inanely over the kid?"
There was no reply.
"Enid? Hello? Any time before the Soviets invade would be nice."
"Sorry." Enid reluctantly tore her eyes away from Mackenzie Kintail, who was just passing. "You're Artie's sister, Gem. It doesn't count if you see him all the time! Of course, I'm an only child, so I can't talk..."
"Ah, well then as a proud older sibling, I'll fill you in on the particulars of being a big sister," said Gemma as the two friends began to briskly elbow their way through the crowd of fellow students. "Babies cry all the time, can't be left on their own for a moment, and are a complete pain to clean up after. Messes are atrocious, feeding times resemble war zones, and post-bottle burps have significant chances of turning into barfing incidents that ruin your new clothes. And diaper changing, yeeuch! Don't get me started on the smell."
Enid could only laugh at the face Gemma pulled. "You poor thing, you sound like his mother."
Gemma glared at her friend. "Please, I'm nobody's mother. Sure feel like it, though."
"Doesn't your grandma help?"
"With my parents off God-knows-where with the jet set I'm stuck taking full time care of the little guy. And between you and me, my grandma's not all there, you know?"
"Afternoon ladies!" An affable, slightly dishevelled gentleman in his late twenties was sticking his head out of the driver's window.
"Dr. Hudson!" Gemma was surprised.
The driver shook his head sadly. "Now Gemma, how many times have I asked you to call me Scott?"
"Force of habit, Dr. Hud– Scott." Gemma gave an embarrassed smile. "This is my friend, Enid Gwynns. Enid, this is Dr. Scott Hudson, only the best paediatrician in Bayside."
Scott laughed. "You flatter me, Gemma. Miss Gwynns, it's a honor to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise, Doctor."
"If you don't mind my asking, Miss Gwynns, are you any relation to Councillor Richard Gwynn?"
It wasn't an unusual question, as Sherwood County's councillor not only shared a similar name but bore a superficial resemblance to Enid's father. "No, not that I know of. My father's a city attorney, but he's never shown much interest in politics."
Scott eyed her keenly. "What about your mother?"
Gemma's annoyed expression caught Enid's eye, the dark haired girl immediately understanding Scott was only watching out for her friend's welfare. Enid smiled as she shucked off her schoolbag and slid into the car's backseat. "My mother prefers her charity and society work. She's on the executive board of the local DAR and CDA chapters." Enid frowned slightly. "Though she's been out a fair bit more than usual, even for the season..."
"Sorry? Didn't hear that last part."
"Oh, nothing. Since both my parents are busy, Gem invited me over to debate Christmas presents, last-minute gift options, and ways to avoid asphyxiation in the mall crowds, poor us."
Checking to make sure Arthur was secure, Scott raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me. Put off your Christmas shopping, have you?"
"If you must know, then yes. Again. And no asking of what your presents are, because I'm not telling!" said Gemma, climbing in after shooing away Arthur's fan club. "I'm surprised you're here with your practice and all, Scott. Guess that means Guy couldn't make it then?"
Scott's hand paused on its way to the ignition. "'Fraid so. Something came up," he said lightly, though it sounded forced. "And even I need a lunch break! Seatbelts on and homeward bound in that order, ladies – I saw that Gemma, don't even try to deny it, I know what I saw."
"Saw what?" Gemma asked, all innocence.
"I believe my kids call it the 'Gooey Face'. The one you use on Arthur when you think no-one's looking and can get away with showing affection without losing face on the unappreciative older sibling act."
Enid snorted. "Awwwww, Gemma, you do care!"
"I. Do. Not." Gemma said through clenched teeth.
"Yes you do."
"Do not."
"Do too."
Eyes on the road but ears on the girls, Scott sensed this might continue for some time.
He wasn't wrong.
"Do not."
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Do not."
"Do t—" Gemma broke off in horror. "Oh, cripes."
Enid smiled beatifically, while Scott snickered in a very unprofessional way. Baby Arthur gurgled, oblivious.
Gemma slouched further down into her seat. "Fine, fine, so the brat isn't a holy terror all the time. Happy now?"
"That'll do, Gemma. That'll do."
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Chief Joseph Timothy Robson of the Megalopolis police force was no Albert Einstein, but he hadn't gotten to where he was now by being an idiot. Overconfidence had been the downfall of many of his predecessors, and Robson would be darned if he let that happen to him. Better to be safe than sorry, his old man had always said, and in most cases Robson took the maxim to heart.
The above was doubly so in the case of supervillains. Robson had set out a stringent list of protocols to be followed with the apprehended criminals, taking it as far as he could go without blatantly infringing on any civil rights. These had included solitary confinement, around-the-clock watch, thorough inspection of any and all visitors including legal counsel, and meetings with said visitors in guarded rooms with bulletproof glass screens separating prisoner and guests. All eating utensils were plastic and dishes were prepared so that everything could be eaten with a spoon. The last chief prior to Robson had allowed metal utensils, specifically forks – a stupid idea, but not even Robson had expected the Tormentor to get out as far as he did and incapacitate as many as he did armed only with that fork before police gunfire and a well-timed blast from Dynaguy had finished the Tormentor off. There were headstones in Trinity Churchyard with the names of Sergeant Paul Elliot and Constable Derrick Irvin on it; both stabbed to the heart, they had ended up as the only fatalities of that incident.
For now, the rest of the force was content to follow Robson's lead. Those of the opinion his methods were excessive to the point of paranoid were usually cried down by angry citizens who vocally disagreed. In another five years or so, when Sergeant Elliot and Constable Irvin's deaths had faded from recent memory, the tide would turn again. But for the time being Robson was going to make every last effort to ensure none of his people died in their own stations at their posts for lack of preventive measures.
Outside the stations, their lives were up to chance and the grace of God.
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Dominique St. Clair, alias Bomb Voyage, had long ago come to a definite conclusion:
Whatever disdain he'd ever had for the English, he hated their American cousins even more.
Hence his preference to speak French and only in French among the police and heroes of America, generated partly out of spite, and mostly because it was rather amusing to see the various upholders of law and justice, costumed or uniformed, being forced to pantomime everything until a proficient translator could be located and brought in (though lately even that had lost its fun, with those two mind-reading cuckolds being able to understand every insult he slung at them, and that English child responding with language that had Bomb Voyage seething at the impunity).
Fortunately, the wealthy and elite of America were far easier and plentiful targets than their British friends, who, taking the full brunt of Hitler's war machine, were still on rationing even now. Those few fortunate enough to come through the wars and the aftermath with their fortunes secure were either quick to upgrade already impressive security measures to protect their treasures or, having sold off their valuables to pay the state, had nothing truly valuable enough for Bomb Voyage to waste his time stealing.
Speaking of wasting time, there he'd been, sitting in an American jail cell for the last four months as the courts dragged on. No sooner than he'd been taken into custody did the bureaucracy kick in – being wanted on numerous charges in a number of states and half of Europe had its own advantages, with petitions for extradition coming from all sides and the resulting paperwork clogging up the legal channels. Perhaps the sole request that all the offended parties seemed to agree upon was the immediate transfer of the prisoner to an ultra-maximum security facility, and Chief Robson was forced to concur.
Thus Bomb Voyage's reason for travelling fully restrained in the middle of an armoured police van in the middle of an armoured convoy in the middle of the night. All the keys to the various locks had been sent on ahead earlier, and only upon their delivery and confirmation was Bomb Voyage hustled up out of his cell and into the van, where he sat, glaring at the two policemen clutching their sidearms. The policemen glared right back, both conveying without words that if he made even the slightest of wrong moves, neither would hesitate in shooting him.
It was around that moment that one of the tires on the van burst. The flat was almost immediately followed by the sounds of gunfire.
After two minutes of listening to what seemed to be a losing battle, Bomb Voyage's guards regarded him briefly before one struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol, rendering him unconscious before both jumped out to join the melee.
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Outside, the rest of the convoy was being systematically taken out by a gilded figure whose imperviousness to their bullets was rapidly causing alarm.
Avarice was not one to repeat mistakes; she'd deliberately aimed for the drivers and anyone riding shotgun first. The radios were next, and by that point she'd been forced to keep her shield up with one hand while blasting the police with the other. It was pure rotten luck the transport had happened on a night during the new moon, robbing her of a decent charge. She had to absorb light from the muzzle flashes to keep from depleting her reserves, a task made easier when one patrolman switched on the headlights of the rear car – Avarice promptly sent a laser in his direction, shattering the windshield in the process and knocking him out cold.
If there was one thing she preferred, it was keeping her victims alive. Granted, it took a little more time, but at least she wouldn't have to witness the blood and gore that usually came with Bomb Voyage's modus operandi.
Speaking of whom, a pair of armed police guards jumped out of the central van she was sure contained the infamous man. Both were young, and on espying her, they promptly opened fire.
'You really should have learned from your friends, cretins.' Avarice thought, bringing up her shields again. When the two officers gaped in surprise, she dropped the field and quickly struck out with beams from both hands.
One cop went down, her aim perfect. The other yelped as the laser knocked his weapon from his hand. He fell back on his hands and seat, while the pistol spun in an arc overhead and hit the road between them at an angle. There was a flash and a loud report, and Avarice felt something small whizz past, leaving a sudden stinging pain at the base of her neck right above the clavicle. Bringing a hand up to the spot, her gold-gloved fingers came back smeared with red.
"Maudit!" she exclaimed.
The last officer standing made a desperate and valiant attempt to reclaim the weapon by scrabbling over the road. Just as he was about to reach out and grab it, Avarice snarled and blasted him with a laser to the stomach that knocked him onto his back. The vest he wore took the worst of the damage, but the force of her attack left the man in a good deal of pain.
It didn't stop him from reaching out to his gun yet again. Avarice negated that when she slammed a booted foot first into his face and then onto his hand, pinning the appendage to the ground.
"Le sacrament qui était en calvaire a calissé dehors l'ostie en tabarnac..." she muttered violently, snapping her fingers. A bright sphere appeared, and glaring at the officer, she deliberately ground the heel of her boot into his hand, ignoring his cry of pain.
At that moment, a flash of light on gold caught her eye. She scowled, and peered closer at the hand pinned under her foot.
Scrutiny showed the gold in question to be a wedding band on the officer's fourth finger. The plain ring gleamed brightly, as yet untarnished from years of constant wear. It was obviously a recent acquisition.
Avarice merely stared at the ornament in silence. The officer stared up at her.
The odd stalemate broke when the sphere in Avarice's hand exploded into a light show so intense the officer's mind couldn't cope. He slumped, head dropping back down, catatonic.
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Bomb Voyage blinked as the steel floor of the van swam into view – and didn't stop moving.
"Où...?"
A throbbing pain in his head reminded him. Those two guards had struck him before jumping out to confront whoever had ambushed his convoy. Most likely he had a lump the size of un oeuf up there... He reached up, gingerly poking at the swelling, and quickly pulled back when white-hot needles of agony shot through his nerves. Yeah, that one wasn't going away anytime soon.
But wait a moment. Hadn't he been cuffed, chained, trussed up to sit on that damn uncomfortable metal bench without the slightest bit of give? How, then, could he have the freedom to touch his head as he had? And what was that odd hissing and crackling sound? He shifted, made to get up.
"It'd be better if you didn't," a woman's voice advised in what he thought was French. Actually, he was sure it was French, only pronounced so curiously that it was difficult to understand.
"Pourquoi?" he asked, craning his neck round carefully so the van would cease its spinning.
Ah. Yes, that would be a good reason not to move.
The speaker had indeed been a woman, albeit one garbed in a form-fitting gold costume. The colour was far too gaudy even for his tastes, but the view was otherwise appealing.
Which lead to the main reason why moving would not be a good idea: sparks and smoke filled the air whilst the woman calmly cut through his fetters, most likely with some sort of welding tool. Had he moved when she told him not to, there would have been a very interesting scar to show the grandchildren. (Then again, six inches to the left and grandchildren would have been out of the question.)
Two minutes later, Bomb Voyage was smirking as he stretched his legs, the woman sitting back on the bench with a disdainful sniff.
"Écoutez!" she snapped, and continuing in French. "In ten minutes a routine patrol will pass by on this lane, and the guards I attacked will be awakening soon. We must be gone from here by then."
Bomb Voyage tilted his head with a quizzical frown. "Dix minutes? Êtes-vous certain?"
"Oui."
"Quel dommage," he muttered to himself. Then he turned to the woman. "Et d'où êtes-vous? Terre-Neuve, Québec, Louisiane? Ou peut-être vous êtes une Acadienne, hm? Votre accent prouve vous n'êtes pas Parisienne."
Exasperated, Avarice shook her head. "Votre accent suisse est à peine mieux!"
There was a long pause as the two villains warily eyed each other.
"Or we could speak English," Bomb Voyage said grudgingly.
Avarice shrugged. "Works for me."
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"Now, monsieur, don't think for a moment that I released you from here out of charity."
"Never did. I know this game," Bomb Voyage sneered. "My freedom in exchange for any foolish little favours you might need. Very well, state your terms."
"'Foolish little favours'? My dear monsieur, I don't need your glorified firecrackers. Far too loud and messy for my tastes, I can assure you, as well as impractical in my usual line of work."
Though outwardly calm, Dominique was incensed. He'd done freelance on rare occasions, arranging and building explosives for certain clients who had certain goals in mind and were willing to meet his price to ensure that objects or people disappeared without any other trace than a smouldering crater and sometimes not even that. One of the best demolitions experts the underworld had and this little pute was insulting his entire profession! 'Damn provincial little horror! She dares?'
"If you don't require my services, how on Earth you do intend to get past the security measures these Americans place everywhere?"
In response Avarice held out her hand. What looked like an intensely bright gold marble rolled down her palm to her fingertips, then lanced out in a thin, sharp beam that left a smoking black burn by Bomb Voyage's right foot.
The villain blinked. Well. That was… unexpected. He'd assumed she used gadgets and gimmicks like himself – but actual superpowers…
Oh, this was going to have those NSA fools up in arms.
"Megalopolis is one of the richest cities in the country. Plenty of wealthy, pompous, conceited fools with little regard for anything other than climbing the social ladder and making the rounds. They won't notice if a few things go missing." She gave a slight shrug. "Unfortunately, my targets conflict with yours. Artwork, house safes, and safe deposit boxes are my specialities—"
Bomb Voyage's eyes narrowed into dark slits. If she noticed, she made no sign, continuing,
"—and I'm afraid there simply isn't room for two of us in the same city."
"Your point, mademoiselle?" he hissed.
"I hear Metroville and Municiburg are quite nice this time of year," she said glibly.
"Indeed. Why don't you take advantage of the fine weather?"
"I have obligations that need to be dealt with in this city. You, on the other hand, have no unfinished business here." She paused. "Unless one counts your little run-in back in July with the Scrap Pack."
He snorted loudly. And here he was, completely unarmed and with no choice but to assent, lest he lose something of vital importance to the existence of his future children. Painfully. 'Merde.'
"Those buffoons are a menace to everyone, regardless of what side of the law. I don't consider them worthy of notice." He studied her carefully and decided to change tack. "You shouldn't either, not with those skills."
An eyebrow rose. "Giving a rival advice?"
"Giving a compatriot advice, mademoiselle. In this blasted country it isn't often I can have a civilised conversation in my preferred language – although your pronunciation could use some work. Not your fault, two centuries of living in the backwoods can't have done much to improve it."
"Snob," she accused. "Although I must admit, I was unsure whether or not you even spoke English."
He shrugged. "I'm perfectly capable of either language, mademoiselle. French simply annoys the Amerloques more. And to be frank – I need a change of scenery." He stared at her hard as the faintest sounds of sirens approached and the policemen began to stir. "Prendre garde à les Anglais."
She heard the sirens too, and nodded. "I will take my leave of you, monsieur."
"As you wish, mademoiselle..." Bomb Voyage paused mid-step, considering. "Or should I say, 'madame'?"
Avarice's laser narrowly missed his head.
"... demoiselle it is then."
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Riverview Suburb, Gwynns Household, 19 December 1952
Enid Gwynns, for the third time that evening, fought the urge to pace around the sitting room or grab the kitchen phone and call the police to report a missing person.
Was she worried? Yes.
Her mother still hadn't come home.
All of the Gwynns had had engagements outside of the house for most of that day. Her father was busy with a new case at the firm (something about a tanker from a major American petroleum shipping company having run afoul of a luxury yacht containing the president and several CEOs of a rival European-based corporation. Enid hadn't pressed for details). He'd taken dinner with the other partners who'd been assigned to the case.
Enid herself had divided the afternoon between Gemma's house and the local shopping arcade after Scott insisted on driving the girls to and from their destinations (he refused to allow them on those buses with those crowds, and nor would he hear of them paying for a taxi either). It was perhaps a good thing that they'd taken up on Scott's offer; with the sheer number of packages that both girls ended up carrying from the mall, between them they would have filled half a bus and any cab driver would have charged extra for freight. Enid and Gemma had ended up ordering pizza from Marinara's and watching the 'I Love Lucy' marathon on TV along with Arthur, laughing hysterically throughout.
Mr. Gwynns arrived home at 8 pm, Enid and her many packages at 9. But Mrs. Gwynns had yet to return from her high tea with the Riverview-Arcadia chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. To be blunt, she was over four hours late.
The clock started chiming midnight, and Enid mentally corrected that. 'Five hours late, then.'
Twelve times the chimes rang, mingling with the snores from her father in the armchair opposite hers. He'd fallen asleep an hour ago; Enid couldn't help but wonder if she was the only person who even cared about anyone anymore around the house.
Five minutes past midnight, still no sign. Ten after; nothing happened.
At 12:15, Enid was dozing off in her armchair when her ears picked up the rumbling of an engine motor. It took the slam of a car door to assure her she wasn't just hearing things. Her father was still asleep and she knew nothing short of an earthquake would wake him now. Getting to her feet, stumbling slightly, Enid crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes.
Idling in front of their driveway was a car she'd never seen before. Through the gloom she espied the familiar floral print of her mother's dinner dress beneath the dark winter coat. Mrs. Gwynns was leaning forward to speak to the driver of the car, smiling and laughing; though Enid squinted, all she could ascertain was the driver was a man who had dark hair. After a minute or more, Mrs. Gwynns began make her way to the house. When she reached the front door and waved, the driver waved back, and only then did the car drive away. Smiling, Mrs. Gwynns turned back to the door – and spotted Enid sitting in the window with the drapes pushed back.
The smile vanished. By the time she'd stepped into the foyer as quietly as possible Enid was there waiting. It was easier for Enid; stocking feet were far less noisy than the pumps her mother wore.
"Mom?" Enid took a step forward. "What happened? Where've you been?"
Midway through removing her high-heeled shoes, Rebecca Thornton-Gwynns frowned at her daughter. "I believe I'm old enough not to have to submit a timetable of my activities for your approval."
The words hit Enid like a slap to the face. All of her worry and concern for her mother fizzled away like bubbles in champagne, and an explosion as the cork blew was imminent. Trying to head off her own temper, Enid said quickly, "It's just that you were a lot later than usual, and dad and I – we didn't know where you were."
"The meeting after tea ran later than I anticipated, that's all."
Liar. "Then who was that man?"
"A chaperone, ensuring we all got home safely."
Lies, and lies again. "I don't believe you."
Her mother's face was perfectly composed. A mask. "You're entitled to your opinion, dear, but tactfulness—"
It had been a long day. She was tired, she was cranky, and she'd had enough. Turning her back on her mother, Enid spoke over her shoulder.
"Dad's sleeping in the armchair over in the sitting room."
"Enid," her mother began.
"Don't know how you'll get him upstairs, so my best suggestion is just leave him there."
"Enid." Angrier now.
"English exam went fine, thanks for asking. Had a smashing time at Gemma's, by the way. I'm going to bed."
"Enid." Fighting the urge to scream blue murder, she turned around, equally composed.
"That man I was with..."
"Your chaperone?" Enid asked flippantly.
"Under no circumstances are you to mention him, what you saw, or our conversation tonight to your father." Rebecca Gwynns had begun hesitantly, but her voice soon became hard with authority. "Do you understand?"
Rebecca's daughter stared, and then lowered her gaze. "Yes mom."
Mrs. Gwynns appraised her daughter. What she saw must have met with her approval.
"Good girl," she said, gently pecking her on the cheek. "Now off to bed with you, it's late enough. And remember, dear, not a word to your father."
"Yeah. Right." Enid muttered. 'He'll find out.'
To be continued...
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A/N: First of all, I ask for everyone's forgiveness. It's been over six months since the last update, and frankly, that's inexcusable. Really it is. Unfortunately I've had to deal with several obstacles, among them a prolonged bout of writer's block and being a full-time university student holding down two jobs. As much as I would love to work on fanfiction more often, Real Life takes priority. However, I've begun the winter holidays and with luck the next chapter ought to be up soon - rest assured that barring death, insanity or loss of limb you'll never need wait six months for another chapter again.