A Year After Capture

Rachel's Age: 9 Years Old

I don't know the girl in the mirror anymore. She's skinny, but not in a good way. She's so skinny that she looks sick, like the way that Grandma Grey looked before she died. Her eyes are red and puffy, and the left one has a dark purple lump underneath. There's a fat scar at the very top of her forehead that runs into her hair. She looks mean.

I turn way from her stare and splash water on my face. Today is my ninth birthday. But I don't get a party or presents. Today is a floor day, and my mind wanders around while I'm sweeping.

I've been in this house for a year and a half now, and I've learned so much. When you live with Victor Creed, there are lots of rules, and he never sits you down and explains them to you, like my Daddy used to. You learn his rules when you break them, and then he breaks you. The first rule I learned was not to ever try to escape. I tried twice—and he killed forty-seven people because of me. Sometimes when I'm trying to fall asleep at night, I see the little boy who looked right at me just before Mr. Creed snapped his neck. I never tried to get away again after that.

The next rule is that I don't use my powers. That one I only tried one time. Mr. Creed was so mad that he cracked my skull and the downstairs bathtub. Sometimes I make-believe about killing him with my telekinesis, but I know I'm not strong enough to actually do it. But I never pretend about using telepathy. The whole week that he drove me to this house, I tried to get inside that monster's mind, to try and control him. It was ugly and gross and scary and evil. I don't ever want to go back to that dark place.

But there are all sorts of smaller rules, too. The house has to be spotless all the time. I cook for Mr. Creed, and when he comes home, he wants a steak on a plate as soon as he walks in the door. I have the run of this place, but I must never step foot in the garage. I don't know why. All the electronics are strictly off-limits. I don't ever argue with Mr. Creed. If he gives a command, I follow it right away and don't ask any questions. Or else.

I've learned a lot more than just the rules, too. He's taught me a lot about the human body. Did you know that it doesn't take a big punch to knock someone out? It just takes aim. I figured out that the human jaw is like an on-off switch. And the temple is almost as weak. If someone is hitting you and you don't want to go to sleep, you keep your chin tucked in tight, so that your jaw line is out of sight and your temples are down away from fists.

My stomach growls. The refrigerator is almost empty, and I don't know how long Mr. Creed is going to be gone this time. I wish he'd tell me when he was coming back, but he never gives me any warning. Yesterday, I woke up and he was just gone. Some day, I'll wake up and he'll be back. I've got plenty of food for another week, but if this job takes a month like the last one, I don't know if I'll make it. Well, I just ate yesterday so for now, I'll work on an empty stomach. Again.

All of a sudden, my mind freezes and I feel my insides get cold. He's almost home.

Fast as I can, I throw a steak in the microwave to defrost, put the cleaning supplies away, and turn on the stove. The cooking is fast. Mr. Creed likes his steak raw, really raw, so it only takes a second to char each side of the meat. I switch the stove off, throw the steak on a plate at the dining room table, and wash dishes.

His car's pulling into the garage. The closer he gets, the more I feel like someone is filling me up with rage, the way you put gas in a car. I don't use my powers anymore, but I still feel his emotions all the time. Most people don't know that a psychic doesn't always have to read your mind. Anyone can throw their feelings and their thoughts out into the air around them when they're really upset or really happy; my Mommy called it "broadcasting". Mr. Creed is broadcasting waves of anger everywhere. This is going to be a bad, bad day, I can tell.

The beer was good, the steak was perfect, and the shower was refreshin'. Still, I can barely feel my legs, I'm so pissed. Damn, I hate Sinister. The man is like a bad dream I just can't wake up from.

I knew somethin' was up the second I took the job, but I ain't one to worry about consequences. So I flew to Amsterdam tellin' myself, "You jus' mind your own business." And turns out the whole thing was a set-up. Sinister's goons tried to capture me for 'bout the dozenth time, and as usual, they failed and they died. It's not like I was really worried 'bout bein' captured. I just hate the thought a' that jackass still trackin' my every move. Like I'm the prey. Mother fucker does not know who he's dealin' with.

Spent, I plop down in my desk chair and click on the computer monitor. There's a message sittin' right on top of the desktop. It's short and sweet: "Call me. –Kev"

Hmm. Interesting. So I hit the speaker on my desk phone and then the number 7. He picks up right away.

"Hey, Vic," he answers. He loves to call me "Vic", like we're buddies or somethin'. I prefer to stick to call-signs, but I put up with it, 'cause the punk's damn useful.

"What do you got for me, Morph?"

"So, this is all hypothetical, okay? But, look, you get two Level 1 or Level 2 mutants together and make a baby, that child's gonna be a Level 3, right?"

"You gonna give me a genetics lesson, Morph?"

"Hang in with me, okay?" he says. "We have actual documented cases of those Level 3 babies. In the field, we call it 'The Escalating Mutation Effect'. Now, the consensus is that this same process should continue as you get into the higher levels as well. So, you get two Level 3 mutants to mate, their offspring should be a Level 4 or 5. And there have been a few case studies done that support the hypothesis, though the number's too low to account for any conclusive stats."

"Sure, sure. So what does that mean for this girl?"

"That's where things get really fun," he continues. "There has never before been a case of two Level 5 mutants, like Cyclops and Phoenix, mating. I mean, how often do you even see a Level 5? What're the chances of two of them falling in love, right?" He sounds like he jus' might cum with me on the line. "But, so far as any of us can tell, they should produce a child that's even more powerful than the two of them combined. You know, a super-kid, or a super-super-kid, rather. I mean, that little brat should be on a whole new level. If lots of Level 5's start reproducing, we just might have to invent a Level 6 for the next generation."

"What about the manifestation age?" I ask.

Morph is silent for a moment. That's not like him. "What about it?"

"Well, you know, are all these second-generation mutants still getting their powers at puberty? Or have any of 'em started manifesting younger?"

Morph sounds thoughtful. "It's possible. The first generations of mutants, like Xavier and Magneto, seemed to develop their powers in late adolescence and early adulthood. It's only been in the past three or four decades that puberty has been the predominant age of manifestation. So, yeah, it would make sense if the onset of powers starts getting earlier as time passes."

"Alright," I tell him. "How much do I owe you for this?"

"Oh, no fee, Vic," he says with a laugh. "All research is free. It's what keeps my clients close to my chest."

"Ah, you sentimental bastard."

"That's me! Hey, Vic, I gotta ask."

"Yeah, what is it?" I can already tell by his tone I'm not gonna like this.

"Why are you asking all this information about the girl? I mean, her whole family was massacred over a year ago. She's been assumed dead ever since, and hasn't turned up yet."

I have my cover-story ready. "Why the hell do you think I'm asking?" I say. "She's a target."

"Who's the client?"

"You know I'm not gonna tell you that."

"Okay, okay," he says, back-peddlin'. "But, look, if you're already gonna hit the girl, you think you could get me a blood sample?"

Well that's a red flag if I ever heard one. "No."

"Hey, I'd be willing to pay, man. And not just a buddy discount, either." What a laugh. The man has never had a real buddy or given a true discount. "I'll give up a pretty penny for it," he tells me.

"The answer's 'no', Morph. Now drop it 'fore I get ill-tempered."

"Alright," he sighs. "But I'll give you one last tidbit of information, friend. Today's her birthday. Studies have shown that even the coolest cats go off their game on special occasions. With her supposed power level an' all, you really want the upper-hand over this girl? You should hit her today."

"Her birthday, huh? How old is she, exactly?"

"Nine," he says.

"Huh. She's awful small for nine," I think out loud. "I would'a guessed six. Maybe seven."

"You've already seen her in person?"

Shit. "Gotta go, Morph." I hang up before he can ask any more questions, or I can give any more stupid answers.

My door opens, and by the time I look over my shoulder, he's already got ahold of my shirt collar. He drags me down the stairs but doesn't shout or bang me against the rail. In the living room, he sets me on the couch—almost gentle. Then he drops the remote to the TV next to my leg. I look at it confused, not sure what to do. I look up at him, and he's looking right back at me with something I've never seen in his eyes. What is that? Sadness? No. But it's not anger, either. What is that look?

"Happy birthday, kid," he tells me.

Then, without saying anything else, he walks out of the room.