Memories

Hall of Mirrors

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Tora slide out of the room and closed the door, heading into the kitchen to scrub her hands clean. Then she swerved into the bathroom as she heard Amanda and Stephen arguing with Kurt. She managed to clean the blood away and scalded the blood from the basin, then opened the door, planning to creep into the kitchen to back Kurt up. Instead she walked right into Jamie's chest. Glancing up she saw the look in his face and knew he knew. Sighing, she dragged him into the bathroom and locked the door.

"Okay. Spit it out."

"Why do we have the Shadow dying in our spare room?"

"She's not dying."

"Okay, then close to death. Why?"

"She was attacked. She needed to come somewhere safe, where she could be cared for. And we've just been sucked back into that world again."

"Maman, I don't want you to have to do all this again."

She hugged him.

"I won't. Jamie…"

"Yeah?"

"You remember when you were five, and we showed you the thing under the workbench in the garage?"

"Yeah…?"

"If we tell you to, I want you to take Amanda and Stephen there and activate it."

"But…"

"James, do you promise me you will do that?"

"But then…"

"James. Please."

He looked at her then nodded quietly.

"I will."

She hugged up and smiled softly as her head pressed into his chest. Then she laughed softly.

"Maman?"

"It's suddenly occurred to me that two monumentally short people managed to have a son who isn't a midget."

"MAMAN!"

She laughed softly, and suddenly felt better.

xXx

Marie Logan hated her job. No, wait, rephrase that. On days like this, Marie Logan hated her job. The Director of SHIELD got up and clenched her notes that she wouldn't need in her hands.

"Agent Verity died in the line of duty. She died doing what she'd always wanted to do –saving people. She was a good officer and a good solider."

Her voice almost cracked on the last word but she held up. And then a jeering voice from the back.

"Is that all you can say? Do you honestly know your senior agents so little that's all you can say?"

She felt white hot anger rise up and before she could stop herself, she was talking swiftly and confidently.

"What do you want to know? Her real name was Eloise Marguerite Circen; she was 32 years old; she was born at home in her family's farm in Provence; her favourite colours were green and white; she could never decide if her favourite ice-cream flavour was raspberry or caramel; she hated milk chocolate but would kill for dark; she used to have nightmares about the wardrobe in her bedroom with its carvings; she read trashy romance novels but hid them behind the dust covers of psychology textbooks to make it look like she was studying; she had an allergy to hazel nuts; she felt sad when it rained; she couldn't sleep without the small bear her sister won at a carnival when she was eight; she hated coffee but loved tea, which she took with three sugars and a dash of milk; she watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer religiously; had every single Lost episode on DVD; wanted to have two kids and was going to propose to her boyfriend on the 13th June this year. Oh, and before you accuse me of anything else, I think you should know that she was my little sister, so don't you dare say I didn't know her."

She froze and then slowly closed her eyes as she felt the tears she had held in for so long begin to prick her eyes.

"She insisted on taking the mission that killed her. She was an Alpha-level telepath and telekinetic. She had two cats, Cleopatra and Octavia. She wanted to go and work as a therapist. She bought me a bag of my favourite coffee beans every year for my birthday since I was twelve. She went to bed with peppermint tea with two spoons of honey in it. She called me 'Rie because that's what she called me when she was two. One of my first –and best- memories is holding my baby sister in my arms for the first time. She was chief bridesmaid at my wedding. She used her powers to get the bouquet. When she laughed, she used to giggle so hard she got the hiccups. She scrunched up her nose when she was trying not to smile. She always glanced to the left when she was about to lie. She once broke her arm trying to climb into a tree after me. She saved my life three-hundred-and-twenty-one times. The last time was the one that killed her. So don't you dare suggest I don't feel anything! I feel this so much that I can't think about how I feel because right now, I have a job to do. I will grieve when I have brought her murderers to justice –or dragged them to Hell. Whichever one hurts them the most. I will make every single remaining day in their miserable little lives so terrible that they will do anything to escape."

xXx

The man lay on the stone floor of the make-shift chapel and screamed as he curled himself into a ball, as the alien rocked him back and forth, trying to help him get over the anger, the all-consuming hate of the friend who had left him. Second stage Mrrlsta. Hatred of the person who had left and torn you to shreds. He screamed again, hot tears burning his face as he shouted again and again, called her name, tried to bring her home to him, but Tora was trying to touch him, to soothe him as Xixy whispered a K'Meeri lullaby into the pointed ear. But she couldn't touch, couldn't speak, couldn't comfort. And that was the worst part of this shade-life. She couldn't comfort those she loved.

xXx

First time they met, she'd just come off the podium, dressed in her French uniform and still buzzing off the adrenalin rush. And he was in the wings, his German jacket open to reveal his uniform. He smiled broadly.

"Well done."

His English was thick, heavy accent obscuring most of his words. She smiled back shyly.

"Well done as well. L'or. C'est très magnifique."

He laughed cheerful. Having exhausted their congratulations he winked then sauntered off and she blinked. She'd just met the new Olympic Men's Parallel Bars champion. And he'd congratulated her on the silver. Okay, France and the beam weren't normally considered together. Getting into the final had been as much a surprise to her as to the media. Podium? Beyond even her wildest dreams.

The second time they met he grabbed her arm.

"You have to come and see! The archers are at each other throats. The woman's champion has challenged the men's!"

There was the enjoyable twenty minutes of watching the Israeli Etana Halevi beat the American Barton with an amazing shot that hit the target from over a huge distance. He'd escorted her back to her part of the Village and bowed politely.

The third time had been at the closing ceremony. He'd elbowed his way over to her and laughed, pointing out friends –the Canadian men's tae-kwon-do World Champion, who missed out of the podium after cracking his ribs, singing along with Eric Idle; the American pentathlon athlete Rogers dancing with his girlfriend, the archery World and Olympic Champion. Wagner had been doing world-level gymnastics since he was fifteen. Before then he hadn't had an iota of professional training. He had been a trapeze artist noticed when he entered an amateur contest for a joke. And then he took a photo when she started swearing when someone other than Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor or John Deacon started singing We Will Rock You. And then he leant over towards her.

"Kann ich dich küssen?"

And she'd said "Oui" without knowing what he was saying. The photo made the front page of more than one paper.

"How sweet…"

"Oh, stop it!"