It's often said that the first person a villain ever hurts is often himself. It's a crying misfortune, alas, that some parts of society have devolved to where you can't expect certain people to tell the difference between an actual villain, and someone who's merely as strong as one.
This is East Pennsylvania. The eastern slopes of the Appalachians aren't too far away; at all. They're often too close by for a certain family who lives out here. This is almost strange; they don't make moonshine, but they often have the aura of someone who does.
This is a residential complex. About five families live here. Four of them see each other often, and are often cordial, whenever they meet by chance. The fifth family, who lives far to the edge of the complex, has a slightly worse reputation.
Among the sights within this complex, an old moonshine still stands. Not to worry; it hasn't been used in decades. Its purpose is purely ornamental...and patriotic, to an extent. It's a symbol of the local heritage; of hillbillies and rednecks who loved their homemade liquor so much, that they thought they were willing to go to war with Uncle Sam just to keep their own stills going. And while it can honestly be said that today's moonshiners respect Uncle Sam more...it seems that they're still just as crappy at proving it as they would've been back when the Whiskey Rebellion was still a fad.
This is a shed. It has an HVAC unit attached to its backside. The family who lives in the nearby house has no clue, as to how it got there. That's not what they tell the neighbors, though...and that'd include the ones who know for a fact that it took an eleventh of the time for that HVAC unit to appear than it would've taken an HVAC technician to install it.
Nearby, not too close to the shed, there's a five-car garage. The cars inside have very large manifolds and windows. The front grilles are wide-holed. Their HVAC units have been upgraded. (They'd all pledge, though, if you asked them, that they did not, repeat, not, have these HVAC units installed by the same mystery tech who left that shed a mystery present once... Also, if you asked them, they'd insist that it wasn't a mystery present, and that its installing technician was no mystery man; just someone who just so happened to have the talent of installing an HVAC unit in an eleventh of the time that it'd take one of his competitors to...) More importantly, though, these cars have some of the most powerful engines around. They're not nuclear yet, but they could be one day. Uncle Sam probably wouldn't mind...just as long as they never tried to weaponize the engines. In that regard, though, their neighbors wouldn't mind if the ATF deployed a garrison nearby...and, while at it, replaced one of the family's many weathervanes with a surveillance camera...or eleven.
Too near, and also not too close to the shed, there's a carport. Under it, a burgundy compact SUV sits parked. It's well-maintained, for a car that lives under a carport... It's better-financed, too.
The local air stinks of burned fuel. Someone, it seems, has come home of late. And as potent as the odor is, it seems likely they weren't alone. No need to ask the locals about it; most of them would rather not be reminded of it. It was very noisy, as it was coming in. One would expect a muffler to do more muffling...or better yet, the youth to go more lightly on the accelerator.
In the side of the five-car garage, a door opens. From it, four boys/men emerge. They call themselves Ishmael, James, Jesse, and Kolton. They're brothers...and all scions of the Kormann family.
In single-file, they make their way towards the shed door. Some of them wear ornamental chains from their raiment. Others wear chrome metallic effects. Some, even, wear pseudo-sheriff's badges from their belts, or otherwise the waists of their bottomwear. Their mother wouldn't likely want to know what those badges say. Their very few Mennonite/Amish female ancestors would want to know even less...confused though some of them likely would be, because of how much swear words have evolved ever since the first Amish and Mennonites settled the North American continent.
Inside the shed, a sickle hangs from one of the walls. Near it, a nine-pound hammer does, too. This might seem a bit strange to some; the Kormanns are neither reapers nor railroad workers. It's also been generations since some of them were...just as it's been generations since the last passenger train passed through these parts.
From the ceilings, via long cords, bug-zappers hang. Much heat, they tend to generate... They're a helpful thing to have around in the winter. Alas, it's too bad winter ended less than a month ago.
From many of the walls, classic neon signs hang. Most of them are either in neon-yellow or neon-green. Most of them advertise for certain beverages; Kentucky bourbon is a popular thing around here, despite Kentucky's lack of proximity. A sign for Coors beer, too, there also is. The Pabst and Miller families, too, are well-represented here...
Within a chute within one of the gables, a fan spins. It generates a considerable amount of white noise, while doing so...as do the HVAC unit and the bug-zappers...and, on occasion, the neon signage. Whoever had to live here would get plenty of sleep at night. A treadmill, though, wouldn't be a bad addition...or better yet, a mega-hamster wheel...
Atop a mantlepiece hanging from one of the walls, a flathead catfish has been stuffed and mounted. In life, he was big and yellow. He was also invasive...as is much of his species. If he had been caught west of the mountains, though, he would've been native. Either way, the lands east of the Appalachians have lakes, too; this monster was once bottom-fished from such a lake...by a Kormann who has since bequeathed his bottom-fishing gear.
In a corner, a wooden Shawnee stands. Spear-armed and mask-clad, he's armored like a true warrior...as many of the Shawnee once were, who inhabited many lands west of the Appalachians...as well as a few in West Maryland. He's also clad in a harness, from which a vast array of smoking pipes hang. Either he had a bigger connection with the gods than he was supposed to...or he deserved to be discharged from the Shawnee's armies.
This shed's main feature, though, is a holding cell. I kid you not; this is an actual holding cell. It's been empowered; but not in the way one would think. Not to worry; its bars are not electrified. Electrification would do no good, after all; odds are if whoever was inside tried to escape, he wouldn't try shaking the cell door loose...as if anyone would actually still think that that works.
The front door of the shed opens. In single file, the four Kormann brothers march in. Their shoes make a lot of noise, as they move. They're not even trick-shoes. But then, the acoustics of this shed are a bit better than they should be... It doesn't even make a difference that the holding cell takes up as much space as it does.
Aside from the pipe harness, the wooden Shawnee wears a leather back-quiver. Within it, a pair of sticks has been stashed away. One is spruce-forged; the other is maple-forged.
One at a time, they each leave a sack of newly bought fast food within the cells' bars. One of them leaves a brace of cheeseburgers; pickles only. The second leaves a trio of fried chicken thighs. The third leaves a dozen soft tacos; extra cheese, and no lettuce. The fourth leaves a brace of buffalo chicken subs; extra ranch, and extra cheese.
Now, the four stand before the cell. One at a time, they bow to whoever's inside. About fifteen seconds later, they all stand. They salute whoever's inside the cell, do an about-face, and take their leave. The last one out closes the door behind him.
Spontaneously, the two sticks, within the wooden Shawnee's quiver, rise. They fly across the room, and into the holding cell, with its occupant.
One at a time, the bags of fast food open. One at a time, the food levitates from the bags. One at a time, each entree unwraps itself. Golden goodness, each one is... Soon, they'll be digesting. Soon, their eater will surely be bloated. He almost wishes there was also a root beer float among the lot...
Outside, the four brothers cross the lawn. Small isolated pads of concrete, it seems, link the shed's front door with the main house's back one. Their shoes hit each one like champs. They are champs, in fact, of many things... Still, though, someone would expect someone who lived out in the country to act less like a val-gal who couldn't afford to get her feet wet...both figuratively and literally...
From it, a girl comes outside. Red, is her hair. Blue-grey, her attire often is. Much-smaller-bodied, she also is...and yet, if she's ever intimidated by the men who live here, she seldom ever shows it. She bears the likeness of the actress Amy Adams.
She's fifth cousin to the four brothers...as well as fifth cousin, once removed to their father, the current patriarch of the family. She and the four brothers both have a pair of great- (to the fourth power) grandparents in common. The husband of that couple was also a Kormann; his patriline once had nothing but sons, for six generations, right up to the present day.
Beth's part of the family tree, OTOH, has been a bit less predictable. As her surname would suggest, she's had grandmothers as well as grandfathers since; all linking her to the original Mr. Kormann. Her father, who once married into the bloodline, was a Grey. Hence, she is too.
Before her, the four brothers approach her. As they do, Ishmael looks up, and winks at her. They're family; even so, many of the Kormanns have the hots for her. Rumor has it that their father does, too...
Beth, alas, nearly scoffs, semi-amiably. It's family, after all; it never matters how everyone feels, just as long as everyone gets fed and never gets over-weathered. Or rather, that's what some of the Kormanns were brought up believing. Again, it's been eons since a Kormann was an actual Mennonite/Amish...let alone a genuine European-born Dutchfellow.
The back door opens. One at a time, the four brothers enter, single file. They close the door behind them.
In their absence, the breezes rustle the wind chimes. They hang from the canopy and are stainless steel-forged. (The man of the house insisted that there was no sense in getting the chrome ones if they weren't going to be in the front yard.)
In the flower beds, tulips grow. This family, it seems, hasn't strayed too far away from its Dutch roots after all... Alas, if only it wasn't so expensive to erect a windmill somewhere near here...
For a prolonged moment, Beth acknowledges the prison-shed, with her bare arms crossed. It's springtime...alas, it's so early, that the last of the winter's breezes still seek out a metaphorical scupper, through which to take their nine-month leave... Meanwhile, the wind chimes, near her, do their little dance...singing a spontaneous tune, while doing so...
For a spell, Beth returns into the house. She closes the door behind her.
In her absence, a wind blows. Waves are made in the bird baths. Atop the homes, the weathervanes spin. Atop one, an anemometer spins like a helicopter rotor. Atop another, a windsock is fully inflated...and makes waves within itself, each time the wind's waves affect it...
Here and there, dandelions litter the lawn. Some of them are still big yellow blossoms. Others have since become big balls of seed. The wind, of course, disintegrates the balls of seed, and sends them flying. Without luck, they'll start raising themselves on a tennis court. At least the first whitefolk who ever lived here had more use for them; legend has it they'd dig up the roots and boil them. The flowers, too, might've been of nutritional value that would've made a temporary herbicide out of a white settler...
The wind dies, a bit, as Beth returns outside. She's brought a cup of tea atop a small saucer. Steam rising from the cup indicates that its water came right out of a whistling kettle...or, more likely, a measuring cup in a microwave oven.
As she crosses the porch, she flinches, as a bug bites her. She swears, too. She sets the tea saucer down, and wipes the side of her face against which the bug bit her...
As her guard rests, another, much bigger bug arrives. He hovers over the tea, investigating its scent... Alas, he gets too close, and ends up submerging himself in it. Before long, he's drowned.
As Beth regains her balance, she sees that the bug has inadvertently turned the cup of tea into its grave. She hesitates, wondering if she should still deliver the tea, now that it's been soiled... After a prolonged look towards the shed, and a heavy sigh, she finally re-collects the teacup, and decides to deliver it as it is...un-family-like though it might seem to some...
As she crosses the lawn, she looks down into the tea, several times. She sees the bug's carcass. She feels bad about doing this...much though she wouldn't want the men in her family to know so.
The door to the shed opens. In bare feet and bare legs, Beth makes her entrance. She crosses the floor and makes her way towards the holding cell. The tea is still in her hands.
Alas, she screams, as the saucer, with the cup still atop it, suddenly levitates from her deep purple-polished hands. She watches, as it then levitates through the cell bars, and into the cell...in the presence of the well-fed inmate.
He emerges from the shadows. He doesn't look much different from the four brothers who were in here earlier... But then, that's most likely because he is, in fact, their fifth brother. His name is Janus; a likely curse at birth, it seems.
He keeps the cup levitated. From it, he levitates the tea-logged bug. With a spell, he transfigures it into a bonbon. He levitates the bonbon into his mouth. As he chews it happily, he smiles and makes a friendly gesture towards his fifth-cousin.
Alas, his fifth-cousin only crosses her bare arms, and sighs. She is clearly not inspired by her fifth-cousin's mysticism. Her expression deteriorates even more, as he uses his powers to add cream and sugar to her tea, where her notorious cold shoulders would not.
In the shadows, within Janus's bedding, the two sticks, which are really wands, stay hidden. Their tips are lit, and they fidget, as if sentient... It's just as likely that they're doing all of the magic, as it is that Janus is doing it through them...
Once again, Beth criticizes her fifth-cousin's use of magic. She reminds him that his father will never let him go, as long as he still doesn't think he can control it.
Janus reminds her that perhaps he'd better stand a chance of proving that he could control it, if they'd let him out every once in a while. He's pretty sure the Philly Zoo lets the lions out of their cages more often than they let him out of his.
She reminds him that he doesn't need anyone to let him out. Besides, his father can't let him go without worrying that he's just unleashed a rabid dog upon the community. And his father's no hermit; he's got friends as well as business partners in almost every town near here. A lot of them live in Philly, too.
Janus scoffs and admits that it seems sad that they're all wasting their efforts accusing him of being a monster...when, in fact, they've all become monsters, of sorts, just by going to such inhuman extremes to keep one of their own in a cage. (He sips his cousin's tea, on and off, while speaking...)
Beth doesn't respond to any of this, of course. She kind of can't; most of what she hears is bogus. But of course, she'd be less likely to think this if she hadn't spent most of her life telling herself that her fifth-cousin is a dangerous monster who belongs in a cage.
It's mostly Janus's magic, of course, that his family is biased against. They all think it comes from a demon. Some of them (this'd include the man of the house) even think that Janus is a demon... But then, it kind of makes sense; again, a few of Janus's ancestors were Mennonites or Amish. And there's a rumor going around that back when Salem was still a fad, the Mennonites and Amish were just as guilty of witch-burnings as the Puritans...albeit a bit less-accomplished, of course, than the Puritans. Janus is pretty sure he'd know, though, if his father was a witch-hunter. It also seems highly unlikely that a witch would ever become a witch-hunter's daughter...or vice versa. But then, if the Reverse-Flash can be Wally West's father, then one would assume that anything's possible... One would expect a leftist family to have fewer biases. Alas, there is, for sure, one thing most of them are biased against; and that's one person with an apocalyptic amount of power.
Once more, she heaves a sigh. "I'm trying to help you, Janus. I really am."
He shrugs. "Well, what do you want me to do? Kill myself?"
She shakes her head, and takes her leave. She closes the door behind her. Janus is almost surprised they haven't prison-ified the door by now.
In her absence, Janus only scoffs, and drinks the tea. "She's such a coward." He takes a long sip of the tea. "I sure hope she doesn't ever run for public office; her debating skills come a dime a dozen...or rather, they come a dime a gross." He sips more of the tea...and surveys it. "Is this Lipton?"