Translator
Two Drabbles, one in which Copen's a good bro and the other he's a bad bro. Tell me if you liked it and etc.
Good Bro:
Every day Mytyl Kamizono prays that her parent will come to pick her up at 3:30 in the back parking lot, like everybody else's parents. She prays that Nori will be driving an old station wagon or van, not the scary-looking onyx armored motorcycle with a skull logo on the sides. Most of all she prays that Nori will come, period, so she won't be waiting alone in the teachers' lounge.
Sometimes she comes on time. Sometimes she don't. Mytyl keeps praying.
But not today.
Please don't let Nori come, she thinks, kicking her feet stubbornly. The chairs in Mrs. Ingrid's room are cheap blue plastic with annoying metal legs and bars at the bottom. They're too bright and too simple and too teachery, like everything in Mrs. Ingrid's room. Even the students' art feels generic, like somebody else's idea of what seventh-grade pictures should be. Maybe all seventh-graders really are the same, everywhere in the world, and school is just an exercise in being the same so that kids can be the same kind of grown-ups.
"I've tried reaching your guardian three times now," Mrs. Ingrid says, her voice crisp like autumn leaves on old oak trees. For all her talk about how she loves creative children she doesn't like Mytyl, because Mytyl is the bad kind of creative that writes stories about butterflies who break out of their cages and consume everybody in tornadoes. Mytyl knows that and does it anyway. The butterfly story had been Nori's favorite; she'd photocopied it and showed it to all her co-workers, and her approval was the most important in the whole world.
"Your family (her aunt and uncle) should be more communicative," Mrs. Ingrid continues. "They're really busy," Mytyl snaps back. Sometimes she feels like Nori is the only to care about her at home, the others only letting her stay as long as she keeps out of the way but that's her private thought, not for anybody else to claim or criticize. "They do important research work." or so they claim.
Mrs. Ingrid frowns down at her. Her hair is stacked in short, stiff curls around her flabby face. She wears big sweaters with lots of colorful sequins that make her look like a Christmas tree. "No work is more important than their daughter," she says with an air of self-imagined wisdom, like nobody had ever come up with that before. The only thing worse than grown-ups trying to play dumb, Mytyl thinks, is grown-ups trying to play smart.
And I'm way smarter than Mrs. Applebaum, Mytyl decides confidently. "Sorry that you couldn't find Auntie or Uncle," she says, not sorry at all. "But that's okay. I can take the late bus home."
"Oh, you won't have to do that. I was able to contact another relative-" She sees Mytyl's terror and her mouth becomes a horrible tight-lipped smile. "-and he'll be here in their place. I'm sure he'll give a faithful report to them for you.."
Mytyl is still terrified, but she isn't about to let Mrs. Ingrid have any more satisfaction. She squirms in her chair, trying to look indifferent. "Maybe he will," she says. "But he's busy a lot too, so he might forget. I'm very independent."
"I know," Mrs. Ingrid replies dryly. "I had thought we might discuss that today."
A whole bunch of retorts come to mind, and almost all of them would get Mytyl in even more trouble, so she doesn't say anything. Instead she counts to ten, takes a deep breath, and pulls a battered book with red velvet binding out of her knapsack. Her aunt always tells her to be careful about starting conflicts. "Don't cause a fuss, Mytyl," she advises, on the days when she's too excited to scold and there's a kind of animal hunger in her face. "You can't afford to be vocal every time you're angry. Part of life is learning to swallow your pride and learning to fight for what's really important. Remember...pick your battles!"
Everyone in her direct family are exorcists, but they have a weird way of talking as if the whole world's against them. They do a lot of things Mytyl can't understand. Once she was sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack when she heard voices in the kitchen. Her aunt and uncle were sitting in the darkness, holding hands and whispering passionately.
Then the barest trickle of moonlight flickered through the window and Mytyl saw two strangers with sunken cheeks. They didn't look or sound like her parents, or even like people. "I'm almost there!" Mytyl's not-uncle was saying. Sweat stood up in beads on his brow. "I need just a little longer. Hold out for me. We'll make it, we'll go through this together, the way we always have. Do you trust me?"
"You know I do," she'd said, sounding loving but fierce. "Oh! But what about Sumeragi?"
"Damn Sumeragi! We don't need them. I don't need anyone anymore..." His voice had risen to a fever pitch and he'd looked around skittishly. Mytyl had flattened herself against the wall so he wouldn't see. "Just you, and Mytyl. Only you! To hell with the rest of the world!"
Mytyl still has nightmares about that time. She tries to pretend it never happened. Her aunt and uncle are strange, not sick. Maybe she doesn't understand them, but she loves them, has to love them, because they're her family and she knows they really do love her too. Love is a secret in the Kamizono family, buried way deep down.
The classroom door opens. "Oh, hello," Mrs. Ingrid says, rising. Her voice takes on the special warmth that some adults get when they're finally around somebody who they expect to like. "You must be Mr. Copen! I'm Mrs. Ingrid, and thank you so much for coming. I apologize for the short notice, but I wasn't able to reach the others. They're very-"
"I understand. Thank you for contacting me."
Some of Mytyl's earliest memories are of Mr. Copen (just Copen to her, he's Copen to everyone but Lola). She remembers him looming over her hospital bed like a big black shadow that seemed to touch the ceiling, and one year later he still looks just as big. He looks even bigger now, surrounded by kid-sized furniture and educational toys. Behind his head on the wall is a poster that says BE KIND TO ONE ANOTHER in red block letters.
Mrs. Ingrid gestures to her desk. "Please, Mr. Copen. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. This may be a rather lengthy conference." She gives a coy little smile. Mytyl is immediately grossed out.
Copen takes a seat beside Mytyl. His lanky form cramps out at sharp angles in the little chair, but he manages to hold himself with some kind of grace. After a moment's pause he adjusts his legs one over the other and looks up.
"What are your concerns?" he asks. Calmly, attentive, friendly in a way that's oh so fake.
"Ah. Yes. Well. Mytyl is..." Mrs. Ingrid sits down and immediately begins rifling through a stack of papers on the desk. She picks out one of Mytyl's tests, notable because it's the only one without two gold stars on top. "Mytyl's been exhibiting a very passive-aggressive attitude in her work. The enrichment teacher reports she's withdrawn from group assignments. She doesn't interact with the other children."
"I recall Mytyl has had problems with her peers in the past," Copen says coolly. "Have the children complained to you?"
His response catches Mrs. Ingrid off-guard. "No, but the school system is required to keep a thorough log and inform parents of prolonged antisocial behavior. Other teachers have raised the issue of her behavior. She has mouthed off to faculty, staff, and myself."
Copen raises an eyebrow at Mytyl, the first direct acknowledgement he's given so far. The look makes her red with shame. "I didn't mean it," she mumbles, too quiet to be heard. When Copen turns away without any motion to defend her she feels worse than ever.
"Please accept my apologies, ma'am. You have my word that the matter will be referred to her family." As if he wasn't part of them himself, like simply shedding one's last name and still being listed as one of the people to be contacted could instead make him a distant relative at best.
This elicits another smile from Mrs. Ingrid. "Thank you for understanding. It's important that the...guardians recognize the importance of the problem. Attitude issues are first and foremost in improving overall behavior."
Mytyl wonders what it is about grown-ups that makes them come up with so much silly language. Every job has its own vocabulary, but it's all just different ways for saying the same thing over and over again. If Mytyl were in charge, everybody would have to say what they mean all the time.
"Mytyl has also begun acting out in other ways," Mrs. Ingrid continues, clasping her hands. "Her most recent science unit test was dismal. I feel such low performance is unacceptable considering Mytyl's aptitude in science. She missed every question and wrote nonsense for the short essay portion."
For a minute it looks like Mytyl's about to get another terrible expression from Copen, but his reaction is benign. "Every question?" he repeats, with some interest. "Of how many?"
"One hundred multiple choice and the short essay. Like I said, unacceptable-"
"Mrs. Ingrid," Copen says. Although he isn't smiling there's definitely a smile in his words, a private joke. "Do you know the odds of anyone missing one hundred multiple choice questions?"
"If she didn't care-"
"If she didn't care and chose thoughtlessly she would have had to have picked several correct answers." Somehow the balance of power has shifted and now Copen is the teacher, telling Mrs. Ingrid what's what. Mytyl is impressed and a little proud. Copen knows how to say anything to anybody. "The odds of such a failure are astronomical, Mrs. Ingrid. It is far more likely, yet even more remarkable, that Mytyl identified every correct answer and then deliberately chose the wrong one.
"It's possible to answer every question correctly with a combination of knowledge and luck. Scoring a zero effectively eliminates lucky guesses. Although I would agree that Mytyl should accept the consequences for her decision," Copen says lightly, "it's worth recognizing that her zero is equivalent to, or rather greater than, a perfect score."
By now Mrs. Ingrid's good mood is gone. Her face is like a big wrinkled prune with fatty bumps. "Her grade will stand, Mr. Copen. It is fortunate for Mytyl that her average is high enough to suffer a zero, even on a unit test. But the behavior that triggered it must not be encouraged."
"I assure you it will not."
"And her free response portion," she begins again. She's obviously confused about what happened; she doesn't seem to know when or how Copen pulled the rug out from under her, but she knows she's on the defensive. Neener neener, Mytyl thinks. "Unintelligible nonsense, just lines of letters going all the way down the page..."
"What was the question?"
"It was..." Mrs. Ingrid clears her throat and reads from the page off the back. " 'Describe a case of food poisoning.' Very simple, very straightforward. I'm not looking for answers from the Encyclopedia Britannica, just a paragraph or two about how harmful bacteria enter the system. The class studied in two weeks ago and I informed them it would be on the test. Mytyl's response was gibberish."
Copen leans forward ever so slightly in the too-small chair. "And what did she write, exactly?"
Mytyl notices his attention and feels a cold dread. What if he doesn't understand what she wrote? What if he does? Which would be worse? No, of course he knows: Copen knows everything. The way he pays attention can't be good, she decides, or he's not going to find it funny and she'll be grounded for sure. The anticipation is almost as bad as the shame.
Mrs. Ingrid reads like she's holding the words at arm's length, unwilling to get too close. Every letter is pronounced with a snobby disgust. "T-g-g-t-g-g-t-t-g-a, t-a-a-g-c-a-g-g-c, c-g-c-c-c-g-a-c-t-g, a-t-a-c-g-t-t-g-a-t, t-t-t-c-c-a-a-g-t-t..." She pauses. "You get the idea."
If there's anything more humiliating than being embarrassed in front of Copen, Mytyl doesn't want to think about it. It's her own fault, of course, but how was she supposed to know he'd show up? She buries her face in her hands, blushing furiously. I'll never act up again, she swears to whatever invisible thing is up there that does good things for kids. I'll be good forever, just please don't let him be mad or think I'm stupid! Please don't let him get me in trouble!
"No, please continue."
Mytyl looks up. Mrs. Ingrid stares in astonishment.
"Go on," Copen encourages.
Mrs. Ingrid is incredulous but continues reading, as if she's under a magic spell that makes her do whatever Copen says. Mytyl's noticed that a lot of people feel like they have to obey him, even if they don't really understand why. "G-a-a-c-t-a-g-a-t-a, g-a-c-a-a-a-t-g-g-a, t-c-t-c-g-t-a-a-c-c, g-a-a-c-t-t-g-a-g-a, a-c-a-a-c-c-a-g-a-t, a-a-a-a-a-t-g-a-a-t, g-g-t-g-a-c-a-a-a-t..."
Copen tilts his head towards Mytyl without looking straight at her. "Missed one," he murmurs lightly, holding his steepled fingers to his lips.
"Huh?"
"The last letter of that sequence is A, not T. The next letter is T, however, so the mistake is understandable. Mrs. Ingrid," he announces, and now he's smiling for real, "Mytyl's answer is obscure, not unintelligible. The letters she provided, at least to the end of line 121, describe the genome of the pIS2 plasmidescherichia coli."
Of course he knows that, Mytyl thinks, and feels a little disappointed for being found out. It occurs to her that she doesn't really know what Copen does for a living, besides traveling a lot. But he isn't a chemist, and she's never heard about him making cures or anything like that. Copen is pretty mysterious. So is Lola now that she thinks of it, but she at least sends her weekly images.
The room gets unnaturally quiet. Mrs. Ingrid's big chest heaves up and down. "Mr. Copen," she says, "it is not my job to solve puzzles, nor memorize scientific minutae. Mytyl is deliberately acting up to get attention from adults, which I believe stems from a serious deficit in parenting. Do you have any recommendations for putting an end to such inappropriate classroom behavior?"
"If you're so concerned, I would suggest contacting the Kamizonos themselves for a serious appointment. In the meantime..." Copen looks like he's about to sigh, but doesn't. He never does the normal things like sneezing or sighing or laughing that everybody else. Only the little tips that sometimes peek out his stoic demeanor show that he gets tired like a regular person. "Maxine Himeshiro works at this school, correct?"
"Himeshiro? Why, yes," Mrs. Ingrid nods, puzzled. "She teaches special needs children in the eight and ninth-grade block. But I don't see-"
"Himeshiro's daughter is a very well-adjusted young lady who is a prodigy in much the same vein as Mytyl. It may be beneficial for you to arrange a certain amount of time per week for private counseling."
Counselors are no big deal to Mytyl; she's only fourteen and she's already seen three, but none of them have ever done much. On the other hand, it might be neat to talk with somebody who really knows what smart kids are like. The lady could maybe be a friend to talk about science stuff.
It seems like it could be okay, even cool, but Mytyl knows not to say so. Instead she hangs her head as if she's really upset about being punished but willing to take it. She sits motionless and repentant until Copen speaks.
"It's a pleasure to know Mytyl's teachers are so involved," he says. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. If there are any further developments please do not hesitate to call me. I'm sure Mytyl is sorry for having caused you any trouble-isn't that so?"
Mytyl realizes she really is sorry, even if she still thinks that Mrs. Ingrid is being unfair. Anything that makes Copen give her the I'm-disappointed-in-you look isn't worth the trouble. "Yes. I'm sorry, Mrs. Ingrid," she says, and means it.
Mrs. Ingrid draws back. She regards Mytyl with wide eyes, like she's never really seen her before. There's surprise and pity in her eyes, and a little fear of the man who took over so confidently. "The pleasure is mine. It's...good that we could come to an understanding. Thank you, Mr. Copen, and thank you, Mytyl."
It sounds like Mrs. Ingrid means it, too.
ooo
"Not yet."
Copen stands beside the driver's door of his big grey Daihatsu. His brow is furrowed at Mytyl, who's holding the door handle on the opposite side.
"I'm fourteen," she protests, a little surly. "Auntie lets me sit in the front seat of her car."
"Your aunt's car has many new safety features. This car isn't designed for children." Unlike Mytyl's aunt and uncle, who sometimes give in when they're tired, Copen never relents. He doesn't need to repeat himself; as soon as Mytyl sees his unyielding gaze, she knows she's beat. She reluctantly gets in the back and sits down.
When Copen climbs in he adjusts the mirror so that he can see where Mytyl is sulking. He starts the car and steers them into the streets for the trip home. A few kids walking on the side of the streets stop to point at the Daihatsu with its creepy tinted windows.
It's only so many blocks to the mansion, but it seems like hours. The radio is off and the car is quiet, so quiet it's hard to breathe. Mytyl realizes she has to say something or else Copen's just going to keep sitting there and judging her in awful silence.
"I'm getting a haircut on Saturday," she announces. "I'm gonna have short hair, like Nori."
"You're getting rid of your antennae? Lola will be so disappointed."
"Those are for little kids," Mytyl tells him very matter-of-factly. "All the girls in the seventh grade have short hair and headbands, like they do at the middle school. If you have ribbons and other gimmicks it means your mom does your hair for you."
"Ah, of course," he replies.
Everything is quiet again. Mytyl's going to have to endure the stifling silence until Copen's ready to lecture. She feels like she's shrinking, smaller and smaller into a little tiny speck. The car moves on somewhere outside time.
"You shouldn't antagonize your teachers," Copen says at last.
Without Mrs. Ingrid or anything about the school frowning down on her Mytyl can talk freely. "She hates me!" she cries, with a fresh burst of anger. "She's always trying to get me in trouble, and she never puts my pictures or stories on the wall. Even the dumb kids get their stuff on the walls sometimes."
"Mrs. Ingrid may not be a great teacher, but I'm sure she's a very good one. She's smart and has paid attention to your work. And besides…" Copen glances at Mytyl in the rear view mirror. "There's far more to being smart than memorizing gene sequences."
No way! He thinks Mrs. Ingrid is smart? "But she never listens to me! She just ignores me and gets mad when I try to do something different. She thought I was just messing up on that test, remember?"
"And weren't you trying to give her that impression?" He pauses thoughtfully. "Mrs. Ingrid can't do her job if you're deliberately trying to provoke her. You should accept her as an authority figure and do as she says."
"Just because she's a teacher doesn't mean she's better than me."
"It's not a matter of being 'better'; it's about social standards. If you want to people to respect your role, you need to respect the roles of others. The only way to achieve anything in the world is by careful compromise and negotiation."
"Why do I have to compromise with people if I'm smarter than them?"
The left side of his mouth quirks upwards. "You really are my twin."
Those are the most magic of the magic words, more powerful than "please" and "thank you" or even "I'm sorry". Whenever anybody says Mytyl's like her brother she feels hot inside, anxious and a little sick. Her brother has heavy bags under his eyes, skin that's covered in scars. Sometimes a trick of the light makes him look like a zombie in the late-night horror films Mytyl's not supposed to watch; his shadow deformed and monstrous as if to warn about a darker self; other times, he is so serious, he could freeze up any whimsy with just a frown. As much as she loves him, Mytyl doesn't want to be like him: something about her brother is different in a way that's a little scary.
But other times she just has to know things, has to figure stuff out, and she'll stay up all night memorizing the letters in a chemistry book because the letters are like sorcerer's spells. When she remembers something or solves an equation she gets a feeling like too much sugar that makes her head rush: I did it, she'll think, I did it and I know the answer. The feeling is so good Mytyl spends a long time trying to do it again, with more books and more puzzles, and more than once she's stayed up all night reading in the hopes of getting that feeling back. In the morning she has nothing left but open books and thick black lines under her eyes.
Mytyl is suddenly very cold and hugs herself tightly. When Copen pulls up to the house Mytyl is so upset she doesn't even notice.
"Mytyl."
She jolts upwards, startled.
Copen puts an enormous briefcase on his lap and opens it, with seven different deft gestures for each of the seven different locks. Inside the briefcase are separate file folders, separate compartments for small metal boxes, and an appointment calendar. He withdraws a large book with a worn cloth cover and yellowed paper.
"I think you'll enjoy this," Copen says. He hands the book to Mytyl without turning around in his seat. The cover of the book says À la recherche du temps perdu - Du côté de chez Swann in large block letters. in smaller text under the French is Remembrance of Things Past.
"I began reading it when I was about your age (They're the same age, a fact his maturity makes easy to forget). Let me know when you've finished the first volume."
"It's...big," Mytyl says, holding it up. The book looks older than her, maybe even older than Copen. When she carefully looks at the inside cover she sees a single date printed on the page with other publication information, so faded it's almost disappeared: First Edition - 1922. "There are more books in this?"
"Seven in total. It's well over three thousand pages, so take your time."
She grips the book close, feeling all its potent mysteries just waiting to be unlocked. It excites her to know that other people have felt those same mysteries in the same pages. The thrill for new knowledge bubbles up in her stomach like a storm, making her dizzy.
"And..."
Copen gives Mytyl a yeast donut topped with pink frosting and lots of white sprinkles, a special treat from the 7-11 Krispy Kreme stand. They've been her favorite dessert since she awoke and had a vivid dream about someone taking her there once and wanting to see if it'd feel the same way in real life. Mytyl has a little pang when she thinks that Copen must have stopped to get her one.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
"Take care, Mytyl."
That's her cue to get out of the car. She takes her things and steps out, stumbling a little on the pavement. She walks over to Copen's side of the car, where he lowers the window.
"I really am like you?" Mytyl asks.
"In some ways."
"Is that good?"
It's bright enough to see the expression behind Copen's face turn back for the stoic. The muscles in his face seem to will themselves to not move, lest he betrays something. Mytyl's question hangs heavy in the hair for a long time. Finally he lets out a sigh, one filled with something.
"I think you're brave enough to make your own decisions," Copen replies, turning away, and the window rolls up. Mytyl can tell that that's all the response she's going to get. She walks to her house, lost in thought. By the time she steps indoors the donut is already half gone. Mytyl always eats the bottom part of the donut first so she can savor the sweet frosting at the end.
There is no one at the entrance to receive her aside from the usual staff. The kitchen is running twice-fold to prepare for guests in the evening so she won't see Nori for a while. The living room is just a little too clean and lonely to be comfortable. Even when everyone's home it's still a lonely place. All the Kamizonos live in libraries and their own heads, miles away from the rest of the world. It makes Mytyl frustrated, but she knows she does it too.
Mytyl goes into her room, locks the door behind her, and sits down on the bed. She decides homework can wait and carefully opens Copen's book, curious. She's hardly started before the book seizes her heart. Her worries about that strange question disappear into the back of her mind.
I think you're brave enough to make your own decisions...
It's two hours later when, drowning delightfully in the best of Proust, Mytyl realizes that Copen didn't know the answer.
Bad Bro:
Mytyl stared up at Copen from where she lay on the examination lab table. "Are you going to tell them where I am?"
Copen stared unemotionally, withholding any thought he might have.
Mytyl tried to sit up, but the restraints kept him down. "Gv and the others—are you going to tell them where they can find me?"
"I suppose that is the question before us now, isn't it?" said Copen. "Am I going to tell your friends that their dear Sumeragi has been keeping you prisoner in a secret lab for a whole week now? Am I going to give them the information they need to rescue you from the torturous experiments that a ruthless energy company has inflicted on you in spite of your heroics?" He paused. "Or perhaps you want to know if I am going to get you out of here myself."
Mytyl's heart jolted, but she did not even breathe in response.
Copen held his hands behind his back while pacing slowly beside the lab table Mytyl was strapped to. "I certainly could. It would only be too easy to remove these restraints and free you." He stopped his pacing at the foot of the table. "But will I? Well, that depends on your decision."
Mytyl swallowed and waited.
Copen moved closer to Mytyl's head and placed his hands on the table. "Don't you think you should do something for me, sister? If I get you out of this, you know you would owe me something, don't you?"
"What do you want, Copen?" whispered Mytyl.
"I want you to submit to me."
Mytyl closed her eyes, her gut twisting and tangling.
"Denounce this foolishness," Copen continued. "Perhaps your mentor now as well after how he's failed to protect you. Leave your charade of a family; embrace your true family instead. You know that his ideals are nothing more than a fantasy. I'm the only one who knows of a way to forever end this status quo….and I'm sure you're already figured it out for yourself."
Mytyl shut her eyes even tighter, her whole body shaking.
"Join me," said Copen. "I'll look after you. I'll keep you safe. No one—human or adept—will ever hurt you again, Mytyl. I won't let them. Not Sumeragi, not anyone."
She was in so much pain and she didn't want to hurt anymore. The promise was so comforting even coming from Copen.
"All I ask is for your loyalty," said Copen. "You can continue using your powers for 'good', but you must also do as I say. I'll give you everything you need, and I can even train you, help you reach your full potential. Imagine what we could do together, Mytyl."
Copen stroked the side of Mytyl's head.
"This can all go away." Copen's voice was soothing. "You just have to promise to obey me."
Copen continued petting Mytyl's head and hair, a touch that made Mytyl shudder and melt all at once. She wanted to bite Copen's hand, lean into it, shove it away, drench it with her tears.
"So instead of being their prisoner," said Mytyl in a dark, thick tone that shook, "you want me to be your prisoner."
Copen pulled his hand away, and Mytyl stopped herself from whining in protest.
"You don't have to think of it that way," said Copen. "You would have a great deal of freedom as long as you don't defy me."
"And what if I do defy you?" asked Mytyl. "What if I don't do as you say?"
Copen said nothing.
"I know the sort of things you'd make me do," said Mytyl, her voice gaining strength but still shaking. "I know what you'd try to turn me into."
A liar. A thief. A murderer. A criminal.
"But you wouldn't be a specimen," Copen doesn't deny it. "You wouldn't be hurt."
"But I would be used."
"But not hurt."
The emphasis was not lost on Mytyl. Because God, she was tired of hurting.
But even if her own pain ceased, Copen would make her hurt others.
Hurting others just so that she herself wouldn't be hurt anymore, a new existence of endless pain and internal torment.
"I can't." Mytyl fought back tears. "And you know I can't."
"But you could be great, Mytyl." Copen clutched the side of the table and leaned over Mytyl. "Your family and friends have been holding you back. It's been killing me to watch you waste so much potential."
"What you have in mind for me isn't what I'd call greatness, Copen."
Copen lowered his eyes. Mytyl hardened her gaze in an attempt to keep her tears from escaping.
"I see," said Copen quietly. "Then I have no reason to stay any longer."
Copen picked up the chair he had brought over earlier and moved it back across the lab. Mytyl watched him, her chest stuck and frozen, unable to pull in breath.
This didn't feel real.
She had to be dreaming.
Copen returned to Mytyl's side and rapped his knuckles on the table a couple times. "It was good to visit you, sister. I do hope I'll get to see you again, but if not, then I suppose this is goodbye."
He began to walk away. Panic bolted through Mytyl's nerves. Her chance to escape was leaving, going—
"So that's it?" asked Mytyl, her voice tense and high-pitched.
Copen turned back to her.
"You really won't help me?" Mytyl tried to keep her voice strong. "You won't even tell my friends or anyone where I am unless I agree to go with you? You're really just going to leave me here?"
"It's not like I want to leave you here, Mytyl."
"But that's what you're doing. So why are you leaving me if you don't want to?"
Copen's image blurred through Mytyl's tears. She blinked to force the tears to fall, no longer caring if Copen saw her crying at this point.
"I can't just let you go with no strings attached," said Copen. "You have ruined so much of what I have been working toward since the day we met. So many of my plans wasted due to your meddling and my inability to let go of the past. Now I have finally surpassed my attachment towards you."
"But I would never do this to you," insisted Mytyl. "If I saw you like this, I wouldn't leave you. I would help you."
"Oh, I know you would." Copen nodded. "Which is why you'll be killed one day."
Mytyl's neck and face flared with heat and rage and despair. Everything hurt, everything felt ready to burst.
"This situation is a win-win for me," said Copen tone stern and uncaring in a way that must mean that he's acting, he must! "Either you become mine and assist me with my plans, or you're no longer around to interfere with them."
She was breaking, rupturing.
An impossible choice. No matter which choice she made, she would lose and Copen would win.
She wished she didn't have to make this choice, wished that Copen had just never come at all.
But Copen was here. He was offering her a way out.
A terrible way out. But a way out nevertheless.
Copen dragged his fingers on the table as he walked alongside it. "I won't be coming back after this." He halted at the foot of the table and turned to face Mytyl fully. "This is your only chance. Are you sure you want to stay here? Are you sure this is what you want?"
Mytyl shut her eyes, pushing the tears out faster.
Copen sighed deeply, dramatically. "All right. Then I'm going."
Mytyl didn't open her eyes but she could hear Copen walking, retreating, his shoes clicking on the floor, his footsteps getting farther and farther away.
Her escape, her freedom, getting away from her, abandoning her.
"Wait," Mytyl cried. "Copen, please wait."
The footsteps stopped immediately. Mytyl opened her eyes to find Copen near the main lab door.
"Is there really no other way you'll help me?" Mytyl tried to raise her voice above a whisper but her throat was clenched tight. "Isn't there any other kind of deal I can make with you?"
Copen was silent for a long moment. Then he came back.
"I'm sure you'd love to make some other kind of deal for your freedom," said Copen. "You probably have plenty of alternatives you want to offer me. But this is all I want, Mytyl. There's no alternative I will agree to. Either accept my conditions or I must leave you here."
Mytyl stared at him, pleading with her eyes because she didn't want to say the words, didn't want to beg for mercy, beg for her life.
But if she could get down on her knees, she was embarrassed to think that she probably would.
"This is really it, Mytyl," said Copen. "I'm leaving. Do you want to accept my conditions or not?"
Panic flooded Mytyl's senses and yet she still couldn't speak. Copen turned and started walking away again.
"I do," Mytyl rasped, but Copen didn't stop. She cleared her throat and called out louder, "I do accept them!"
Copen returned and again stood over her.
"Please get me out of here, Copen," Mytyl whispered. "Please, before they come back."
Copen smiled and inclined his head. "Of course, sister."
He moved around the table and undid every restraint. Mytyl's limbs stayed where they were, suddenly numb with exhaustion. Copen placed a hand behind her back and guided her to sit up.
"You're all right now," said Copen soothingly. "I'm taking you home."
Copen transformed, white armor and crimson weapons appearing in a sudden flash. He placed his other arm under Mytyl's knees and effortlessly lifted her, cradling Mytyl against his chest.
Fatigue washed over Mytyl, all energy leaving her as her body went limp in Copen's arms. She was fading, nodding off with her head against Copen's chest. Sh felt Copen lift off the floor and then phase through a portal, fresh air and sunshine hitting her face and then floating away into darkness.
She awoke some time later. She sat up and looked down at her wrists, no longer shackled to a lab table but free, pressing against a soft mattress in a large bedroom. Her prison suit was also gone, replaced with her normal clothes and human complexion.
She scanned the room she was in, a cozy bedroom with ornately patterned wallpaper and Eastern furniture.
The memory of Copen picking her up and flying her out of the lab came back to her. Had that been real? Was she in a room in Copen's HQ?
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and became aware of something heavy around her neck. She reached up and tried yanking on it, a thick metal collar. She looked around for a mirror, but she could tell the collar was some kind of electronic device without even actually seeing it.
She stood and headed to one of the bedroom's doors that was ajar, pushing it open entirely and fumbling for a light switch on the wall, which she found quickly. A bathroom, sizable with a combination shower and tub, clean and smelling like tea tree and mint. Certainly a welcome change from the sterile and chemical smells of the lab.
She then tried the only other door in the bedroom, the one she was pretty sure must lead out into the rest of the mansion. Copen was probably somewhere out there, perhaps Mytyl could find him and ask him what the hell this collar was—
The doorknob turned, but the door would not open. Mytyl frowned, tugging on the door. It was not locked, but there was something preventing the door from opening.
She pressed her fingertips against the door, but her molecules would not obey her command to phase through it. Sumeragi had disabled her powers in the lab; had Copen not restored them yet?
Mytyl frantically checked the room for another way out. There were two large windows barred with thick carbon steel looking out on an expansive forest view. Mytyl helplessly gripped two of the window bars, which were too close together to push her head through entirely.
Copen had locked her in here and had no intention of letting her leave.
God, what was she thinking trusting Copen? Of course Copen was just going to set her up in a new prison after "rescuing" her from that lab. Of course Copen would never actually let her be free again.
Mytyl's fingers curled over the collar clamped around her neck.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait for something to change, for Copen to come and see her—she wasn't sure what would be happening next, but she knew this was right where she would be when it did happen.
Mytyl tried to entertain herself. She switched on the Smart TV in the room and browsed the selection of streaming services. She opened all the drawers in the writing desk that was set up against one of the walls, finding nothing but office supplies like paper and pens. She looked through the books in the bookcase set up next to a comfortable chair in a corner of the room. But her mind was unable to focus on anything.
At last, Mytyl flopped on the bed, realizing just how sore and in pain she was. She stared up at the ceiling, the same thing she had been doing when she was a captive specimen in that lab.
It seemed to be all she knew how to do anymore.
Some time later, a couple knocks sounded at the door. Mytyl sat up on the bed and saw Copen phase through the door, in civilian clothes and no obvious weapon, a kind smile on his face that infuriated her.
"Mytyl," greeted Copen with warmth. "You're awake."
"I've been awake for a while," said Mytyl testily.
"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, sister. I had some mayor work to take care of; you understand."
Mytyl rolled her eyes but said nothing.
"How are you feeling?" asked Copen. "Do you need anything for the pain?"
Mytyl wasn't sure how to answer. Because yes she would love some painkillers right now but she also didn't trust anything Copen might give her.
Copen started approaching her. Mytyl hopped off the bed and stepped backward from him. Copen immediately stopped where he was.
"It's all right, Mytyl," said Copen softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Then why have you locked me in here with no way out?" demanded Mytyl. "Why do I still not have my powers?"
"Just a precaution," said Copen. "I didn't want you to try to leave before I had a chance to talk to you. That collar around your neck is suppressing your powers for now, but I will remove it in due time, I promise."
Mytyl reflexively reached up and grabbed at the collar.
"It's hypoallergenic," Copen continued. "But do let me know if it causes any skin irritation or discomfort."
"It's really uncomfortable."
"You know that's not what I mean."
Mytyl glared at him, lowering her hands and balling them into fists.
Copen stepped toward her again. Mytyl stepped back until she hit a wall. Copen placed a gentle hand on Mytyl's face, holding and turning her jaw to study her from different angles.
"Sumeragi really did some terrible things to you in that lab, didn't they?" said Copen.
Copen trailed his hands down Mytyl's scarred arms. Mytyl shuddered and pulled her arms out of Copen's grasp.
"So have you," said Mytyl, narrowing her eyes.
Copen was silent for a moment before shrugging, groaning under his breath. "We have had a bit of a history, haven't we, sister? But I am very much looking forward to our future together."
He walked over to one of the barred windows, gazing outside. "I hope you like your view. I chose to put you in this room because the sunset is quite lovely from here. I thought you might appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Mytyl scoffed. "You think I appreciate being locked up in here without my powers? You think a nice view makes up for that?"
"I don't plan on keeping you in here forever," said Copen, sounding a little irritable. "Just until I can be sure that I can trust you not to go back to your 'family'."
Copen walked back to her. Mytyl stayed in place but wanted to shrink away.
"You made a deal with me," said Copen. "You remember, don't you? If I rescued you from being a specimen in that lab, you would leave your family and submit to me."
Mytyl leaned against the foot of the bed, clutching at the ornate bed frame. "I—yes, I remember, but—"
"More than that, you agreed to denounce Gunvolt's ideals. And I think you might as well add your loyalty to Sumeragi after what they've done to you."
Mytyl shuddered, her body remembering every touch and poke from strangers in suits. The searing cuts, the broken bones, the unwanted fingers running over every inch of her skin.
"I know I agreed to do that," mumbled Mytyl. "But Copen, please, can't we talk about this? I mean, isn't there something else I can—"
"No," said Copen sharply. "This is what we agreed on, Mytyl. This is what I want from you. There is no negotiating."
"But—Copen, please—"
"If you wish to back out, I will not force you to stay."
Mytyl's heart fluttered. "Really?"
"Of course," said Copen. "But I will take you right back to that lab. I will strap you down to that examination table and leave you there. And this time, I really won't come back."
Mytyl tried desperately to hold back her tears, hide every trace of her weakness. "Copen, please don't do this to me."
"Sumeragi's the one who's been torturing you for a week, not me," said Copen, sounding almost offended. "Why are you treating me like the villain here?"
"I'm not—I just—"
"Mytyl, why would you even want to return home? Why would you want to work for Sumeragi again? They know your identity, they know where you live. Even if your friends were to hide you, then you'd simply live the rest of your life as a fugitive. Is that what you want, Mytyl?"
Mytyl thought for a very long moment, trying to reason through her emotions and feelings about everything that all seemed so irrational and contradictory. To think this was all a game at first.
"Gunvolt didn't fail me," said Mytyl, more to herself than Copen. "He didn't know they were hurting me. And even then, something must have happened so-"
She broke into a sob as she used the bed frame to slide to the floor, her tears coming fast as she lay crumpled. Copen did not disturb her, but Mytyl could see his legs shifting in place each time she opened her blurry eyes for a small moment.
Her sobs dissolved into sniffles, and Mytyl looked up at Copen but did not yet have the strength to stand again.
"You won't be hurt again, Mytyl," said Copen softly. "No one will."
"Including you?" asked Mytyl in a whisper.
Copen paused before answering, "I have no desire to hurt you, Mytyl."
Mytyl continued staring up at Copen as her tears dried.
"Come, stand up." Copen held out a hand to Mytyl. "You need to write a letter."
Mytyl did not take the hand and used the bed frame to push herself up off the floor. "A letter?"
"Yes. Addressed to your friends."
"Why do I need to write a letters to them?"
"Because I don't think you'd be able to keep it together for a phone call," explained Copen. "And I wouldn't be able to coach you on what to say over the phone, not without a lot of pausing the others might find very suspicious."
"But what do you want me to say to them in a letter?" asked Mytyl.
"You will tell them that you will not be returning home to them," said Copen. "You wish to remain with me instead."
Mytyl's heart sank. "But that's not true."
"It is true," insisted Copen. "You made that choice when you were strapped to that examination table."
"It wasn't a fair choice," said Mytyl. "It was either live with you or suffer through more torture and die."
"But you are choosing to stay here with me over torture and death, are you not?" asked Copen. "Or would you like to back out and return to the lab?"
Mytyl hesitated before bitterly shaking her head.
"Enough of this, Mytyl." Copen's tone became stern. "I will not have you whining about how unfair this choice was any longer. Kindly remember that I am the one who rescued you. I am not the one responsible for what happened in that lab, that's up to Sumeragi and his enablers alone.."
Mytyl cowered, turning away.
"And we both know that sooner or later you would've died in Gunvolt's arms," Copen continued. "It's a thing you seem to be good at, being captured and dying a dramatic death soon after."
"That's not," gasped Mytyl, fighting back tears. "Why would you—that's not—"
Copen sighed and placed a gentle hand on Mytyl's shoulder. Mytyl's chest heaved as a couple tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I want to help you, Mytyl," said Copen softly. "It might hurt at first, but with time, you'll see that I saved you in more ways than one. I could never in good conscience allow you to return to live with your parents. I really do care about you, sister."
Mytyl sobbed, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe.
She wished she could just stop breathing.
Copen guided her to the writing desk. Mytyl numbly took a seat in the wooden chair, hunching over and staring at the blank surface, the vintage mahogany pattern.
Copen opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out some stationery, setting a blank sheet of paper and a pen in front of Mytyl. Mytyl did not react, simply continued staring through them.
"Please pick up the pen, Mytyl," said Copen. "I want to send this letter out today."
Mytyl picked up the pen, her hand shaking. "What am I supposed to write?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.
"I'll tell you," said Copen. "If you'd like."
Mytyl said nothing. Waited.
Copen cleared his throat and began pacing behind Mytyl. "Start with 'Gunvolt and all others' as the salutation."
"The—the what?"
"The greeting, Mytyl."
"But I don't call them by their names."
"You want to suggest an emotional distance. Please do not argue with me."
Copen stopped pacing and folded his arms, tapping his foot against the floor. Mytyl stalled a moment longer before slowly writing the two names near the top of the paper. Her letters leaned slightly left.
Copen resumed his pacing, stroking his chin with one hand. "Next: 'I am aware that you have been diligently searching for me. I recognize the pain this must have caused you, and I apologize for my silence—'"
"I don't talk like that," said Mytyl.
"Write it in your own words, then," said Copen. "I am not practiced in how an uneducated whatever-year-old might speak."
"I'm not uneducated."
"You've been attending a public school. That's not an education, my twin."
Mytyl exhaled loudly and rewrote Copen's words.
Copen cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back as he continued dictating. "'It was not my intention to upset you. I simply needed some time to myself so I could evaluate my situation and my relationship with both of you.'"
Copen spoke without stopping, on and on about how Mytyl had been feeling frustrated and overwhelmed at home, how she wondered for the past week when she might return home, how she kept saying tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow but how tomorrow never came and today today today she realized she didn't want to return home ever.
Mytyl rewrote everything, all of Copen's awful, terrible, cruel words. She wrote about how she felt miserable and neglected at home, like the others cared more about her abilities research than her own person. She was tired of Gunvolt making her risk her life for the sake of it being right, tired of wondering if each fight would have been her last, tired of being told she was part of the team yet too inexperienced or too weak to do anything but play support. She was just a muse to them.
But there was one person who had always cared for her and paid attention to her: Copen, yes, finally an adult she could trust. Her brother had been very kind to her and did not hesitate to take her in and now Mytyl was going to stay with him forever and ever and ever and she never wanted to see them again and—
Mytyl's tears began to fall, one after another, soaking into the paper, smudging the ink. She used the heel of her hand to wipe away the tears but couldn't get them to stop.
Copen came up behind her and peered over her shoulder, placing his fingers on the paper as he bent over and looked at it more closely.
"Mytyl." Copen sighed. "You're going to have to rewrite all of this."
Mytyl tried to discreetly wipe his eyes. "Why? What's wrong with it? I wrote what you said in my own words."
"I can't have you sending your tears." Copen set a new sheet of paper next to the tear-stained one. "Rewrite it. And this time, please turn your head if you're going to cry." Copen opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box of tissues. "Or use these."
He set the tissues in front of Mytyl. Mytyl stared at them, unmoving.
"Mytyl? What is it now, sister?" asked Copen.
"Stop calling me that," hissed Mytyl. "You don't have the right."
"Of course I do. You were born first, so whatever you ended up as becoming as an end product, part of you still is my sister." Copen placed a hand on his shoulder. "Or do you disagree?"
Mytyl slapped Copen's hand away. "No! You're not my family! I already have one and you're making me leave them!"
"I understand this is difficult for you," said Copen, "but as I've been saying, please do remember that had Gunvolt cared even a little bit, then you wouldn't have been tortured. If it wasn't for me, Sumeragi could have done whatever to you in that lab, be it turning you into a giant brain or something else that I wouldn't consider beneath them."
"You don't know that," said Mytyl, but his voice was weak.
"To ignore logic in favor of what we want to be true...seems to be a vice we share," said Copen. "Still trying to work with an evil organization that profits from the opposite of one's goal?"
"But humans and adepts can change," said Mytyl. "They just need a chance."
Copen looked down at her with a pitying frown. "Does it make you feel better to believe that? Would you be willing to go back to that lab and test that belief? See if Gunvolt doesn't take one hundred years to track you down and put you out of your misery?"
Mytyl lowered her eyes in defeat. Because no, she was not willing to test that very thin hope that the azure striker would stop the experimentation before it got really, really bad.
"Go on," said Copen, sounding impatient. "Start rewriting. I have a meeting with my ai's soon to work out the logistics of formally training you, and I need to have that letter finished by then."
Mytyl forced back the rest of her tears as she picked up the pen and stared at the new sheet of paper in front of her, wondering just how preferable this was to being strapped down to an examination table.