Robin is an English name, but I've been to Wales. A rough place, the way rugby is a rough sport. The roughest. After superhuman wrestling. And just as reliant on teamwork.
-The Book of Robin
Another year of not finding Kevin passes, a year spent mostly at school, James at Eton, Jane at Noonecares. Comparing their respective careers, it is not surprising to find aggressive, confident James succeeding at his confinement facility while bumbling, gentle Jane does not at hers, though the tattoos, smoking and nails don't help. Shy, gentle children are anathema to the competitive, socialist school system and without a friend group to provide some sort of bulwark or at least act as a salve for hourly humiliation, Jane is brutalised day in and day out by peers and teachers alike, both of whom hate her seeming ability to do whatever she wants without punishment. As a chojin past the cusp of adulthood, she's not even supposed to be at school, bribes of endowments keep her there for lack of anything else to do with her. Warwick is still 'too busy' to leave his bachelor state behind and so his fiance languishes, learning things she forgets as soon as the class bell rings.
It's the middle of October and the twin's birthday, most of which Jane has spent in some sort of detention, sometimes studying trigonometry while sitting on rough carpet the colour of uncooked meat, lest she break another chair, the teacher holding a long aluminium ruler across his body for hours, as if he expects to be attacked by a teenager..to be fair, British teachers are often attacked by teenagers. The lights out bell rang half an hour ago but Jane remains at her desk under her window in her attic room for one, colouring in an illuminati triangle with rainbow colours, drawing hearts around alchemical formulae, putting sunflowers and butterflies in the margins and adding bunny ears to SOH-CAH-TOA. What does that even mean? She will never know, even after espousing wacky maths genius Warsman and asking him about it, because she has inherited her father's capacity for converting things she doesn't like into turkey talk. The moon, sailing high tonight, helps with lighting, a kindly guest to her private birthday party, it's silver-blue rays slanting through oyster grey clouds. In thick pyjamas, sans mask, she sings 'happy birthday to you', holding onto the hope that her father will fulfil his promise to be home on the weekend, despite accepting by now that his 'promises' usually entail momentary delight followed by gasping, life long disappointment. Sitting back in the concrete blob the school claims is a chojin-friendly chair, she picks up a model Dyson sphere given her by her cousin-fiance. Unwrapped of course, he just plonked it down on her desk with a nasty grin on his face. Made of embossed platinum and titanium, with a huge yellow diamond suspended in its centre to represent the average star, the tactile pleasure it gives distracts her until touching something touched by Warwick makes her stomach revolt. Putting it down she focuses so hard on not throwing up that she only hears the tiny sound of a fingernail on glass when she realises the sphere has lit up red.
Scarlet rectangles that have been absent for almost a year stare into her eyes, their owner crouching on her narrow brick window-sill, looking as impossible as a square watermelon. Incisors cut into her knuckles when she jams her fist into her mouth to stop a shout of surprise, her non-conforming nails digging into her palm. Getting up to fumble with the window, she breaks the latch with her shaky movements, allowing Warsman to pour in. Taking the sphere with her, Jane curls up amongst insufficient bedding, cracking her skull on the slanted ceiling on the way. True to his word, she hasn't seen him when she's been out on the town, or heard from him at all, and exactly the wrong idea to what he meant to convey has been conveyed. He meant to show that he cares enough about her not to tolerate what he sees as bad behaviour while what she heard is that he doesn't care whether she lives, dies, is raped and killed, lost forever in space, bought, sold, whatever. This being the case, she views him approaching now with a gift in his hand with the numbness that arrives after one has been dealt a severe blow. If even someone like him, whose whole shtick is about being angry because he's an outsider who feels unloved and unacceptable, can't endure her…
"Lady Jane-" Oh, good manners dictate that he apologise for what he said last time, for not being in contact, for appearing at this hour, for coming to her under false pretences, for scaring her. It dictates that he inquire into her health and wellbeing instead of taking a shortcut. Maybe it even says that he should comment on her continuing to search for her brother despite his warnings. It tells him to do many things but instead he picks up the thread of time, folds their last meeting to this one, and sticks the edges together as if nothing happened. To say that he has thought about her every day since is to express intolerable weakness and would only be half the story. "Happy birthday." He holds out a small square box wrapped in pegasus paper rough with glitter.
Jane looks away, playing with her toy again, moonlight hitting the metal and scattering around the room. The Legend waits, carefully shoring up a trembling internal dyke against tidal waves of impatience. Tired and confused but not rude, Jane doesn't ignore him entirely. "Have you ever seen ball lightning?"
"Da." He matches her whisper.
"Does it really phase through walls?"
"Da. I try to have quiet, above board dinner but nyet, it breaks through wall and assassinates my comrades."
Biting into her duvet, Jane tries not to laugh, letting go when the attack of mirth has passed, feeling bad for finding some of the dark things he says to be funny. "Oh, I'm sorry."
Lowering himself to one knee, Warsman takes the sphere, replacing it with his present. "Mother Nature hates me."
Good breeding and an inordinate wish for affection forces Jane to open his present and she immediately wishes she hadn't because once she does she hears James accusing her of holding uncomfortable feelings and ideas in regard to this man. Inside the perfectly taped paper is a peachy box lined with yellow satin, its lid opening into a four petalled flower, revealing a string of pink pearls snaking around a spiral divider, a certificate tucked into the bottom authenticating that the pretty bits of two hundred year old dirt are natural and from Earth. Jane's poor heart attempts to flee her chest and she calms it by saying that Warsman isn't part of the family, the reason being that anyone part of her peculiar sub-culture understands that pearls are a gift reserved for either the closest familial relationships, or for marital love, and nothing in-between. Not wanting to embarrass or upset him, she tries to reject them with pleas of unworthiness. "These are beyond beautiful, but I think you should give these to a lady. Someone like my mum."
An already black mask blackens further, Warsman's eyes narrowing to thin lines. "You are a lady, leetle fox."
"No I'm not. I never know which fork to use, my feet are too big for nice shoes, and I go into pubs by myself."
"Don't be silly, that is not what ladyship consists of. You are lady, maybe a leetle uncooked, but still. Here, I will help." Lifting the string, he nimbly clasps it around her neck, too fast for her flight or fight instincts to activate. Only much later, when her brain processes this day, will his cold hands grazing her skin and the closeness of his claws to her neck bring on a panic attack. For now, she's careful to conceal the sideshow of horror, disgust, and shame that add themselves to an already overfull plate. Her expression may be closeted, but her potentialities disturb Warsman to such an extent that he turns many of his senses off.
Pearls weren't his only idea for how to manifest a good birthday. He couldn't bring cake because it's not supposed to be frozen when presented. "Princess, I thought I would treat you to ice cream."
The pair climb out of the window, Warsman first so that he can coordinate the escape efforts of a giant sapient starfish. "Jump, I will catch."
"I don't jump, I ste-" the starfish falls out of the window headfirst.
Then comes the real obstacle, the high iron gate of the school that separates it from the moonlit woodland and fields beyond. There's no time to teach flight or size manipulation but he does want to make use of the learning opportunities here. Her clumsiness is the result of abject neglect of the training even females need in order to control their superpowered bodies, and an untrained chojin is a danger to themselves and others. Demonstrating the proper technique he leaps over the gate in a movement more akin to gliding than to the thumping spring she will have to perform. Pacing before the iron bars, she tightens her coat around herself and clutches the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, fervently praying that nothing embarrassing happens. Warsman stands on the other side as if nothing difficult has ever interfered with his serene serenity. "You can do it, Lady Jane."
"You know I can't, man. I can barely step over a foot high wall."
"If so I would have picked you up and then leapt over. Now, don't run up, if you do you will end up in town. Use de energy stored in your calf to kick off from de ground. Don't worry so much about de landing, usually you would have your arms to help with that. And dont worry about form, your form will be atrocious regardless."
The main house of the school is dark, only the lamp above the door on. Jane looks back at her...whatever he is. Not uncle, not friend. Some guy who shows up with awkward gifts occasionally. A jaded Santa Claws. "I thought it wasn't cool for me to go gallivanting?"
"Shush!" It's very odd to hear that said without the accompanying gesture of finger to lips. Warsman stares blankly, his eyes very bright in the low light. Stepping back Jane takes the stance he taught her, pushing off and -oh crap!- the sky and then the earth dashes headlong at her, her feet in their heavy duty combat boots smashing the gravel to shards, Warsman stopping her faceplanting by twisting a hand in her fur. "For a silly miniature asteroid holding onto its pants for dear life, that was fine. Well done." Aah.
They walk down a narrow country road towards the sparkly lights of town, not one of those roads with untidy overhanging foliage blocking out the overcast sky but one with low stone walls separating it from pleasant views of the faintly rippling ocean of grass on either side. The smell of wet tarmac and wet grass is strong, resting life filling the air with other, less pinpointable scents. An owl hoots from a black, skeletal hand reaching for the moon with its many bony fingers. Too young, Jane doesn't remember a time when there were stars spangling the navy blanket above her head and her companion doesn't need to remember, choosing to live most of the time where other people's light and noise can't bother him, but it's a shame he can't communicate to her what seeing those ethereal lights is like. Zooming in his vision to a blinking cluster of lights arranged in a hard edged pattern, he marks its position for later. "With training you will not be clumsy anymore."
Clomping boots kick the little stones that hang out on the tarmac, the particular sound of their rolling making merry in Jane's ears. The girls at school would think her intolerably dull for finding the tinkling sound rocks make more exhilarating than spending time with a mega celebrity, especially a megaly villainous celebrity, so Jane tries to sike herself up by thinking of her favourite chocolate. "I can never amass enough maltesers to pay for your services, Mr Warsman."
*Warsman loved that*
"Because you are in such need, I would be willing to train you for free." The strategy is short and simple, like all great strategies.
It goes like this: training - love.
The end.
His offer enters a game of conkers in Jane's head where it collides with the previous years statement about her being a monkey butt he would no longer protect. She makes a funny face. If hate, why train? There can only be one reason. "Did my father put you up to this?"
The incessant accusations of being put up to things by other people makes Warsman a little more tetchy even than usual. "My entire life and my every movement is not dictated by your father. I was born without his say-so. I lived twenty-two years without his say-so and…" I am strolling with his daughter now without his say-so. Warsman waits an agonising few seconds for Jane to respond, watching out of the corner of his eye as she leaps out of the way of a snail, into the middle of the road. No cars are coming, unfortunately, failing to justify a heroic rescue.
He didn't really answer but Jane is too relationally bereft to complain and as her father is probably behind this anyway, like he's behind everything, no doubt the pearls came from him. Yes, that's it! No weirdness here! She smiles at the fields, hoping too that Warsman may teach her self defence after clumsiness correction training. "Alright. Thanks. But don't tell Jamie. He doesn't like it when you're in London. Oh, and I'm still going to look for Kev so if giving that up is a condition of your offer, than thanks but no thanks."
"It's not. I am aware you are incorrigible and I will simply have to live with your inevitable loss." He points at the false constellation, which looks like the letter 'I' squeezed tightly against the letter 'W'. "Construction is slow, de IWF is making difficulties for de FWI, and vice versa, hehehe!" Though not understanding why that should be funny, Jane closes her eyes to better enjoy his cackling.
McDonald's grey tarmac car park, partly lit by burnt orange fluorescence and populated by tumbling crisp packets, Asda shopping trolleys, and overflowing wheelie bins. Other people might play professional sports but Jane plays the far more fun game of stomping on every soft drink can and water bottle that catches her eye, Warsman watching her hop around, wishing he could smile without unhinging his viewers.
McDonald's proper, it used to be brightly coloured in reds and yellows, but now it's grey and beige, sad, lonely cars parked here and there, sad, lonely people sitting at plastic slabs masquerading as tables, sad news blaring from a screen taking up most of one grey wall. The only people who are not (too) sad are the gossiping workers behind the counter. Upon entering Jane immediately notices the robot manager facing the wall to the right of the workers, and so she immediately steps back out the absurdly heavy plastic doors. There's no reason to get in the way of a charging bull, whatever the Spanish might say. Sitting down on the part of the curb most free of debris, she attempts to arrange her gangly legs in as comfortable a position as possible and then pulls out a little laminated card from her breast pocket, a long ago gift from her paternal grandmother, carefully touching only the edges. It depicts the Blessed Virgin, a lady who looks like she really cares, offering her flower wreathed heart to Jane, lovely soft eyes following her around wherever she moves the card. A sweet perfume rises from it, she takes a deep breath, the sound of air rushing through nasal passages not enough to mute the screaming coming from inside the McDonalds. Ah, if only her mother was like Mary but no, her mother left her children.
When there's no more screaming and a crisp packet crunches nearby, Jane slips the precious card back into her pocket, closing one eye when a hand bearing bear claws moves into range. "I chose for you de maltesers flavour." She misses at first but then catches hold of the McFlurry on her second go, discovering a lit candle shaped like the number fifteen jutting out of it. That earns Warsman a big grin. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." He sits beside her, close but not too close, looking out at the neon orange vista, watching her eat her 'ice cream' while her eyes dart restlessly around, checking bushes and trees and cars for teenage boys. A cold breeze blows a Tesco shopping bag past the pair, it dances off into the distance, wrapping around a street lamp. Warsman pulls a tiny bottle of vodka out of his jacket, toasting silently. Jane glances aside. "You don't have any more of that do you?" He hands her another bottle, receiving another smile in exchange. After downing the vodka like one well used to it, she pops the bottle into a pocket, enjoying the combination of burning spirit and cold ice cream. Using the alcohol as an excuse, Warsman embarks down unknown paths. "Your school, is it not nice?"
"Not really."
"Why not?"
"I shouldn't be there. I bother them cause I eat too much, I'm too big, I look funny and I break desks in the middle of class."
"Have you told your father you are uncomfortable?"
Jane turns her twin's face towards her companion, one side of her lips twisted up to reveal a pointy canine. The expression lasts but a moment before it's swapped for her mother's long suffering look in the face of another cruel excuse before melting back into Jane's own mask of unfeeling sweetness. "He may answer your calls but he doesn't answer mine."
What can Warsman say to that that does not feel blasphemous? Criticising, even feeling slight discontent with his false god makes his stress levels rise, as if he's holding onto the peak of happiness with one finger, the streets, hunger, hate and nakedness pulling him down. To openly criticise Robin is to be nothing again. To criticise Robin is to be thrown out of chojin society, to have all his accomplishments revoked, to have his life be worthless. He can't do that, not yet, not even to comfort Robin's daughter. Least of all to her can he criticise him, she, half of whose flesh is Robin's own, whose face bears his unmistakable stamp. No, he must always uphold the party line with his words, even as he goes behind Robin's back with his actions. "He's wery busy. His secretaries divert calls they think non-essential." That is possibly the weakest sentence he's ever uttered and he feels ashamed, his arms and legs crossing defensively. But not for long, as a ruckus breaks out in the abandoned McDonalds.
It's not the headless robots fault, but the still blaring TV's. Rather, it's not the TV but the person on the TV, prancing around a ring all the way in Japan, Earth. Not quite able to believe what she's seeing and hearing, Jane steps as slow as a zombie towards the screen, jaw dropping, hand absently patting her pocket, eyes unblinking. Kevin Mask, the one and only, coolest blight upon humanity, stands tall and powerful, monologuing angrily, backed by obvious bad guys, all three in mangy dMp tracksuits, no capes or other charisma enhancers to be seen. Recognisable by mask and eyes if by nothing else, Kevin bellows his grievances, sounding increasingly unhinged as he goes on and on, making a scene in a very unEnglish way. Jane stands transfixed by his bonfire gaze and palpable power, but even more so by his words. "My father is not who you all think he is! He's no hero! He's a monster! The very blackest of villains!" He points at the screen, his eyes leaving trails of light behind them with every movement of his head, dominating even the harsh arena lighting, his dangly earring glittering as it slashes at the air. As if her lost brother had stabbed her with that accusing finger, Jane staggers, clattering up against an immovable object, Warsman steadying her, unreadable eyes never leaving the ferocious young man on the screen.
The benevolent TV informs a devoted sister that her formerly sweet, long lost brother has returned as a serial, and possibly mass, murderer, having cut down numerous innocents in his doomed attempts to win his father's attention. And not just innocents but innocent humans, the weak they are to protect as superhumans. The shame is unspeakable and the shock bypasses her eyes, though she wants to cry, desperately. Back in her room she paces while Warsman sits on her bed, studying the heavy platinum mockup of a stellar powerstation. It's an exact replica in miniature of an unfathomably, unbelievably gargantuan machine, the thing used to power the defences that act as shields around planets, solar systems and galaxies, and to power system cleaning tools for when someone needs an errant asteroid field swept up or dwarf sun disposing of. By itself the 'toy', with all its precious metal, its diamonds and most of all, its technological secrets, could pay for all the training Jane could wish for from all the world's top trainers and he doesn't ask where she got it, not wanting to be reminded of her family's vast resources that make his humble offerings even more of a bad joke. Such wealth shouldn't sit on a dorm room desk beside erasers and exercise books and he'd like to keep it somewhere safe. His enviable marble collection and his AI accuse him of going soft. "Lady Jane, may I keep this object safe for you?" While holding it up he looks through the yellow diamond as the shell opens, his eye giving the teeny tiny 'sun' life.
Wild and distracted, Jane looks around, replying to something she didn't parse in the least. "What? Yeah, whatever. What's going to happen to my brother?"
"That depends on what sort of mess Kinnikuman's son makes."
"Is he going to be okay? Is he going to be arrested?"
"Who? Kevin? Of course he will be okay. Kinnikuman's son though, hehehe, not so much."
Hehehehehehe...*Warsman loved that*
The girl not in the know casts a quick glare at the Legend, sensing shenanigans. James would already know what's what but she has to take the long route. "You know, it's kinda weird that a couple years ago you guys defeated Ithaqua the Wind-Walker out in deep space and came back seriously battered and bloodied but then laaast year you guys get completely beat down on the side of a mountain by a few chavs in stained tracksuits and yet all Father got out of this 'massive defeat' was a slight tear in his cape and then, last week, you were fighting another avatar of Satan, by yourself? While giggling like you did just now? ...That's kinda odd. Kinda suspicious even. The TV says Kev thinks he's hot shit for killing a poor human by dropping his behind on him in an ambush? That's not, like, Cthulhu tier." She makes a gesture requesting clarification but Warsman says nothing, packing the sphere into an armoured shoe box contraption he cooked up on the fly while she was speaking. Seething with rage, shaking from it, Jane goes up to him and savagely pokes him in the gorilla style arm, breaking her finger. "You guys are doing live action remedial potty training, aren't you?"
A deep rumble rises from everywhere and nowhere, from underground, shaking the house as Warsman snatches at her hand in order to ascertain damages. Looking around for the ball lightning coming to assassinate her while she's down, Jane instead discovers that the sound is only Warsman, laughing a real laugh.
Further north, James is not breaking things or having things broken, yet. There's been no weird visits, no inappropriate gifts, no sad-man trips to McDonald's. He's a very serious boy in a very serious school and he sits in a red brocade, coffee scented common room, playing a very serious game by the side of a crackling fire. His mentor and his friends are quiet and focused on the board, the clink of pieces exhilarating. Good sense and proper decorum reigns…until The Honourable Cecil Perkins III, receives a notification to the evil little device called a 'phone'. Chojin Watch wants to whisper in his ear. His eyes, which are already shifty thanks to the rolls of fat above and below, dart over to James, who's intent on his play. Sometimes Cecil is sure laser beams are going to shoot out of his best friend's face and annihilate whomever is sat on the other side. He's half alien, it could happen, who knows. Feeling safe, he checks his phone, fatally snagged by a name James treats as an urban legend. He simply has to watch the clip, nudging the boys to either side, who whip out their own phones.
The sweet scent (like bacon and fried onions) of Drama alerts James' mentor, another James, a twenty-five year old grandmaster and former prodigy who always arrives to matches dressed in an Eton master's uniform. The genius looks aside, jerking his square chin at the source of the disturbance, his intense green eyes compelling his will to be done. Cecil tosses him his phone. James has still not looked up but his deepening frown indicates that he's aware of an impending kerfuffle. He places a piece and waits, glaring at Grandmaster James' throat, an ironic twist to his lips. Every year, every bloody year one of his relatives does something to make his birthday about them. Last year one of his legions of cousins married a lovesick Saudi princess, starting a war between oil armadas, and the year before that an uncle dressed as Medieval Elvis blew up the Las Vegas strip on America Prime One, and the year before that someone claimed Jupiter and all its moons as their personal fiefdom, and the year before that, and the year before that-
Grandmaster James turns the phone so James can see the screen, turning the volume up to maximum. "I say Robin, isn't this chap one of yours?" Jamming a fist into his mouth, Cecil screams silently but James watches without interest as his elder brother minces around a ring, roaring non-stop about what a terrible shit their hallowed father is, his accusations of gross abuse ping ponging around the common room. Throughout the humiliation conga James says nothing but air starts being sucked into a burly chest, shoulders and stomach inflating, ruddy skin turning tomato red then aubergine purple, firey hair standing upright. His friends hastily migrate into the furthest corner but Grandmaster James must go down with the ship, having sailed into the iceberg of his own volition. Inflation reaches its maximum, there's a pause and then the air is slowly let out again, James rolling a shoulder, extreme contempt left as tidal debris on his face. "That's a wazzock, a wally and a turd. Roy Batty in a Burberry Tracksuit. Now, are you going to lose your head over oiled up girly-boys or are you going to play a real man's game?"
Now Grandmaster James is not a grandmaster for nothing, he dares go where other, lesser players dare not, but whether that's a symptom of genius or its twin brother, madness, is debatable. "He's one of yours though, right? He's not sporting the name but only you lot live under the impression that it's still the twelfth century." He studies the screen again, narrowing his eyes. "I say, he looks a bit like your da, if your da were going through a modest phase." He snaps his head around in jerky bird fashion in order to enlist the other's help. "Perkins, doesn't this bloke look like Robin's old man? Can't see his abs to tell for sure but the dinky size of the chap's spot on."
Cecil and the others shake their heads rapidly, faces locked into rictus grins.
Grandmaster James looks back at his student, expecting praise for this amazing discovery, finding him to instead have turned the colour of printer paper, pupils like gunshot holes, his unblinking eyes fixed on his mentor, his lips a thin white line, his head on fire, his body trembling. The chess champion still fails to heed the warning signs of imminent checkmate. "Wait…isn't this cad your missing broth-" James lifts the handbrake and runs over mentor, table, board, chair and phone.