Phantom

MATCHED WITS WITH A SICILIAN WHEN DEATH WAS ON THE LINE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mother

Eleanora Thatcher never wanted to be a mother.

It was an uncommon statement in her youth, though certainly not as frowned upon as when her own mother was young. Perhaps the world had gotten kinder; perhaps the world had gotten worse, and it had started to make more sense why some might not want to bring children into this godforsaken place. For Eleanora, such things had never come into consideration. Her reasoning was much simpler: she didn't want children. There wasn't a maternal bone in her body, and she rather liked it that way. Besides, children were unpredictable. There was no telling what they might do, what embarrassment they might bring the family. She'd built a reputation for herself, carefully crafted with years of labour. The thought that a brat who a few years ago had been suckling at her breast might ruin that reputation mortified her. No, it was much better never to have children.

Jamie had been an accident. When she'd first realized she was pregnant, she debated termination – but Victor had been so opposed to it, and though he wasn't the one who'd have to carry the child she was determined he should have a say. He would make a great father, of that Eleanora had no doubt. And he'd wanted the chance. Most of their fights over the past year of their marriage had been about children. So, when she found out she was pregnant, she thought it might be a sign. When he was born, she saw her eyes on his face and a few tufts of ginger hair on his head and thought that maybe, just maybe, she could be a mother to him after all.

Two years later, by the time she was pregnant with Kevin, she'd softened. Victor had been begging her for a second child, and she'd been right – he was a great father – and Jamie had been an angel of a child. He started sleeping his nights at three months, almost never cried, and somehow she seemed to understand him. Eleanora had always had a gift with people – that gift had led her to her job as a psychotherapist – but, looking into the face of her newborn son and knowing its every thought, half-formed and blurry though they may be, she wondered if perhaps her gift was more than a knack. She knew Jamie's every need before he could express it. Although no ability could bring the affection she thought she ought to have felt for the child, her telepathic tendencies made her a better mother than she'd expected. And, as she practiced her gift more and more, it grew stronger. Her business boomed. Clients began to talk of Dr. Thatcher, the woman who knew them better than they knew themselves.

It didn't take long for her to realize that having a second child was a mistake. She grew tired, and her gift began to drain her. Whatever love she might have felt for her children began to fade as she tried to divide it in two. Still, she might have powered through, had she not had to do it alone. When Victor died, her lifeline was yanked away. Suddenly, Eleanora was left with a husband to grieve, a business to rebuild, and two children she'd barely known how to raise in the first place.

Eighteen years later, as she stands over Kevin in his hospital bed, she feels the strongest – and, some may say, the only – surge of maternal instinct ever to cross through her. Eleanora stares at his chest, struggling its way through each rise and sinking into each fall. She has never been a religious woman, but prayer nips at the back of her mind. Please, she begs. He's just a boy. He was in over his head, trying to act beyond his power. Keep him safe.

You never know what moments of extreme emotion might bring out in you. She's said this to many a client before, but never until now has it rung so true. Eleanora Thatcher never wanted to be a mother – but, as she watches her son cling to life, the idea of no longer being one chills her even more.

The room around her is cold and hostile – unwavering. It doesn't care that her son is dying, doesn't care that she's finding parts of herself she never knew existed to begin with. The beep of machines hooked up to Kevin is maddening in its constancy, yet she prays that each one keeps its beat. He's fighting. Of course he is. Whatever else he may not have been, Kevin has always been a fighter. There's no quitting in that boy, even when he maybe ought to. If anyone can push through his injuries, he can. Cold and broken as he may look, he's strong. Stronger than his brother despite all of Jamie's gifts. Were the roles reversed, Kevin wouldn't have run. Kevin would have fought. He would've found a way to win, and then he'd have gotten his brother the help he needed.

Closing her eyes, she sends out another mental probe. Come home, she urges. Your brother needs you.

Radio silence. Somehow, Jamie has managed to escape her power. She can't hear a single thought. Is he dead? No. She would know if he was. She would feel it, deep down in her chest. Both her sons are alive. Neither is with her.

"Please," she whispers. Her grip on Kevin's hands tighten as her mouth kisses the words into his knuckle. "Wake up, Kevin."

Eleanora barely notices the door open behind her. The woman behind her looks vaguely familiar, though Eleanora can't quite place the face. Her body is lithe, with a gymnast's muscle even under her leather jacket. The look on her face is direct, but not without sensitivity. Sympathy shows beneath the woman's professional countenance.

"My name is Director Palmer. You may know me as Reason. I was in Project Phoenix, along with your sons. I want to talk to you about Splendour."

Eleanora sighs. "Of course you do. What is it?"

"It's the press statement. As we move towards setting up a new project, it's our intent to be as transparent over the events that befell Project Phoenix. We're not sure how to phrase his...um..."

"His desertion."

"He was under stress. His brother –"

"Kevin would have stayed. As would I. Jamie embarrassed our family with his actions. Speak of him however you will."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Jamie lacked discipline – I would've been the first to tell him that. Neither of my sons were ready for Project Phoenix, in my opinion. Clearly, I was right."

What is this Palmer woman thinking? It would be so easy to find out, but curious as she may be Eleanora has no interest in knowing. Right now, all she wants is to move on. She has a son to care for, an image to rebuild. Once the word gets out about Splendour...

He should have stuck to his duties. He could've coped however he wanted after Project Phoenix was over, but running away should not have been an option. It wasn't one.

Kevin stirs in his bed. Her heart leaps only to fall back down. He doesn't move again. This is progress, she remembers. The weight on his eyelids lightens. For a moment she wonders if he may open them, but he doesn't stir.

Palmer nods towards him. "Your son is a hero, Dr. Thatcher. If there ever comes a time when he wants to work with us, we will find space. Something out of the action."

Eleanora smiles. "I'm sure he'll appreciate the offer if he wakes up."

"He will." The woman pauses. "And, should you ever want to join us, I'm sure we could welcome you as well. A woman with your background could be well-suited to my division. Perhaps it might do your family some good, if you were in the public eye."

Palmer's subtext is all too clear: some heroism might fix that reputation you're so worried about. Whatever else Eleanora has to say about her, the woman knows how to make a sales pitch. It's an attractive offer, one that might be all the more so if she didn't have a son to take care of. Even when Kevin wakes up, she'll need to be his side for months. Spinal injuries like his take time to adjust to.

Hesitantly, like the first bat of a butterfly's wings, his eyes flutter open.

"Mother?" he asks.

She runs her hand through his hair. "Yes, Kevin. I'm here. Mother's here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shift

Outside of a one-story house cramped on a lot too small to fit a yard any bigger than a few feet in each direction from the foundation, rain began to pour. It was slow at first, the droplets turning into a trickle and the trickle turning into sheets as the volume of water grew faster than the clouds could drop it. Raindrops hit the moss covered roof, flooding the clogged gutters and spilling over the edge when there wasn't room for it to flow smoothly down the chute to the ground. Unkempt grass became mud and wind chimes took up a painful clacking as the breeze turned into a stiff gust. The street in front turned slick and the pavement dark.

Those that had been outside were all ushered indoors, some willing and others, those that were no older than eight, were scooped up and hauled over shoulders into the comfort of the homes lining the road. It left the entrance to the street unguarded and a feeling of desertion crept in and made itself at home among the storm.

Miguel hesitated outside the front step of his home, eyeing the closed screen door and the faint hum of the television playing by the bedroom window. The rain dripped off of him before hitting the ground, threatening to soak through his clothes if he stood there much longer. His hood was pulled tight around his face, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, fiddling with a set of frozen metal keys sitting inside.

An unspoken set of rules had always governed the Iglesia household. Be quiet. Don't get in the way. Don't bother their mother—especially not when she has guests over. No cussing. No staying out past nine. The list went on for a very long time, so long that it would have been impossible to know and memorize them all if someone hadn't grown up beneath the one story, moss covered roof. The most important one of them all was likely the easiest to remember: Don't be an idiot. But for all its simplicity, it was exceedingly hard to follow. This stemmed from the fact that one often didn't know they were going to do something idiotic until it had already been done, and it was why even now, Miguel debated whether it was worth it to come in from the downpour.

He could tell even now he was standing wrong. His full weight refused to sit on his left leg, leaving his body at an angle and his heel lifted slightly in the air. The shadow caused from the hood tugged over his ears hid most of the bruising, but as cold as his face was from wandering home in the storm, Miguel still noted the throbbing ache that came from his cheek. The bruise hadn't finished swelling yet and already it was purple and red, painful to the touch.

A shiver ran through him, in sync with a thunderclap from above. Miguel jumped. Forgoing the key, he stepped up and off of the porch, passing through the locked wooden door as if it wasn't there. Before he was even fully through, the smell of home hit him. Tobacco smoke had permeated into the walls, and the scent of Ocean spray was drowned out by liquor. Scuff marks lined the floor, Miguel no longer bothering to removed his shoes as he scraped the mud off on the entrance rug and crossed through the living room.

The boy's foot connected with a bottle in the dark without warning, Miguel's hand hit the wall hard, barely keeping him from falling but the damage was done. The large smack echoed down the hall, the bottle clicking as it rolled onto the linoleum kitchen floor and didn't stop until it hit the bottle of the stove. Miguel's shoulders seized up, his body rigid as he struggled to breath. Fuck. He ran his free hand over the side of his face that wasn't aching with each breath and staggered back to his feet. Dark eyes darted into the pitch black hallway, the only sliver of light slipping through the open door frame of nearest bedroom. His mother had the television on, though, the sound reaching even to the end of the hall as it brought Miguel an eager sign of relief. She heard nothing.

Pulling the strings of his hoodie tighter around his form, Miguel started again. His feet moved even slower than before, more delicate as he sidestepped the first creaking board he knew was in the hall and pressed his heels close to the wall where the floorboards had settled better. The area was carpeted, making it harder to tell what would make a sound beneath the pads of his feet, but Miguel had walked this path more times than he could count, and as he stepped into the glow of the screen he peered inside the room.

Miguel's mother sat on the small couch she had pulled into her bedroom, eyes nowhere near watching the television. She might have been able to fool those that didn't look closely, but it was clear her eyes had glazed over, more focused on pulling the cigarette in her hand to and away from her lips as puffs of smoke filled the room and left a thick cloud of smog to settle into the room, making the television screen hazy even from a few feet away. Beside her, laying on his stomach in only his boxers was the latest addition to what Miguel had been known to crudely refer to as the puerta giratoria of their home. He did not speak on the matter, though, and had learned his lesson fairly early on that it was not his business even if he did chose to speak. Instead, he merely turned his head away from the slumbering beast and turned his eyes back to the television as a familiar face caught his eye.

Miguel's lips curled painfully as he watched the headline appear, a snarl forming that he couldn't help himself stop. "In other news today, New York's Hottest Hero couple have hit the bricks—" A picture of one of the dozens of heroes that plagued the news appeared on in, Miguel unable to withhold his own eye roll. He did not believe in heroes, not anymore. There was something about the spandex and the capes that turned the taste in his mouth sour, and the fact that this was considered news didn't help his opinion.

"Idiot," he hissed between his teeth as the boy's face was taken from view and replaced with a live shot and series of flashing cameras as reports tried to hog his attention.

A stirring occured on the couch the moment the word escaped his lips, pulling Miguel's eyes down as he watched the woman in the chair crush her cigarette into the arm of it and begin to turn her head. "¿Mijo?" Miguel's rib cage broke from the speed of his heart as he all but dove for the doorframe to be out of sight, but the shuffling of feet and creaking of furniture told him it was too late even as rushed toward his room. "¿Estás aquí?"

His mother's hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him dead in his tracks. Miguel froze. A shallow breath escaped his lungs, his back hunching to try and hide himself better as he turned to face her. Talking with his back to the woman only tended to make things worse. "Sí, mamá," he mumbled, trying to shake himself free as he willed on the darkness of the hallway to hide his new injury.

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced back at the clock in her room before shaking her head at him. "¿Dónde estabas hoy?" The stern look was nothing short of murderous. He knew it was past the time he was allowed to be out, but often by now the woman was passed out in her bed without so much as a glance in his direction. Miguel shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the keys to the house in one and the wad of cash in the other. His breathing grew shallower. She can't know. I need it. Desperation crept up into his lungs as he was painfully forced to gulp in more air.

"En ninguna parte," he answered, refusing to give her anything more concrete to hold onto. As far as she was concerned, if he wasn't dead and the money kept coming it didn't matter. But Miguel wasn't lucky he had caught her in a rare moment of sobriety, and before a stop could escape his mouth the hood was ripped off of his head, revealing a mess of wet brown locks and the black and blue bruise that had swollen his eye partially shut.

"¿Qué hiciste?" Nails dug into both sides of his face, pain rocketing through his spine as she smashed in the bruise and only caused it to worsen. Air was sucked between Miguel's teeth as he fought off tears while she twisted him around like a bobble head, examining every angle before she shook her head. Her hand gripped his shoulder and turned to steer him toward the kitchen. "Hielo, ahora."

For someone who had been smoking for years, it was unbelievable the strength sher possed. Miguel was unable to tug himself free. Her grip was a vice on his shoulder, slowly turning the bone to powder even as he could see every blue vein in her hand. His mother sat him down at the kitchen table, pulling out the chair for him and forcing his shoulder down until his whole body collapsed in the old wooden chair. A sharp breath escaped his lips as he watched her rummage through the fridge before returning with a bag of frozen peas, bending down long enough to press it against his cheek for him and force his own hand to cover hers.

Miguel held it as he was told, watching her stand up again on shaking knees that cracked as she moved. He mumbled a, "Gracias," from beneath his breath and watcher her turn and walk away, back to the television on in the other room. There would be a scolding of his life time in the morning when she was properly sober, and not tettering on the inbetween, but for the first time Miguel knew he wouldn't be there to receive it. The thought was almost painful as he waited until she had disappeared and stood up himself, leaving the bag on the table as his body vanished from the kitchen table.

Miguel's form passed back through the hallway on just as patient feet, into his mother's bedroom, watching her eyes remain on the television with their own bitter resentment toward the figure on screen as he passed by her to the night stand and slid open the drawer. A second wad of cash, no bigger than the one in his pocket but far less bloody sat tied up with rubber bands. He took it into his pocket, settling his heavy heart and moving back through the room. There was a moment of hesitation as she stared right through him, and Miguel leaned down, his lips phasing through her cheek long enough to leave an invisible kiss. Adios, Mamá. His lungs were glued shut against the words, unable to slip his lips as he bit deep into the inside of his cheek and headed back for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ladybird

Hush,

hush,

hush,

h u s h

The people are coming.

At the shore, she stiffens, shrouded closely by the devilish envy of trees and shadow. The end of her obsidian spear digs into the melted sand puddling around her feet. She stiffens and looks out across the water at a boat, a small, wooden boat fit for three young men and no more. From what she can see from here, there appears to be only one man filling the boat, and rowing slowly. That means he's old. He's less likely to flee, then.

A feeling floods through her liquid heat, and she wants to be the one to flee instead, simply because that's the safe way to do it, but then she catches sight of a dark spot in the sky, circling overhead. The Raven does not want her to flee. But she wants to. Why can't she run? She waits long enough for a tendril of blood to snake its way from the fish down the spear's shaft until it meets her finger and sizzles to nothing. The bird turns its beak to her and flies back into the trees.

It's refusing to speak to her until she obeys.

No, no, my friends, don't leave! She will stay. Stay she does, waiting in the same puddle as the boat nears. The old man hasn't seen her yet; at least, she doesn't think he has. Perhaps by the time he's able, she'll have hardened to rock again, and he'll have to knock her limbs free of their dry paralysis. Maybe he won't. Maybe she'll stay stuck here forever, a protrusion of the earth fit only to serve the birds and act as their perch. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

BUT THE MAN

He sees her.

She takes a step backwards and hears the thin crackling of her skin as it flexes over the movement. If she wants, she can still take off into the underbrush, and she does want, but can't. It's not just the birds, it's a curiosity that thirsts for interaction, thirsts for the thought of sharing words with someone so unlike her, of sharing space with them. What if, one day, someone comes upon this island and decides to stay? Nobody's ever decided to stay; she fantasizes that they have. It's a whirling, twirling, plummeting dream that never quite takes off like it should whenever someone comes around. Even the braver ones leave eventually, and at this point, she's learned that her time with the visitors is limited. She must suck the life out of this interaction to keep her steady for the next endless forever she will go without.

So she waits, and when his boat comes upon the shore, she lifts her chin in the same way she's seen many others do to her, as if expecting something. The man is a fisher, and his pole hangs limp in his palm as he cups the other around his mouth and hollers. "You're that 'Serafina' they talk about? I'll be damned."

She repeats him, but only because she's taken a habit to repeating the words of others. A way to confirm, a way to learn. "You'll be damned." It comes out low but travels on the wind's wings to the man's ears, and he hears her loud and clear, evidently, for he flinches at the sound of her voice. He seems to proceed more hesitantly than before, but she cannot fathom why. The boat floats forward, the oars dipped over the edge and empty of action.

"Say," the man says, closer now, voice more sullen and low, "you got any others like you in there? Or's it just you?"

The words get confused when she tries to figure out what to say, so instead, she moves her legs, popping joints and letting the armor unfasten its locks on her limbs. Then she tries her best. "I am me. I am here only. With birds and things."

BUT THE MAN

He seems intrigued, and begins to step onto her island, ankles dipping down beneath the water. More often than not, the fishermen never leave their boats; this is a threat, and he holds that pole like she holds her spear. The magma boils and flushes through her body, and the crackle and snap of her movements fizzle out, now broiling and fluid. She points the spear at him, stanced like the hunter someone like her had been once. It is no threat though, for she is not a hunter. It is a defense.

"Do not come on!" she gargles, hot spittle turning to steam the moment it hits the water pooling around the man's legs. "Go back and far!" A hiss burrows out of her, but not on purpose. It must not scare the man, for he continues to advance, although his hands are held in the air now, like the surrender she's seen some in fear do at a kneel. A person fearless is a person to fear, and so she makes good upon her defense, and lashes out with the spear, nicking the skin of his arm just barely, just enough to leave the smallest cut and brand.

He seems surprised that she's done this, and gasps at the pain running through his blood, for he has blood, which must be cold, because he narrows his eyes at her and spits at the puddle around her feet before leaping back into the wooden boat and beginning to row away. He never turns his back to her; now, now he is fearful, and as such, she takes it upon herself to walk away, back into the overbrush and along the path she's burned into the ground so many times. She is safe again.

Safe within the trees, within the shadow, she runs; though her boiling body produces a faint angry glow, nothing else will follow. They've learned to let her be and pass through without trouble. The only ones that flutter close by are the birds, the ravens and crows who'll sooner die before the sun may set, and the ones native to the island, crooning loudly as they smack through the trees and tear their little wings and throats open trying to keep up. Their feathers brush by her, desperate for a touch, and then they scream out from the heat, from the wound their beloved has caused them. "I am sorry," she says aloud, and she says it clearly, concisely. She's most acquainted with this phrase above all others.

They'll forgive her. They flock to pain like moths to a flame. This is a small comfort; nothing else in this world will come back like they do.

Hush,

hush,

hush,

h u s h

The people are coming.

The birds' noisy fluttering is quickly drowned out by an even louder flutter - no, a whip. It's a violent whipping overhead that feels close enough to cut through her scalp, and when she dives against the cover of a tree and glances up, she sees the branches quaking, spinning in a horrendous cyclone that knocks the branches of one tree into the branches of three others. The trunk vibrates against her back, and she smells smoke. "I am sorry," she tells it, and then detaches before a fire can ignite.

She is tempted to run the other direction, back towards where the fisherman came, but the birds have left her now, all stuck in the same flight stream towards where the beast seems to be landing on the island. She must follow, so she does.

When she comes to the fringe of greenery on the other side of the island, she peers through the underbrush and watches as a mechanical sphere descends on the sand, kicking it up and throwing it out towards the ocean, towards her. There's a spinning device atop it, which slows as the thing buries itself in the island, in the earth. Soon people are leaping out of it.

She spies on them and their guns. The combat team calls out, "There have been many reports of a violent metahuman causing injury to strangers." A pause. "Hunting." I am no hunter. I am a ladybird. "A man recently attacked has given us your location, so surrender now, and no harm will come to you. Harm is not the intention, but you've been harming the locals, and this needs to stop before it gets out of hand."

"I am not bad! I am hurt by the bad ones!"

"Yooo you're safe. We won't hurt you; as a matter of fact let's get you to a place where nobody can get hurt. Would you like that? Hell yes you would c'mon," and then she gets into the helicopter with the birds circling overhead. It's so loud, and yet, there is

Hush,

hush,

hush,

h u s h.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pierre Tesai

Come straight to my work after school. That was what Pierre had texted his son. But that had been almost an hour ago and it should've taken him only ten minutes to get there from the S-train. Normal parents would've begun to worry or called their child in a frenzied panic but this was the month of May, and Noah was eleven—fifty-two years from his death date. He'd die in a December to a heart disease that ran in the family which was information Pierre had best kept to himself. If he were to guess, his son had most gotten distracted by the electronics store down the street or paid a visit to the park to feed the birds again. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered to pack him lunch this morning anymore when half the time it was given away to overweight birds, and a complete waste of his money. But he supposed it was better than having a son that liked vaping. Or something strange like that.

He'd wait it out. Noah would show up eventually and it'd be fun listening to whatever excuse the boy conjured up this time. It always was.

Drumming his fingers on his lap, Pierre tossed a cursory glance at his watch. Another couple of minutes and his break would be over which was a problem, but he wasn't thinking about that now. Annoyed, he rubbed his temples and sat back, staring at the television screen flickering on the other side of the room. The volume was too low and he couldn't hear what was being said, although he didn't need to when it came to the news. It was the Deutsche Welle public broadcasting channel and in bold black lettering was the headline, "SHADR HOPES TO BRING THE START OF A NEW AGE" next to the image of a hero who should've been retired. Cherry Bomb, he thought her name was. She'd been a famous vigilante back in his college days, and before that, she'd been part of the knock-off Justice League that had dubbed themselves New Sentries which was exactly as it sounded—a complete mess of a team filled with former heroes who quit too late.

Most of the people Pierre met on an average day were going to die of a heart attack or a stroke. Metahumans, however, were always on a list of dumb way to get killed and left embarrassing legacies with stories of latex and childlike idealism. He sighed. And here you would think they'd finally give up on the whole "trying to save the world" routine.

As the news segment cut to commercials, he tossed another glance at his watch and leaned forward. The receptionist was tap-tapping away at her computer and she paid no mind to him. He didn't remember her name and his employer sooner replaced receptionists than they did toilet paper. He worked at a private manufacturing company that designed and built aircraft for the wealthy and they only ever liked receptionists young and pretty. They would work there for a few months, get replaced by someone much younger and Pierre stopped remembering names after a while.

Two more minutes, then he'd approach her. He could scribble down a note for Noah and she could pass it to his son when he finally did decide to show up. Pierre was already on probation from coming into work late a few times and he couldn't risk being in-between jobs again. As he rubbed his jaw to relieve tension, he heard it.

The glass door squealed and a little boy strolled in, his jacket hanging loosely from his shoulders and his sandy blonde hair tousled like he'd run the whole trip there.

"You're late," said Pierre.

Upon closer inspection, Noah was panting and there was an exasperated sigh that rose from Pierre's chest but he held it in. Their eyes met for a split second before Noah looked away at his shoes and in their shared eye contact had been an exchange of words that could only be understood by father and son. It began with I'm sorry I'm late and ended with a you should've called me. A short silence fell between them and Pierre opened his mouth to scold him when he heard his son's throat begin to work.

"I was in line and there was this American that didn't know how to buy a ticket or get to her train so I had to show her how it worked and it took me a while," he said.

"How many times do I need to tell you not to talk to strangers?"

"Yes, but she seemed nice. She was kind of dumb and um," Noah paused to think, "I had to repeat myself five times until she understood because she didn't know any German."

Pierre gave the boy a hard look and then shook his head. He could tell when Noah was lying—his son was the worst at it—there was always a slight smile or excessive fidgeting of the feet but he wasn't doing that now. It was safe to assume he was being honest and that there was, in fact, an American tourist he'd offered help to. Pierre didn't respond, not immediately, and he instead helped Noah slip off his backpack, putting it on one of the chairs beside him.

"You didn't give her your name, did you?"

"No."

"How was school?"

"It was okay," said Noah. He took a quick gasp for air. "We have a field trip to England coming up and the Quiz Bowl is next week and I was really hoping we could invite mom since she missed the last one from being sick and so I was thinking she could come to this one."

The suggestion hit Pierre like a fist to the gut and he fell silent. Noah's mom had been an enigma. She was simlutaneously been the best and worst person he'd ever met. When he first met her, she was brilliant, headstrong, and charming—an astrophysics major who's dream was to work at a planetarium. At second glance, however, she was unreliable and cold. Their marriage had been a bust shortly after their son's birth and she'd resented them both for different reasons but the results had still been the same in the end. She never called, never showed up for birthdays, and always had an excuse. Pierre held in a sigh. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling the tension build up. How to tell your son his mom wasn't sick and she just didn't want to come?

"We'll talk about that at home. Did you make any new friends?"

Noah rolled his eyes. "You always ask that and my answer is always going to be no. No, I didn't. They're all jackasses. Especially Hans who thinks he's so cool because his dad got him a Supreme hoodie. But he doesn't have superpowers so he can't be that great. I told him I had superpowers and he called me a liar and—"

"Noah."

"Okay, before you—"

Pierre stopped listening. They'd talk about this before a thousand different times and in a different ways. Still, the kid never listened.

"What's the rule we have about your special abilities?" he asked.

"But it's no fair that Hans gets to brag about expensive clothing and I have powers but I can't—"

"I asked you a question."

"Yes, but—"

"When I ask you a question, you answer it," he said. His voice firm. "Now, what did I tell you about using your powers?"

"But I didn't—"

"Noah."

Letting out a long drawn-out breath, Noah finally surrendered. "We don't use or talk about our because it's dangerous and destructive and people will find ways to abuse our gifts."

"And?"

Another eyeroll. "It won't happen again and I'll pretend I don't have any."

Pierre combed his fingers through his son's hair and tried to smile. It was forced, not quite the warmest but he tried. Noah wasn't looking at him, pouting just a slight but he'd be grateful when he was older. Maybe. Probably. Superpowers were hazardous--Noah had electricity manipulation which had been even worse--and he was trying to keep his son out of prison. He cringed at the thought of having to visit him at a state prison where Noah's best friend would be a toothbrush and where he spent his days quoting cheesy sitcoms.

"You're a good kid. I just don't want you getting into any trouble," said Pierre.

"I'm a bad kid."

"No, you're a good kid, and when I get off work in a few hours, we'll have dinner where you want. Okay?"

"Sure, dad."

His son didn't seem to be listening anymore. He had his head turned down toward his cellphone as he played some kind of game that sounded like arcade games from the 1990s. As Pierre checked his watch, he noted the time. It was 3:05 and he had rougly two more hours to go before he'd be free to leave.

Sparing one last glance at Noah, he approached the receptionist counter where the young woman was typing away at a computer. She had sleek black hair tied into a ponytail and she was tapping one of her feet, the heel clicking on the floor. When their eyes met, she smiled and nodded.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

Her voice was high. Sing-songy. He'd need to keep the conversation short.

"Do you think you can keep an eye on my son for a few? I'm not asking you to babysit, just make sure he stays here? He's—"

"A troublemaker?"

"Curious," Pierre corrected.

A hmming noise came from her throat and she peered over the counter for a quick second, her heels click-click-clicking. When she returned her attention back to him, her smile was relieved.

"I suppose I can."

"Thanks. I appreciate it," he said.

He turned and left without another word, making his way down the hall toward an oversized elevator. He used a key and swiped a silver plastic card through the card reader before hitting a button, the elevator sign now glowing. As the doors slid open, he stepped inside, waving his hand at the card reader mounted by floor numbers as he pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed in the next few seconds and he was meant to attend a meeting with potential clients who were interested in having a state-of-the-art private jet.

The elevator stopped on the third floor and he made his way down a corridor as colleagues slid past him with their laptops and clipboards. He made a few turns then to a glass door as he entered the room they usually had their business meetings in. The room was almost entirely glass except for the carpet underneath and at the center of the table was a portable whiteboard with a long wooden table beside it that was covered in notepads and laptops. His manager was already seated at the table, chatting up a couple who looked expensive. They were older, middle-aged and their clothes were designer. On brand. They looked a bit stuck up if Pierre were being honest.

Still, he took his seat and waited. The meeting would start soon and they were usually the same thing as the last. Someone wealthy would walk in wanting a private jet or airplane that was decked out in features they probably wouldn't use lest to brag about to their friends, they would pay millions and millions of dollars just to have a jet that vaguely resembled something one saw in an Avengers movie and that was it. Everyone got paid, everyone was happy, everyone went home and it was mostly the same thing every day.

The lights flickered for a moment, a strange occurrence and he saw his manager's mouth move. Then, the room went dark. His eyes were full of darkness and stone while yelling could be heard from down the hallway. He froze. I swear to god, Noah. A flashlight cut through the darkness and someone swore before as more confused yelling echoed through the corridor.

A bzzing noise and the lights flickered to life, the backup generator kicking into gear though it was delayed.

Another minute and a man opened the door to the meeting room, poking his head in.

"Pierre," he said. "Ludwig wants to see you in his office. Your son, he—

"I know."

I know. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rilla Manco

This is impossible. Outside, sun filtered in through the window looking over the dish-filled sink. The stove top was still on, the teapot on top crying out at a loud whistle. It had almost been enough to cover the sound of the broken ceramic at her feet. Rilla stood in the kitchen, her eyes caught by the sight of her favorite mug shattered to pieces. Slowly, with a deep heaved sigh, she stepped over it on delicate feet and pulled the kettle from the stove. The silver knob was twisted off, killing the red glow of the burner.

Cautious not to cut herself, Rilla fell on to her knees in front of the mess with a towel in hand. The picture on the front had been shattered, leaving only the handle intact. Loose strands of brown hair touched her vision, slipping out from behind her small ears and falling before her eyes. A soft blow of breath and a toss of the doctor's head sent them swinging harder still. You're kidding me. Painted red lips screwed up tight, and she reached out to shove them back. Her eyes strained away from the mug for only a moment, struggling to fix one problem at a time, just one.

"Shit." The word slipped from Rilla unintentionally, pain sprouting from her finger. Her eyes turned back to find a thin, steady stream of blood running down her hand. The red streaked her skin and dripped onto the floor before she managed to wrap the towel in her hand around the wound. It can't get worse, she promised herself, headache rising in her temples as she focused on pinching the pieces of the broken coffee mug and dropping them one by one into the trash can. The process was slow, most of the shards no bigger than her pinkie nail. Unfortunately, the broom had been broken a few weeks prior, and there was no substitute. The doctor was too busy to try and keep up with all of the things that had broken or disappeared or turned into canon fonder for the "goddess" currently living in her guest room.

Dropping the last chunk of ceramic into the trash and running her free hand through the tangled mess of wet curls falling on her shoulders, the woman got her feet beneath her and stood up with help of the kitchen counter. Her head spun with the sudden movement for a moment, her knuckles bending tighter to hold herself in place. She wasn't old yet, far from it if modern science had anything to say about the human body, but there was stiff a stiff crack of her knees as she stood and a lack of balance that sent Dr. Manco stumbling a step before she caught herself and moved to the junk drawer a few feet down. The handle had always been a bit sticky and the drawer tended to catch until it was given the appropriate amount of wiggling, jostling, and elbow grease to pull it out— or at least it had, until Nyelia had gotten fed up with it and pulled the drawer out, effectively damaging the track inside and leaving the drawer to sit out in the open on the counter to display the random knick-knacks, used batteries, and rubber bands it contained. Pretty good metaphor for your life right now. Rilla pushed aside some thumbtacks and a used sticky note and slid a band-aid out of the ripped package to slip around her finger. Messy and dysfunctional.

An alert caused the screen beside the sink to light up. Vibrations shook the phone against the granite countertop, sending it skittering across and almost into the metal basin had the doctor not reached out at the last minute to catch it. Her eyes skimmed over the notification, knowing full well it was a reminder for the coffee date she'd scheduled—and was currently late for, incidentally. Normally, the alerts on her phone where the only thing keeping her life straight between meetings, grant deadlines, and the little time she still had to squeeze in friends, but Rilla had made a recent discovery in her life. When you don't have a job, it's a lot harder to lose track of time. Yet she somehow still couldn't be on time, it was almost funny.

Giving the kitchen floor a final look over and a satisfied nod, the woman shoved her phone in her pocket and grabbed the yellow purse sitting on the counter to sling over her shoulder. The cooling kettle of water was forgotten completely as she hurried through the house, rushing back to her room for a pair of socks, walking out without them because she'd been distracted by the idea of using her deodorant and having to head in a second time. Her head poked into Nyelia's open bedroom on her way between her own and the bathroom, catching sight of an empty, unmade bed and more than one shirt strewn about. A hiss slipped through Rilla's teeth as she turned her attention to the living room, calling it out as she went, "Nyelia, are you out here?"

There was no response, not that she fully expected one as she turned off the light in the hallway and tugged her purse higher up on her shoulder. The doctor left a brief pause as she stepped into the living room, giving Nyelia the chance to answer but finding none as she caught sight of the goddess on the couch. "There you are." Nyelia was stretched across it, her head propped up on a small sea of pillows and her feet all put hanging off the edge. Before her was the television, the volume cranked as high as Dr. Manco had made clear was allowed. The last thing I need is to be kicked out of my apartment too. Headache growing by the second, the woman crossed into Nyelia's eye path to retrieve her sunglasses.

"What is an 'ignorant slut?'" The words surprised Rilla, bringing her gaze up to Nyelia's face. The goddess wasn't watching her, eyes glued to the television as if she hadn't spoken the question at all, leaving the woman to stare and stand with an open mouth as she tried to formulate an answer. After a second of silence, Nyelia bothered to flick her gaze over, raising an eyebrow at the human.

Nose scrunched and eyes squeezed shut, Rilla forced herself to count to five before she opened them again and cast a glance at the television screen for the first time. "What are you watching this time?" she asked, incredulous as she slipped the glasses onto her forehead and brushed back her hair part.

"The Office," Nyelia responded easily, pointing to a man standing on top of a building as if that would explain her answer for itself.

Sighing, the doctor crossed the small room and sat down at the end of the couch, forcing Nyelia to pull her feet back so she wouldn't sit on them. Struggling to stay balanced resting on the edge of the cushion, Rilla tugged on her first sock before throwing a nod toward the television screen. "Okay, well can you put on the news for a minute please?"

The goddess looked up at her, expression well beyond neutral as she shrugged her shoulders as best she could while laying down. "I am afraid I do not know how to do that." There was no apologetic tone, no explanation, just a flat response that crawled under Rilla's skin as she attempted to keep herself under control.

"It's channel eight."

Nyelia was no longer looking in her direction, face turned completely toward the screen before her. A bouncy castle appeared on it for a brief second before cutting back to the roof again as the goddess sunk further into her spot on the couch. "Rilla, I can't work the television. You know this," she responded, clearly making no effort to actually help whatsoever as the woman yanked on her other sock and reached for her first shoe.

"You turned it on, didn't you?" Dr. Manco asked, raising an eyebrow before she was forced to lower it when a fresh throb between her eyes started. Instead, she glanced around for something to turn the channel herself and came up empty-handed.

"I lost the remote." Bullshit.

"Just—" Rilla bit her tongue as she slipped on her other shoe and stood again, smoothing the wrinkles in her pants and brushing off imaginary dust that had settled in the two seconds of her sitting down. Nyelia immediately shifted her feet back to their comfy place on the other end of the couch, propped by their own pillow. One hand was tucked neatly beneath her head, but on the other, the doctor caught sight of a miniature cut, ignored by the goddess as she mumbled something incomprehensible at the television. Guilt racked the doctor for a second before she shook it off, turning to the door and swinging it open to the hot weather outside. "Never mind, I'm going out."

She waited for a minute, standing there with her hand on her hip and the door frame for some kind of goodbye, but missing one chose to leave home without it, making sure to shut and lock the door behind her. She was already late and having Nyelia pay little attention to her was a blessing she should have more quickly accepted than a curse. Trying to coordinate leaving the house when the goddess decided to tag along was like herding cats—well, one cat, in particular, a giant, super-powered cat with the attention span and neediness of a newborn kitten. You should be less harsh on her, her brain nagged as she slipped down the steps of her place and onto the street outdoors.

Warmth spread across her skin, soaking into it in a matter of seconds. Rilla had grown to appreciate the warm days ever since she had been on her first research mission out in Africa. It was hard to survive out on a dig if one didn't have the right mental attitude, and there was something that brought out a smile from the woman like a hot day. Her enthusiasm was someone what curbed by the throbbing of her temples and her lateness, but there was nothing to be done about either as she crossed the street with barely a look at the traffic either way and entered the chilly cafe kitty-corner to her apartment.

The air condition was on full blast inside, drenching Rilla in a layer of sweat and chills as she pushed open the glass door and slipped inside. A long string of people lay in wait before her, most consumed by their phones or each other as the sluggish pace pushed one person up to the cash register at a time and the people waiting shuffled slowly into place. No one was in much of a rush to strut back out into the heat wave, though, so the angry glares were few and far between as Rilla wandered away from the back of the line and toward the front of the shop as she tried to spot the man she was meeting.

Most of the booths were full, a few small coffee tables left up for grabs lay by the window, but none held Lewis. He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, and her lips pulled tight as she struggled to catch the soft scruff of his bread and lazy gaze. It wasn't until she glanced toward the counter full of sweets up front that her eyes caught him at the front of the line, his gaze narrowed at a particularly decadent pastry. A smile curled onto her lips, the doctor crossing the small space between them and squeezing in by his side as she laid an arm on her friend's shoulder. "You should get it. You'll only spend the whole day complaining if you don't."

Nearly stumbling back into the customer behind him, Lewis managed to catch himself as a laugh bubbled to his lips. "There you are!" His voice was deep and smooth like a well-aged brandy, hooking Rilla in almost instantly with how much she had missed it. She would have gotten drunk off that alone if she could have, but instead, her waist was snagged and pulled up against her friend's side as he nodded in reluctance to the barista. "Alright, just one of those, though. And whatever the lady wants." There was a teasing note to his voice, and Rilla lost her own voice as he cast a glance at her, reading her with an overly stern expression before he turned his head back to the counter. "Make that an iced chai." He paused for a moment before addressing the doctor beside him without needing to look over. "How are you, mate?"

"Oh, you know me." There was a soft laugh in Rilla's own voice as she leaned into the embrace, eyes wandering over his profile and wondering when he had gotten his new hair cut before sarcasm inevitably infiltrated her voice, "Just peachy."

"Well, that's always how it is with you, innit?" A knowing smile tugged Lewis's lips and he dropped his hold on the woman to try and shove both hands in his pockets in search of whatever crumpled dollar bills he had left. "Want me to get this round?"

"No, it's my treat," she insisted, batting his hand away as she pulled out her own purse and retrieved the card from inside. He smiled in thanks, grabbing the plate set before them and waiting for Rilla to relieve her receipt before he led the way to a two top pressed up against the side of the window. Sunlight came in, washing the table and turning half of it from dark mahogany to a light pine.

Once they both sat down, the doctor pulled the receipt into her hands and stretched it out, glancing at the price for the first time as she slid her card back into her wallet. "Six dollars for a coffee?" Her eyes flickered up to Lewis's apologetic grin before shaking her head. "I should've let you pay."

The soft smile that crossed his face was hard to ignore and as she placed both hands on the table, she gave no protest as he took one of them. "How're you holding up?" There was a hidden trap in the words that burdened Rilla even as she heard the words. The smell of coffee swirled around them, along with sugar from the pastry set between the two. It was comforting, a reminder of the days they had spent like this in college. It was where they'd met as cheesy as it sounded, but Rilla had always found some relief in that. Those that she met through work had all disappeared after what had happened but not Lewis.

"Fine." The word slipped from her tongue as she was distracted, eyes turned out to the street beyond, wondering where everyone else was in such a rush to get to.

The change in expression, brows knit in concern forced Rilla to turn her head back to Lewis. "No, you're not." It wasn't a question or a disagreement, but a softly uttered fact, the thumb scraping over her thin hands forcing the truth from her almost against her will. Lewis always had been a good listener, had been her confidant, but it didn't help her shoulders from sinking in and her face puckering up as she drew her hand away.

"What else am I supposed to say?" The question slipped out as her hands met her forehead, bearing her weight as she sunk onto her elbows. There was a bitter, resigned edge to her words as if still being mad about it would mean that it wasn't her own fault. "I'm gutted. My dream job and I all but handed them my own towel."

"You need to screw your head on straight," Lewis argued, standing from the table as his name was called with a shake of his head. He walked over to the coffee bar, leaving Rilla to glare at his back. Easy for you to say. She reached down and pulled the phone from her pocket up onto the table as a vibration came from a new twitter message. Avalon: Just reached Cairo. Me and the crew. Bile rose in the back of Rilla's throat, her body only sinking lower until her chin all but touched the wood. She knew it'd only make her feel worse to open the app, check through the pictures of her other friends out on digs. It was the perfect season too, and almost everyone else would be gone off until September.

A cold coffee cup nudged her hand, Lewis's chair squeaking beneath him as he sat back down. "Cheers, huh?" the man suggested, lifting his own cup to tap them together before he noticed the expression resting on the doctor's face. "Oh, come on, Rilla."

"It's all gone to pot. I'll be out of quid in a month and then what?" She asked, unable to help herself, her jaw pressing against the edge of the coffee table as she leaned down and let her head loll until her cheek was pressed flush with the wood. "Not to mention I currently have that—" Her hands encircled the drink before her, squeezing the plastic and threatening to make the lid pop off as she dented the shape, "—that woman staying with me."

"You need a new job is all," Lewis insisted as she took a painful sip, punishing the drink in front of her and crewing the straw angrily between her lips. The plastic crunched and twisted before it bent back into shape as she removed her lips from it. Lewis reached forward, grabbing the phone set out of the table and opening it with a wipe of his thumb before she could argue. "Give me this."

Rilla's eyebrows pinched tight before she raised one at her friend before her. "I already have your number," she reminded, not quite sure if she was teasing or not as she watched him punch in a new contact on her phone before sliding the device back across to her.

"Her name is Michelle," he supplied, even though she could already see the woman's name as it appeared in her contacts with the number to call staring back beneath it. "She works for SHADR. We got in touch last week and she was talking to me about a few open spots in their R and D department, huh?"

Choking on her drink, tea rushing down her lungs the wrong way, the woman shot up as she covered her hand with her mouth and tried to choke back a fit of coughs as she watched Lewis with wide eyes. "You're kidding me."

With a roll of his eyes, he took a sip of his own drink and shook his head, tone dipping to disappointed. "You're about as chuffed as I thought you be," the man murmured, clearly mocking her as only he could do without a swift kick to the sternum. "But I'm serious. Just ring her up, no harm in a chat."

"Lewis—" Rilla's face worse than an unsteamed dress shirt, bunched up at every spot as she tried and failed to untie her tongue enough to argue straight. "Metahuman bullshit is what got me here in the first place. You think I want to fall down that pit trap? I'll end up killed or kidnapped or—"

"You've got reservations." The words cut her off, settling her nerves before she launched into a full-blown rant. She didn't believe heroes of any kind were a good idea, they only heightened the problem, regulated or not. Still, it was impossible to drown out Lewis as he spoke. "Rilla, I know you. All I'm saying is try it out. They might even be able to get rid of you-know-who." There was a tempting offer lying at the end of his words before he placed a hand beneath her chin, cupping her face and forcing her to stare up at him before she tore her head away and reluctantly slid the phone back into her pocket.

"I'll think about it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epoch

The day is two years and six months prior to our present day, and by "our," I mean the day shared by Hayes and I. He dives into this memory often, reflecting on things that he maybe could've done better, or said differently, or not done or said at all. There's doubt and trepidation connected with this memory, for him (he fidgets when it comes up, see) and I can tell what he's thinking even without deep-diving into the inner-workings of his mind or subconscious: That day, two years and six months ago, Hayes Emory should've stayed on that shuttle bus until it turned around and took him right back to L'Ulls harbor. He should've turned back and gone home.

This idiot never listens to his gut, though. If I didn't have to put up with him, I wouldn't. Alas, we're cosmically bonded. I'm completely and irrevocably stuck and forced to watch him live a life he's got no idea I'm part of, and by extension, I have to watch him make piss poor decisions. Damn The Raven and all that They stand for. Damn the boy, too.

The bus rattles down the route from the ferry to SHADR, picking up rocks and spitting them back out. Noon's white sun beats down, heating up the island, heating up the bus's interior, providing a display of illumination for the planner bouncing in Hayes' lap. His hands press down on the pages, but it doesn't help much, for his whole weight is practically being thrown into the air at every mild bump and turn. Looking at the words is useless. He's already muttering the to-do list to himself, memorized top to bottom. It's been pounding through his skull all day and I ought to know that it has, because it's been pounding through mine, too.

"Take the ferry to the island, done, take the bus, ongoing, ask the front desk for Nafisa- no, no, Dr. Etienam. Professionalism. 'Nafisa' happens three years from now when I'm an established employee and need to kiss my boss's ass with an air of comfortable informality. Uhh, do interview, pending. Don't fuck it up, pending. Take bus back to ferry, take ferry, go to hotel, proceed to cry. Google food words in Spanish and get dinner at La Finestra while pretending to know the language. Fool them all or reaffirm that you are yet another uncultured American. Decide later."

His fingers run over the colorful ink on the page, eyes glazing over as he tucks his lip under his teeth. It's not a lot, but the interview is - he has to somehow "wow" the most intelligent woman in this dimension and convince her that he's worth it, that he's worth the time and trouble to train and provide for and have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. But that begs forth the question of is he really worth the trouble?

His knee begins to bob and the pages of the planner wobble with it. A hand runs over his cheek; he starts the process again. "Take the bus, ask the front desk for Etienam, go to the interview. Bring notes. Don't fuck it up-"

He catches someone in his peripheral, the person in the opposing seat, and his tongue tucks itself away for once as he turns to her. Whoever she is, she's got this strange expression on her face, all twisted up in some sort of mild discomfort or irritation or something. Warmth flushes through his face, and he does a completely unnatural natural wave, as if to affirm that he is not some weirdo. Adds this painful smile to the whole deal, too. But she doesn't look away or brush it off as expected, and with a brief nod and a quiet "o-kay", he slings a bag on his shoulder and moves up a few seats.

Hayes plops down in the frontmost seat, the woman forgotten. There's someone new to focus on now, a new opportunity diagonal to him. He grabs onto the pole attached to the divider and leans forward, as close as he can get to the driver without crossing the yellow "Do Not Cross" line. Frankly, though, I think speaking to the man already crosses that line. Hayes isn't very good with boundaries, y'see.

"Pssst," he goes. Not very good with decent conversation, either.

The driver glances back once, but then quickly flicks his gaze back to the road. "Yes?"

"So like," Hayes starts, "know anything about SHADR that isn't on the website? L'Ull, too?"

The man continues to stare straight ahead, and Hayes stares at his face through the rearview mirror, catching an eye-roll. "You should bring bug spray. And a fan. It is very hot here."

"Well, yeah, I've gathered that much." He dispels the statement with a brief and required laugh, then drums his nails on the pole. "I meant like, y'know, secrets? Tricks of the trade, advice? Aha, I'm sorry I'm just uhh, trying to gauge if I need to know anything special before this interview."

A pause passes between them, but it's filled by the loud rumbling of tires over the road. A very large insect smacks loudly into the windshield. Then, the man nods. "I have seen many boys like you come here for work. Excited and clueless and scared. I am telling you, there is nothing to be scared of."

"Did they get the job too?"

"No."

"Oh."

"This is your stop right up here."

The crunching of gravel turns to a smooth drive on asphalt as they swing onto the main road and slip into the turnaround for the front entrance. It slows to a stop, and Hayes lurches forward even though the brakes are smooth. I can hear the thoughts running through his head right now as he fastens the bag firmly to his shoulders and rises on shaky legs. I can hear the quiet rush of oh, fuck and I should back out now. It saddens me, almost, the extent to which he doubts himself now, but I can't say I'm particularly surprised when it comes to his long history of denials and rejections. Humans are quite fragile in that way, in how one fleeting moment in their lives is able to define how they react to the future. Hayes is quite fragile in that way.

He thanks the driver and hops off. No sooner has his feet touched the hot earth is the bus taking off down the main road, headed to greater things. When Hayes looks up at SHADR's main entrance, he wonders if he's headed to greater things, too, and decides that even if he isn't, he might as well fake it. With a bounding step, he jumps over the curb and under the silvery awning that leads to the double doors. And then, with great strength, he shoves open a door and enters the headquarters.

A metallic archway greets him, as does a youthful guard with a strict nod of his head and a gesture to the security belt. Hayes smiles in that flat, mandatory way, and then slips the pack onto the table. Then, with a confident flourish, he steps through the beep-boop security machine.

When it actually beep-boops, he's taken aback, as is the guard, who steps forward and pushes him back behind the arch. "I had no idea it was gonna do that," Hayes says, throwing his arms into the air as the guard begins the pat-down. "I don't know why-"

But then his memory seems to be jogged when the guard stands, taser in hand, brow raised in question. A hand smacks his forehead. "Oh! I have that on me so often I forget it's there sometimes. Go 'head, I trust you to keep it safe while I'm off making career milestones."

Before he can be given the go-ahead, he steps through the machine again, and this time, he's in the clear. He nearly reaches out for his bag too but the guard hops forward before he can jump the gun a second time (perhaps that's poor phrasing given the circumstance). "I need to examine this. Other items were detected." With the patience of a child waiting to start the road trip to Disneyland, Hayes steps back and surveys the careful prodding of the guard. This is really eating away at his nerves, and he keeps biting the skin from his thumb, cycling over and over through this better not make me late, this better not make me late.

The guard seizes hold of something, and his hand emerges with a second taser. "Any reason you have two of these with you today, sir?"

"Right," Hayes says flatly, letting his arms fall limply to his sides. "That's my backup. In case I drop the other one."

He reaches in again. Pepper spray, this time. Hayes swallows, the corner of his lip twitching. "That's for like, mild crises. Like, if someone's been giving me wonky looks and following me around, I can just whip back and go whoosh!" Accompanying hand gestures. "Like cheese spray, but spicy and painful. There's cheese spray in there too, by the way, but that's for my lunch and is not intended to be repurposed into a weapon. Say, you eaten yet? You can have my lunch, if you want."

The guard just shakes his head and chuckles humorlessly into the bag without looking up, but then, as he continues to shuffle around, his brows scrunch, and his hand pauses mid-sweep through the bottom. "What's this?"

Genuinely confused, Hayes nearly steps forward - "What's wh-" - but then what the guard has probably found sinks in, and his eyes pop wide open, mouth dry. "Oh. You found that. Heh, yeah." He brings an arm back and scratches the back of his head, trying to think of how best to explain it away. "Personal use? It's not weird, though. I swear. I- y'know what, actually? Just keep the bag here. Can I have my- thanks, I just, I just need the binder." He reaches forward and the man pulls out a notebook, which Hayes snatches up quickly. "Can I go now?"

Although skeptical, the guard seems more tired of this encounter than anything, and with a half-lidded look, he waves the man through. I still find reason to be alarmed that, even after finding two tasers, pepper spray, and a false dick, that he gave Hayes the right to roam SHADR's research and development department and place himself in a situation he should've never been in. I can't say the security here has improved much, but at least they listen to their running suspicions, now!

"Cool! You're the man, my man." Hayes points finger guns at the guard while walking backwards, which, in retrospect, was probably in very poor taste, but if I'd had to deal with this short, enthusiastic man when I still had seven hours left in my shift, I'd probably let it go, too. Or phased the individual in question out of existence. However, I can no longer do that, thanks to The Raven. That's what I get for trusting Them.

If Hayes were a different person, maybe he'd be impressed by the high ceilings of this place, or the extensive set of polished grey stairs leading up to an expanse of windows large enough to fit a thousand hunched versions of himself. However, being dropped into different dimensions at least once a day has taken its toll on how he views the marvels of this one, and he climbs the marble without distraction, enters the elevator without distraction, passes by the escort that this company can definitely afford to pay to just stand there for several hours without distraction. What distracts him is what if the void opens up beneath him in the middle of this interview and throws him into a realm of mutated beings again? What if the universe, for some godforsaken reason, just doesn't want him to do this?

I'm telling you, he's a dramatic one. Is he wrong to be dramatic? No. I've seen it happen many a time. That's not the universe's doing, though. It's something much bigger.

Caught in his own thoughts, he follows the escort mindlessly until they come upon a small reception area, where he becomes conscious of other people and the sweat on the back of his neck. He smiles at them and casts his eyes down, rubbing the moisture from the nape of his neck. I'm sweating too much. I'm gonna smell like ass. Maybe the nice overpaid escort lady has really strong scented gum to outdo my stink. Just as he's about to ask, however, she straightens up and deviates from the soft-spoken creed she's stuck to since the first floor. "Hayes Emory is here to see Nafisa Etienam, ma'am."

"Oh, no, that's okay, it's not for another half hour, I'm-"

But the woman at the receptionist desk merely points at a door, refusing to look up from her screen. "Go ahead and take him back. Etienam wants to get back to her research as quickly as possible."

Something painful and sharp drops in Hayes' gut, and I can feel the blood leaking from his cheeks as the escort begins her directed walk towards a future that Hayes hasn't had time to review a fifth time yet. Her hand on the knob fills his chest with pulsating terror, and pushing it open does an even worse number, because there's Dr. Etienam in all her shining, intelligent glory, seated at the desk in her office and completely uninterested in those who've just walked through.

The escort announces his arrival and then ducks out of the room, closing the door behind her. Hayes is too jarred to realize that he ought to say something, now.

"Hello, Mister Emory. My, you look much younger than I was expecting." She stands, and an abundance of fabric sits nicely around her shoulders, patterns reaching up to keep the glasses firm on her nose. She extends a hand.

The moment he registers what he's supposed to do, he takes the three long strides to meet her and puts his palm against hers. They shake and depart quickly. I can feel the buzz between his ears and it's driving me insane. Oh, God. Was that too weak? Am I already disqualified? Too sweaty?

"Please, take a seat," Etienam suggests without doing the same. He listens, quickly perching his rear on the edge of the seat. Under the table where she can't see, he rubs his palms on his pants. "I'm assuming you've already had your initial interviews at the outposts in..." She trails off, and Emory takes the opening. Maybe a little too desperately.

"Yes, ma'am! DC outpost and a Skype interview before that."

"Good, good. You're in the right place." Finally, she takes a seat, and in doing so, spreads a slew of papers across the surface of the desk. She focuses on these as she talks, squinting at them and drawing her finger down the lines. "Then you must know that you've passed a very selective vetting process to get here, yes? I've taken a look at your qualifications and recommendations, and you seem like a decent fit for our research team." Only decent. "Obviously, your other interviewers thought the same. But they asked the easy questions. Here, I want to ask you things we typically save until the end of the process. Does that sound good, Mister Emory?"

That sounds scary. "Sounds excellent, ma'am. I'm ready to get into it." He finishes out with a winning smile. Stop bobbing your knee, you heathen. Or you'll be unemployed forever. No job, shit insurance.

"Good. First thing on my list. Tell me about a time you worked well with a team on a group endeavor or activity."

The pinching in his chest begins to loosen, and he lets his shoulders relax as he comes around to the interview. This is a question he's already answered before, already prepared. With ease, he outlines a research opportunity back in college. She listens intently, but her expression is flat, unreadable. He's fearing the worst when she switches gears on him entirely, much more interested in her own words than his as she leans forward on both elbows, a pen twisting this way, that way, between her fingers. It's not a fidget. It's purposeful.

"Another thing I want to ask you is about any particular...abilities you may have that may allow you to bring something truly unique to our team."

Hayes is taken aback; he scoots back further onto the chair so that it's supporting his whole body, and then he runs a tongue over his teeth, thinking. This is the dealbreaker. They don't like me, they boot me, and all this time's been for nothing. "Oh? You didn't ask for that on any of the applications and uh, it never came up in any-"

"We omit those details at the start to prevent bias on behalf of those stationed at our outposts," Etienam says calmly. She swings the pen around as if it's common sense. "I believe it to be a necessary question, but we've had to take it out of the early steps because we've unfortunately had issues with selection based on metahuman talents before. Combat and rescue teams require that step early, but for this particular department, I don't want my interviewers picking someone based solely on firepower, which I've found they're apt to do. Really, I only ask now to be certain that you're perfectly suited for a role in research and not elsewhere - like, say, combat. We're severely understaffed in combat, as you might imagine."

Dumbfounded, he grabs hold of the end of her statement, trying to squeeze leverage in the conversation out of it, trying to establish his appealing and lighthearted nature. People love that, right? "People don't like getting their hands dirty?" he asks, half-smiling. It's only extremely forced and I want to tell him he's not fooling anyone, and not Swarm above all others, but we both suffer in silence.

Etienam tilts her head and nods. "That's one way to put it. They also don't like the idea of being evaporated by lethal metahumans in high intensity zones."

"Oh."

"So? What can you do for us, Mister Emory? If you don't have any metahuman abilities, that's also fine," she's quick to add. "I myself rely strictly on products of my own invention."

"No, no, I have abilities!" He swallows down the panic in his voice and continues to bring in air as he talks. "That's really cool, though, I uh, I did the research and knew already but uh...hold on, I'm trying to think of how to phrase this properly." He doesn't really think, though, just pulls a couple of nice, big words from the list in his brain of what he thinks of first. Relaxed and sure, he leans back in the chair and holds his hands out. "You could say that I'm a bit of a connoisseur in the art of interdimensional travel. Just whoosh. One place to the next, always somewhere new. Y'know?"

Somehow, some way, he's triggered a switch in Etienam, because her entire figure has tensed and one arm swings under the table, striking the underneath. The rest passes quickly, armor clanking over the windows and locking him up in darkness, forcing him to adjust before a few blinding emergency fluorescents kick on.

For the briefest of moments, he catches sight of Etienam stepping back before a blur of faces surrounds him, black uniforms, hard-pressed faces, and guards with their guns. Guns aimed at him. Let it be known that it was in this moment that I was very positive of my host's imminent demise, and part of me was almost craving it, since I'd be released upon his death. But another part of me, the part connected to Hayes' life and love and sense of self-preservation, flared up in fear in the same way he did, for if he died, a part of me would go with him, and not even in a sappy, metaphorical sense; part of my cosmic bond would be sheared from the both of us.

You could say that it this this fear that causes a shimmer in the back corner where no one's looking, but let it be known that just because one can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. While this is happening, Hayes is running his own ride, face contorted in deep confusion as two guards handcuff and yank him up roughly, leading him towards a room to the side. "What? Where the hell y'all taking me? Is this a test? Is this some extreme, cruel interview test? Is this why your combat department is really understaffed, huh?"

He's brought into the small room and led to another one, the other half containing only a table, a chair, and a glaring sheen of light overhead. His struggle exists, but it's slight - he's truly regretting all those days skipping the gym now - and in a matter of moments, he's sat down in that chair and locked in. Alone.

I don't think he realizes what's just occured. Momentary shock, common to most humans experiencing the unimaginable, as my observations tell me. He simply sits there, in a state of paralysis, listening to the muffled bustle of noise on the other side of the wall, on the other side of the window built into the wall. He squints through it. Is he supposed to be able to see through it? Regardless, he sees through it, and there he sees Dr. Etienam peering in. And another woman beside her, joining the frame and staring him down with deep curiosity. She says something, and the two women begin to converse.

Now would be a really good time for one of those dimensional slip-ups.

As hard as he tries, the strain in his ears only reaches so far, and he has to wait until the two directors finally enter, Etienam in the lead, and a woman he recognizes as Sakura Sato standing to the side, arms crossed over her chest. For starters, he recalls her from research, but the both of us know her elsewhere, from one of those aforementioned slip-ups. Huh, I hear him think, I could've sworn I saw her blow up in another dimension once. I should probably keep that to myself, though. Unless I was supposed to see it for this reason?

His pondering is halted abruptly as Etienam slams her palms down on the table before him and leans in, not close enough to fan her breath on his face, but close enough to see the miniscule twitches and breaks in his expression. "So you are an interdimensional traveller, yes? Have you done this for a while, bouncing from one to another, or is this a recent development where you come on in to gather information? To invade later, perhaps, and pose the greatest threat to humankind? Tell me, is it fair game for me to do the same to you?"

Hayes's entire face is crinkled up at this point, stretched with lostness and shrunken with beet-red anger. "What? What in the everloving hell are you going on about? With all due respect, doctor, what the fuck?"

"So you play games? I warn you now that I do not, and neither does my institution. You will remain here until-"

It hits me before it hits Hayes, as is custom. Swarm here believes that we are from another dimension. She is half wrong. I try to jog it into him, she thinks we are from another dimension, but I've still no reach.

"Wait. Oh, no, no, no, you've got it all twisted. Nafisa, Swarm, dear, dear confused Etienam. I- do you think I'm from somewhere else? Hell no! I'm from this dimension! I was born on this earth in the back corner of some bar and I've been grounded here ever since. You misinterpreted my words. And then proceeded to run with that misinterpretation before getting clarification, but I'll forgive you for that because you are one of the most secure places in the continent and it's only natural that every single one of you fuckers be jumpy. God. No, no. I just sometimes...slip through the cracks, I guess you could say. I can see what happens in other dimensions, but I certainly can't do anything about it."

A change has occurred in the woman in front of us: stiff, no jump of breath in her chest, absent eyes drinking in an absent empress beside her.

Sakura sighs, a tired flatness lining the careful makeup on her face. "Nafisa. We need to let the kid go."

"Hey! I'll have you know I'm twenty-two and just finished university. I can drink as much alcohol as I so please. I'm a grown man."

The woman gives him a look, and although he's tempted to apologize, he's more tempted to shrug innocently. There's some sort of entitlement running through him now that he knows who she is. You're Sato dust somewhere in this universe. Just remember that. He'd never say that, though. May I reiterate, my host is an absolute pussywillow, as the youthful humans might say here.

Nafisa sucks in a great inhale and rolls her spine, never taking her eyes off him. "I'm not convinced."

Sakura splays an arm out towards him. "Well we can't keep him prisoner! You run a research facility. You're a doctor, not a warden. I hired a doctor. Not a warden."

Actually, I don't mind not-Sato-dust. She's chill. Can he stop thinking for just a minute?

Nafisa shrugs. "I can be both. If his condition is accurate, this can be the start of a valuable research project. I have a very large den for my specimens, so I can very much assure that he stays comfortable in my care, just as long as we move the rats elsewhere!"

"No!" Sakura says. "We don't hold people hostage based on misunderstandings!"

"I have a question," Hayes interjects.

"Well, what do you s'pose we do instead?"

"I have an excellent idea," Sakura says, matter-of-fact, "start thinking of him as a human being."

"Aw, thank you," Hayes says. Yet again, Sakura has fallen into his favor. Or maybe he's fallen into hers? Possibly the latter, given the circumstances. "Can I just-"

"If he's this valuable," Sakura continues, "and we've deduced he's not a threat to humanity, here's a thought: hire him to your team."

Hayes bounces once in his seat, scooting forward in a flush of excitement and, if my instincts are proper, a bit of dread that he's choosing to ignore. "Woah! Now there's a thought! Do I still have to finish the interview, though?"

A beat of silence passes between the three of them, and Nafisa brings a fist up to her mouth, which she keeps pressed there as she paces once, twice, thrice. "I suppose that's probably our best course of action. We'll get him based here temporarily tonight and have permanent residency set up by tomorrow. I don't want him leaving just yet. He may run off and take all of my new leads with him."

"That's completely up to him." Sakura straightens her posture to establish herself higher than everyone else in the room. "You need to let him have free will. Just because you thought he was some invasive beast from the ninth dimension five minutes ago doesn't mean he is one. I mean, look at him."

The two share a long, hard glance at him, and now that he's finally grabbed their attention, albeit, not by his own means, he perks up. "I'm going to finish that interview question we left off on before, then. I can also do this cool trick."

With a sly grin, he mashes his teeth together and suck! Implosion and shrinkage; the bits and pieces of Hayes disintegrate and the many facets of his being float through space, his body no longer where it was. Here, I can truly twist into him; here, I can give him the sensation that he's not the only one shooting through the air to some other place. I can give him the sensation that he is not alone.

It's only brief. In the next few seconds, he materializes in the space behind Etienam and Sato, clapping his hands together to signify his new location. The two both jump, whirling on him. He grins wide. "I wanted to do that earlier, but I didn't wanna interrupt."

I also believe the youth in this era would call him a "cheeky bastard."

The two directors don't respond, simply staring, blinking. Nafisa's surely already processed everything by now, but I would gander to believe she just doesn't want to say anything. Sakura takes the risk for her, and sticks a hand out. "Do you accept a position here at SHADR in Swarm's department?"

The cheeky bastard can't hide the smile that splits his face in two, and yet, he still decides to cross his arms over his chest, not only to hide the excited thrum of his heartbeat, but to hide the intent behind it, too. "Depends," he says, voice shaky. "How's the health insurance? Can we discuss a few details about that before I accept?"

I still hate thinking back to this point in time. I really mean it when I say he should've turned away. Because, although he doesn't know it yet, The Raven has sunken Their talons deeper into him, and now, he can no longer run without bleeding out. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rover

0.00 seconds

The world was spinning again. At first, she pushed it away, shaking her head and shoving her goggles back over her eyes. The flake of dead skin on her petri dish kept moving around. It was starting to piss her off. Reaching over, she grabbed her microscope and placed the dish on the stage. The edges of her fingers warped. A pause. Her nails disappeared, launching themselves across the room. She opened her mouth.

Her nails reattached themselves.

13.00 seconds

"You okay over there?"

She looked up at Oliver. He'd taken off his goggles in favour of the hideous glasses he wore as some 'fashion statement.' Behind them, his eyes blazed, curious. Veda looked back down at her hand, frowning. She didn't bother to respond, but she gave a curt nod.

Not again. Couldn't she have peace for once? The world tipped sideways, and she lost her footing. Her hands shot out to grasp the lab table and let go when a sharp pain cut through the fog invading her mind. The scalpel she'd used to cut pieces of the skin stuck into her palm.

Oliver's face appeared above hers.

"Damn - you're bleeding. C'mon, we'll get you fixed up."

54.00 seconds

He reached out a hand. She ignored it, struggling up onto her feet. Taking off her goggles, she hurried off to the side door of the lab. Over 60.00 seconds. This wasn't another fluke. In about two more minutes, she'd be a trembling mess. The edges of her vision clouded in black, but Veda surged on.

Around the corner. Down the stairs, in through the left. Disinfectant seared through her nostrils, and she choked out a hysterical laugh. She could still smell - what a useful sense to have. She crashed through two blue double doors, dragging herself to the iron one at the far end of the room. Blood rolled from her left palm through the gaps in her fingers. It left sticky paths of red along the floor tiles. Management would have her head in for that.

The fingerprint scanner beeped in greeting, and Veda shoved her finger onto it. It flashed a clinical blue and the door slid open. She almost tripped over the tangle of wires she'd left on the floor as a door stopper. She cursed past-her as she struck her head on the wall. Head pounding, Veda dropped to her knees, crawling towards the brain scanner at the back of the room. She'd spent the entirety of last year working on it, fixing it up, making sure it could PET and MRI scan. She wasn't taking any chances that this thing would mess up on her. Not when it had taken so long to get it to work.

Her fingers scrambled for the electrodes. She ignored the way her knees buckles, imputing data via the black keyboard in front of the large screen. Glass tubing whacked into the side of her head. So close. She was so close.

Sticking the pads to the empty space on either side of her scalp, Veda tried to pull herself onto the office chair. Long ago, specific dates lost in the fog of her thoughts, she had bolted it to the machine. Her arms trembled, shock waves running through the nerves in her hands. Breathing was hard, her breath loud. Heavy.

Less than 45.00 seconds left.

Gritting her teeth, Veda pushed. Her elbows locked in place, and she slipped into the leather chair, sagging against it. She closed her eyes. Fingers splayed, the machine whirred to life at the feeble jerk of a lever. Tired. She was so damn tired.

Veda forced her eyes to open, taking in the developing picture on the screen. Shadows grew in the corner of her vision, creeping, hunting. Every muscle fiber quivered, jerked under the straps that held her in place lest the seizures shook her from her perch. Veda allowed herself under. It felt so good.

The scan test results sat in her lap and, for a moment, they looked like crude drawings. As though they were vague imitations of any brain Dr. Kang had dug up. Not hers. This monstrosity could never be hers.

"As you can see, both our scan and the one from your... contraption, will we say, are exactly the same," Kang said. He shot Veda a look that said he couldn't believe it. She couldn't, either.

"What surprised us, though, is the abnormal flurry of brain activity in your skull." For a moment, he looked completely lost. A sharp thing screamed in her head, and Veda looked away before she could break down. "Would be alright for us to detain you overnight, to see--"

She stuffed the scans underneath her armpit and stood up. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. All these attacks, ever since she was a young child, they had only ever been something mysterious. A question she had vowed to get to the bottom of. The answer was staring right at her, dark brown drawn over mono-lidded eyes, fake concern permeating his face. And there she was, hugging the evidence that would condemn her.

"No."

Not bothering to listen to what he had to say, Veda threw open the pristine white door and stormed out. She flinched as she brushed against anybody, fighting her way through throngs of nurses and doctors. This had to be some sort of monumental joke. There was no way in hell that this was actually happening to her.

Three brains, indeed. She'd see about that.