Calypso

by parishsp

Callie timed it perfectly.

She had been scouting Acme, Inc. for a month now, and she thanked the stars for the established routine of the scientific elite.

She squeezed in behind the last employee as he allowed the door to shut. Three days a week, the same pony-tailed, lanky scientist was the last to leave. His starched white coat was folded neatly over his arm, a blue flannel scarf securely wrapped around his neck in an effort to ward off the late-night chill. He was whistling a familiar tune that Callie had yet to identify. You could set your watch by his habits, and Callie had.

The door shut behind her, security lighting dimly illuminating the white floor and marble walls of Acme Inc.'s lobby. The walls' sleek screens were fixed on the company's logo as it was after hours. Physically, Callie was there, standing, waiting; but only barely.

She took a deep breath as she guided her vibrating muscles, toning each of them to the same frequency. She sighed a small sigh of satisfaction as the 640-piece symphony fell into perfect harmony.

While Callie was tuned in as Bernard called it, the naked eye saw only a blur. Infrared, cameras, motion sensors, and other types of heat and visual technology saw nothing. The rapid movement of her hovering muscles distorted wavelengths on such a sophisticated level that neither Bernard nor anyone at Trè Travail had saw fit to refer Callie for the third and final level of transmutation. Two levels seemed to have done the trick, and they were concerned that a third go would ruin the delicate balance that Callie's body and mind currently maintained. Of course, with a near perfect record at Supe Level One, Callie had committed herself to ensuring she stayed out of the labs.

Even with her record, Callie wasn't on top. She was third in the top rankings Trè Travail. Number one and two had been on top for so long that the others settled to fight for third. Number one and two—Callie thought, bouncing on her toes as the thought intruded in on her steel-like focus—Butch and James. Don't forget Butch and James.

Callie counted to three and zipped across the lobby, down a side hallway, past a secondary waiting room and came to a stop in front of a door labeled, Access Card Entry Only. The multi-colored hue of Callie's suit flashed in the corner of her specs for a spilt second before she swiped the pony-tailed employee's badge in front of the card reader. It beeped once before Callie slid inside.

Callie's most prized possession was her suit. Bernard had made it special for her, to amplify her talents. The Coat of Many Colors, or COM as the boys had begun calling it, was an engineering feat of sheer magnificence. Bernard knew Callie's strengths depended on her ability to go unseen and fast; a suit that did anything less was unacceptable.

He'd blended the materials into a piece of wearable art—one that hugged her subtle curves in a vast array of colors. Colors that, when initiated by her natural vibrations allowed her to proceed unseen and equipped with some modicum of protection.

Callie chuckled silently to herself as she remembered the look on the boys' faces when Bernard presented her with the suit. The smile quickly faded as Callie crossed into the stairwell—the reality of the situation rattling like a stone in her chest. The boys. It had been seven weeks, two days since she had seen them. Since anybody had seen them...

The seven Level One Supes sat at the fiberglass-topped table, dressed as civilians—which they technically were. Civilians with super powers that had been honed through the three-step transmutation at Trè Travail. These seven were the lucky ones—the ones who hadn't ended up disfigured and mainly in tact physically, mentally and emotionally. They were the minority; a reality that tainted the accomplishments. For some.

Harold sat at the head of the table, his wide shoulders and cropped haircut backlit by a wall-sized screen with pictures of all seven Supes. As we walked in the door, the files aligned themselves according to progress and power. The rankings.

Harold was a shifter, though the specifics of his talents were unknown. What they did know was that Harold was former military, honorably discharged from the Marines about ten years ago. As a shifter, Harold had a hard enough time remembering to act human most of the time. At HQ, he shelved all pretenses. He gave the Supes a gruff greeting, and slapped a plain, manila folder in front of each of them. Harold liked to stick to the basics despite the high tech gadgets that flowed in abundance at Trè Travail. Callie wondered if he knew how to use a computer, but also wouldn't be surprised to find out that Harold knew more than he let on.

Callie sat herself at the back corner of the table; head down in an effort to make herself smaller. Harold wasn't the only one with surprises up his sleeve.

"Your assignments," he growled, walking behind them. "Don't screw them up."

There was a rustling as they opened their folders. Callie, fresh off an assignment, wasn't surprised to find that her duties for the next few days consisted of training. She did an inward groan, however, when she saw weapons training with Butch scheduled later that day. Butch looked like your typical guy who spent his time somewhere in between the gym and around a bag of Cheetos. He was trim, maybe mid-thirties, average height and average build. Perched on a Roman nose were wireless glasses that Callie knew he didn't need. They probably had some sort of special modification on them that allowed Butch to see through women's clothing.

Butch met Callie's eyes across the table and she felt her cheeks flame as he gave her a knowing smile. Callie folded further in on herself.

Butch, also known as the Butcher, could lift a shipping container without breaking a sweat and he was the best with any hand weapons at Trè Travail or any of the surrounding agencies. He was smart. He was skilled. He was conceited. And he knew it.

His smile grew as he turned to James, "I've got the girl with weapons this afternoon." He said as he flipped his folder closed, pushing it to the middle of the table. "What are you up to?"

James was a jumper—the Jumper—able to get in and out of most places in a blink. His morals were a little loose, and if he was any more full of himself, he'd explode. His last assignment was a high-level extraction and the higher-ups had determined that his work on the job put him in the number one spot, just above Butch. It was a good thing they loved each other so much. If their egos ever collided, they would level the city.

His mouth tipped up in a smug smirk, "I'm breaking into Acme."

Jealousy, suspicion and awe pounded the walls. Acme, Inc. was one of six large genetic corporations in the circle of cities known most commonly as the Metro. Trè Travail and Acme recruited heavily in the same areas, and had similar training and treatment procedures. As competitors, healthy competition was encouraged, and friendly rivalries were shared between Supes.

There was a collective gasp around the table. A chorus of disbelief broke out:

"Acme?"

"What are you stealing?"

"Are you serious?"

To go after the same consumers was capitalism. This was an act of war.

At the end of the table, Lamont snapped, "That's confidential information, James. Keep it to yourself."

A flicker of doubt passed over James' face, disappearing as quickly as it came. He narrowed his gaze at Lamont. "No body asked you, bird brain."

Lamont was a wiry, disheveled fellow who always looked one step short of a mental breakdown. Lamont's tri-tiered ability centered around the amped up processing speed of his own mind. Appropriately called Brain, Lamont's receptive and memory-processing speeds were off the charts. However, no matter what his propensity for intel happened to be, Lamont often neglected basic self-care, including showering if his current appearance was any indication, and had abysmal social skills with a tendency to spit off random facts of information at inopportune times.

For example, "A bird's brain actually has more neurons than either primates or mammals. They..."

James put both hands on the table, leaning across to where Lamont's hands worked double time as if his word production depended on them. "I said, nobody cares, bird brain. So. Shut. Up."

Lamont's throat bobbed up and down. James sat back. There was a pregnant pause, and the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief that the situation didn't escalate any further when Lamont opened his mouth, "A great man named Marcus Aurelius once said..."

Butch wrapped his hand in the back of James' shirt as he grabbed for Lamont. Lamont skirted away from the table, eyes wide and hands gripping the arms of his chair. "Enough!" Harold boomed, "You're Level One Supes, and you'd better damn well act like it!"

James rolled his eyes, "No body cares what Marcus Aurelius had to say." James spoke the first within our hearing and mumbled indiscernibly. Butch chuckled at the joke.

Lamont's brows pursed above his sharp nose, "Yeah? Well, at least he was smart enough never to take that assignment. Even the father of the fall of the Roman Empire wouldn't step foot into Acme expecting to come out alive."

James laughed as the insult fell flat, "And that's why he'll never be number one." James held up one finger before pointing at the screen still plastered behind Harold's head.

"Right again, Lamont," Callie whispered as she scouted the steps. James hadn't come out. Ten days after he left, Butch received his marching orders for the same assignment. After a week of scouting, Butch headed into Acme, and they had seen neither hide nor hair from either since. What James hadn't realized was that by accepting this mission, he'd bumped Lamont up in the rankings to number three. Callie was begrudgingly number one. She had no desire to stay there, especially if it meant taking the Acme assignment; however, her desire to stay out of the labs depended on her obedience and her success. If she could bring home Trè Travail's biggest investments—Butch and James—as well, she would buy herself some time to lay low for a while.

But first, room ST162 and whatever happened to be there was waiting.

Callie blinked in rapid succession and suddenly she was viewing the stairs through her specs: a 3D layout of Acme, Inc. After a quick glance upstairs to ensure no one was in the building, Callie turned her attention south.

In the middle of the Metro, Acme, Inc. soared above the heads of passers-by, punctuating the skyline with its presence. What few residents were aware of was there was as much if not more below.

Callie scanned her planned path, noting the stops and anticipated areas of interest. Room ST162 wasn't on the lowest floor—those were wide open spaces according to the prints, most likely garages, or arenas; Callie had no desire to see those—but it was at the end of a indiscriminate hallway. Callie had talked the plan over with Bernard multiple times. Once, they brought Lamont in on it. After much convoluted discussion about architecture and the Metro Underground, Lamont had reached the same conclusion: if the blueprint read "Custodial Storage" then the rooms really were janitor closets, or someone was setting her up.

Sometimes having all that brainpower was a waste.

Callie laid out her next move and zipped down the steps, coming to a stop before the door to the hall where ST162 was mapped to be. She scanned the door, and frowned. She checked and rechecked again. There was no security slide around the door.

Concentrating on her right hand, Callie took a deep breath and slowed the vibrations. Her hand hit the doorknob at a slightly amped speed not to sling it open accidentally. There was no room for accidents on this assignment. Her frown deepened as the knob was loose. The door wasn't even locked.

Slowing herself even further, she opened the door wider, the opening just big enough for her head. The hinges were heavy. She tapped on it once, steel. Why would there be a steel door on a janitor's hall? Things weren't making sense. The mission was becoming unpredictable. Unpredictability led to mistakes. Mistakes led to not coming home.

The hallway on the other side of the door was dark. Callie recalibrated her muscles, preparing for the possibility of someone or something being on the other side and wanting to proceed unseen.

Through her specs and her senses, Callie decided there was no immediate danger. She slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

The hallway was dark, deserted. To her left, there was a secure door. A quick glance told her that there was nothing but an office outfitted sparingly with an outdated wooden desk, desktop computer, and limited personal affects including a blue flannel scarf.

The lights flickered: on, off, on again. The buzzing of the forty-pound computer coming to life raised the hair on Callie's neck while overhead, static-laced speakers buzzed in and out before quietly settling on a familiar tune.

The pony-tailed scientist, Callie thought as her already amped body vibrated dangerously as she identified the song. The loud guitar and passionate vocals of Steve Perry made Journey's Don't Stop Belevin' an unusual fit for the dingy hallway with its peeling paint and doors shut tight.

Something is off. Callie blinked her specs into focus. They focused once at full power and failed.

Callie tapped them with her hand. Nothing. She hit them and jerked them off her face when there was no response. Breathing heavy, she clicked her mouth shut as she clearly identified her own hands covered in the plain, unwavering, and very visible multi-hued fibers of her COM. Her suit had stopped working.

Callie immediately turned towards the door. The mission had failed. She would deal with the consequences later. For now, she only wanted to keep her life. There were more important things...

Calypso...

Callie's head jerked towards the speakers. The static assaulted her ears before Journey returned.

...street lights, people...

Static—

Calypso...

Callie looked towards the ceiling, curiosity and shock rendering her motions and thoughts slow.

The power blinked off again, and Callie jumped as her COM came back online, vibrating above her stilled skin. Somewhere in the exchange, Callie had let her power go. She jolted with the thought, quickly bringing her muscles back online only to have the power blink back on.

Static—

Ohh, ohh, oh, ohhhhh!

Calypso...

The speakers began to fade out, starting directly above her head, making their way towards the end of the hallway until the only light and sound came from the sole speaker before the door at the end of the hall.

The door to ST162.

The part of Callie's brain that was still online recognized that her COM was online as long as she was in the dark. The other part of Callie's brain was inexplicably drawn to the door at the end of the hall, consumed with curiosity and drawn towards the sound of her own voice overhead.

She stepped into the light.

Streetlight, people...

Static—

Calypso...

The hallway went dark.

Callie reached out to door. It swung open easily under her hand.

Inside was a large, dark room. It was unusually square, symmetrical, and spartan. In the middle of the back wall sat a bed, its white sheets reflected in the darkness. On the bed sat a man.

He was impeccably dressed—a three-piece suit that had been very well tailored. It hugged his toned shoulders like liquid and tapered at his waist, his trousers ending just above his leather Testonis. His dark hair was perfectly cut, accenting his high cheekbones and strong chin. He made Callie's stomach flip, and she couldn't even see his eyes.

A small part of Callie's mind yelled a warning.

Callie blinked. She looked back at the door, her hand reaching out when it slammed behind her, shutting her and the man in the dark.

All 640 of Callie's muscles abruptly stopped.

Her COM flashed in color.

"Who are you?" she asked.

A deep chuckle came from across the room, and stopped as if he was unused to laughing and found the sound uncomfortable.

He tilted his head, face still in the dark. Callie took a small step forward, drawn to him for reasons beyond her.

"Who?" The man asked, staying where he sat, immovable on the bed. "Not what like your friends wanted to know?"

Callie's warning turned to a blaring siren in her mind, seeping through the cloudy fog of intrigue. She shook her head as if to clear it. "I think who is more important than the what. Don't you?" she asked part to buy her time as the rational part of her mind worked out an escape plan, part in sheer sincerity of a relationship yet formed.

She took half a step back as reason wormed its way further into her mind. For whatever reason, her powers were useless here. She had nothing and it seemed like this man could...

No.

He controlled minds.

This was what Trè Travail wanted her to steal?

"Can you turn on the lights?" Callie asked. She swallowed as the room became brighter, her throat suddenly dry. Her grip on her specs tightened. "Is there any way for my suit work with the lights on?" she asked, her voice surprisingly strong.

"I'm sorry, but there isn't." he explained as he took a step forward. Callie instinctively took a step back in this strange dance, only to stop mid-stride. He had violet eyes. She knew they were rare, and yet so familiar—she saw them every morning as she looked into the mirror.

"Does it matter?" he asked.

Callie shook off the shock, and slid her specs back on her head in an effort to buy some time to gather words for a reply. "Does what matter?"

He gestured forward, less than ten feet between them now. "Your suit. I can already see you. What does it matter, now?"

Eight feet. "It's my armor. It protects me." She shook her head. Why was she telling him that?

His mouth tipped up in a close-lipped smile. The gesture was practiced, perfect, inhuman.

"Do you think it will protect you now, Calypso René Papadakis?" Callie swallowed, her throat impossibly difficult to maneuver. Six feet, five. She took a half step back only to hit the wall. She didn't even know she had been moving. Four. He stopped. "Do you think it is a coincidence that you have been named that? Or did your mother know more than she let on?"

Violet met violet in a struggle of wills. She could feel the fog on her brain as the rational parts fought to stay online. The amused look on his face said he was toying with her, playing with his food before he ate it.—a game of cat and mouse.

I am no mouse, Callie thought, anger crashing head-on with the fog, burning it away.

She clung to the anger as her life raft and sword.

She ground out between clenched teeth, "My mother knew nothing."

He laughed in her face.

"My mother was René Maria Papadakis. She was a storeowner in the Eastside of the Metro. She was a great cook, a confidant, and loved life." The anger grew into an inferno. "She was violently struck down by vagrants. She died alone. We honored her. We honor her, now."

The man stepped closer, invading Calypso's space, careful to come close but not touch her. Calypso's muscles began to tremble.

"Your mother was," the man let out an indiscernible sound that tickled Calypso's ears. Her soul leapt inside her chest, eager to hold onto the piece of familiar unknown.

It scared the hell out of her.

"I knew her as Ahsa. She was selfish and a coward."

"You lie."

"...she ran away from duty. She took you. She was scared."

"You're wrong!" Calypso's voice rose, spurred on by the conflicting inside of her. The memories came flooding back: her mother, black hair, violet eyes, head down in the shop. Her mother, her strict rules pertaining to Calypso and letting her go out. Her mother and their arguments; her hidden weapons she never knew Calypso had discovered. The mystery. The questions.

She heard the man's voice in her mind, clear and strong, Why don't you believe me, Calypso?

Calypso's emotions were deflated by sudden sadness and doubt. What if...

The impending fog withdrew so quickly it left her mind spinning in its wake. She was deflated, spinning, "Because you're wrong, okay?" Scrambling she added, "So shut-up!"

The man smiled again, this time clearly amused by Calyspo's reaction. "I forget how young you are. You carry yourself as one who has seen more than her seventeen years." His head tilted speculatively, "But you have, haven't you?" Instead of waiting for an answer, he held out his hand, "I am Bashiri."

Callie looked between this man who claimed to know her mother and his outstretched hand. In an uncharacteristic display of impulsivity, she reached out and grabbed it.

She sucked in a deep breath as she was suddenly propelled through a spiraling tunnel. She was pulled violently by her middle through an assault of colors and flashes.

A planet, blue on one side, flames on the other, crowded by overgrown skeletons of trees and greenery. A vast wasteland of ice and snow stretched for miles before it.

Jerk. Switch.

Bashiri. Walking through the snow, unaffected by the cold. Unaffected by the sight. A smile on his face, unhurried, unrehearsed. A wave of his hand.

Jerk, Switch. Jerk again.

A white door. Countless stars, bright and assaulting against the inky sky.

Relief.

Purpose.

Black.

Calypso stumbled to her knees on the cold, industrial floor of ST162. Bashiri jerked his hand away, his breathing low, fast.

Calypso struggled to catch her breath, her insides rolling. "What—the hell—was that?" she panted, looking up at the strange man.

Bashiri pulled himself together quickly, righting his coat and dusting imaginary dirt from his shoulder.

"Bashiri! Answer me!" Calypso panted.

With a calculated look, Bashiri met Calypso's gaze. Emotions swam on his face, too tumultuous to pinpoint just one.

"That, my dear was a doorway to Gharitan," his smile turned Calypso's insides to ice. "and you're going to help me find it."