Movers and Shakers
Misha yawned as she descended the stairs into the common space. The campus the APF had provided for the Pacifica Watch had been a warehouse, but Hank had done an excellent job of bringing it into the 21st century. Misha ran a hand across a velvety couch as she made her way into the kitchen. She was young, with a soft face aside from her pointed chin, and hair that showed signs of having been quite bushy before a strong brushing. She had kindness in her eyes, piercings in her nose, and different colors painted on each of her fingernails. finding her twin brother Demas already up and watching tv.
Well… “TV” was being generous, at least in Misha’s mind. This morning her brother had elected to watch what might as well be propaganda, but others called fair and balanced news reporting. Demas’s broad shoulders sat hunched over a bowl of cereal, his messy hair showing none of the care Misha had provided her own. It was greasy, tussled, and in need of trimming. His stubbly face bore some of the same features as his sister, but his eyes were much harder; his whole brow carried a kind of natural sternness. Whether it was that Demas was focused on his viewing, or just staring into space, it was hard to tell. Misha knew though, and had to fight back a disgusted scoff as she came up behind him.
“Morning D.” She said lightly, struggling to keep her more choice words to herself.
Demas was less reserved in his manner, “Fuck I’m tired. This new sleep schedule is shit.”
“By sleep schedule,” Misha picked up, teasing her brother, “do you mean not staying up until 4 in the morning rebalancing the wealth and world?”
“It doesn’t sound as good when you say it.” Demas mutters, stirring his cereal.
Misha pulled a mug out of a cabinet and took some eggs out of the fridge. She busied herself making breakfast, but that didn’t stop her from needling her brother some more. “You talk tough, but I think you like being a reformer.” Demas comes to a dead stop mid chew, drops his spoon, and stares at Misha like she had just referenced scripture to him. “Ok fine, maybe not like,” Misha resigns “but come on, this is so much better than break ins and contract work in Trinity!”
“Says you.” Demas replies bluntly. He goes back to eating, focusing on the TV and the saggy skinned old white man, whose face was bright pink as he shouted.
Misha didn’t immediately notice Demas’ disinterest at first. She continues as she beats eggs in a bowl, “You would rather be living in and out of the Underground, taking jobs from and for murders and terrorists, over being paid to put the same turds behind bars, and live in a secret base, which, by the way, has no rent!? Sure D, keep saying that.” It was at this point that Misha realized her brother was more interested in the fearmongering coming from the screen in front of him, than the words coming from her.
Putting the eggs down, Misha walks up behind Demas, looking annoyed at his reaction, or lack there of. She recognized the anchor who’d captured his attention, a known blowhard named Homer Thompson. To say he was of a long past word was to oversimplify his regressive ideals. Misha had heard this brat of a geezer complain about everything from LGBT rights 20 years ago, through to Alt Human rights now. He’d made millions stirring up anger and bile in impressionable minds, and now he was fishing for her brother.
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in all my years bringing the truth to you good people. I’ve seen sex scandles, i’ve seen politicians set aside whole rooms of money for their friends, i’ve seen a new scourge show it’s face again; the lurking danger of Alt Humans and Vigilanties alike! As I’m sure you remember dear viewers, I was the first to say these, these, these ‘beings’ I guess we have to call them, they aren’t human I’ll tell you that. I was the first to say we needed to register each and every one of them, lists have saved humanity in the past. It might be old tech, but there’s a reason every great thing begins with a list!” Thompson’s face was getting pinker and pinker as he ranted from behind his desk, flags and emblems of power hanging all around his set. He mops sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that looks like the American flag (a seeming conflict Misha thought, to the blowhard’s stans of respecting the flag), before diving into his actual point.
“To think, a moment in time has come where children, adolescents who don’t know the true way of the world, are saying it is not these menances we have to police, but the police themselves!” Thompson barked, pounding his desk repeatedly. Misha couldn’t hold back her disgust any longer. She groaned loudly, and was about to go into her own diatribe about the ridiculousness of this oversimplification of a complicated issue, but Demas put a hand in her face. Thompson continued, “the police are THE POLICE! I can’t believe i have to say more than that, but an entire generation has decided CONVICTS are more human than the POLICE OFFICERS WHO KEEP US SAFE! I say, let the Police do what they need to, they’ve been doing this job, oh I don’t know, for CENTURIES! If they say they need authority in threatening situations, who are we to say no?! Of course they need the authority to make snap decisions in life or death scenarios! What strikes me most dear listeners, is this idea that Vigilanties are more reliable than the Police!? How could any SANE PERSON, think that some schmoe with nothing more than HIGHLY DANGEROUS TRAITS and a COSTUME, could make better decisions than a train POLICE OFFICER!”
At this, Misha finally breaks, and closes the screen forcefully. “You gotta be fucking kidding me!” She snaps. Demas just smiles at her consternation.
“What can I say, I like to get both sides of an argument.” Demas is practically beaming at his sister’s agitation as he continues, “I hear enough of your view, I like getting some info from the other side.”
Misha sputters wildly at this. “THOMPSON IS THE OTHER SIDE?! D, you’re shitting me right? You might as well call propaganda fair and balanced reporting! The man is a biggot in every sense, he’s hated anyone who didn’t have the same skin color as him since he got on the air! Doesn’t matter who it is, women, LGBT, POC, or Alt Humans, he HATES all of us and thinks we’re best kept silent in the corner until we’re useful!”
Demas looks at Misha idly, “You finished?” He taunts, trying to get Misha more worked up.
“You think this is a joke? D, you’re one of the people he would put on a list or throw in a pit and forget about! You can’t honestly think he’s looking out for your best!?”
“I’m already on a list, thanks to you.” Demas states darkly.
“You put yourself on that list D, no one made you do the things you did. I’m trying to give you a chance to work off some of that debt you owe society!” Misha fires back.
“I don’t think I owe anyone anything!” Demas rallies, “I think I was born into this world the way I am, and I used those natural skills and talents to achieve success!”
“YOU WERE A HIRED GOON D!” Misha shouts. “You did everything from hold up banks to attack prison convoys to let prisoners get free! You were NOT the good guy, I want you to be the good guy now!”
“You may not like the choices I made, but I did what I felt was best, was right for me! Now I have people to report to who would just as soon throw me out a plane as say hello.” Demas responds.
“You want to talk about choice and being born into something? Fine, you’re coming with me today.” Misha says, leaning into Demas’ face. “I’m going to hear Joshua Morrison speak today, about this exact issue! You’ll be coming with.”
Demas scoffs and shakes his head, “Uh huh, sure, and why would i go to a lecture when i could do literally anything else?”
“Because,” Misha said, smiling deviously, “I need backup in case anything happens to him.”
“Who’d be interested in hurting that hippy?” Demas decries.
“A lot of people when they hear what captain hatred has to say.” Misha retorts, flipping the screen over to Demas and returning to her eggs.
A few hours later, the twins made their way to the San Pedro University campus center. There a massive crowd had come together to listen to the words of Mr. Morrison. Many of the people there looks young and excited, some more tense, a few even scared. It was an atmosphere that held mostly optimism, but the aura of fear was encroaching as best it could.
Misha looked over the crowd excitedly. To her, this was a gathering of luminaries, people who had come together with one common goal, to make life better for everyone who had been stepped on, who’d been trampled, while the world she had thrived in was built. There wasn’t so much a small amount of guilt in the back of Misha’s, as a planet’s worth of sorrow at what had transpired in the years before her birth. This feeling of being able to ignore the damage and fear that had allowed her family, poor as it was, to grow in ways so many others had been barred by.
Misha had seen both sides. She had watched as so many people had been trampled, so many generations subdued for the sake of one group; a group that often thought themselves above all others, and guarded their supposed seniority like a rabid dog. The men who had taken credit for the building of this world, when in reality, they stood on mounds of people they had deemed unworthy of their own status. Demas would say that even he had an issue standing amongst the giants of industry and powerful men, saying this justified his disbelief that the world was as corrupted as Misha claimed. But Misha knew, she knew Demas lacked the empathy to truly understand the plight of people not like him. Demas wasn’t so much selfish as self obsessed, worrying mostly for his own good and status in this world that would build on lives like they were bedrock.
But Misha had seen it. Misha had felt it, more than once, that sting society gives to those who don’t mirror it’s creators. She had been submitted to the leers of men, to the cruelty of a system based not on what you can provide, but how you look, and if you match an archetype centuries old. An archetype which, to her anyway, hadn’t been so much of an aspiration, as it had been a demonic plague, ravaging a world in its infancy. The phrase of history being written by the victors showed her displeasure with this world, one where those who would give up everything, who would have entire worlds stolen out from under them, would be described as the loser, as a people who just didn’t want it enough. This idea that people of peace and artistry would be destroyed and brought low, just for the selfish and arrogant ideals of a group of white men, roiled in her like a flame that only grew the more time she spent thinking on this injustice.
This was a group of people who had all woken from the same dream, all been told that these concerns, these horrors, were just a simple element of living the lives their parents had dreamed of, who took that conceit and rejected it. It was a powerful group, so powerful it scared the supposed highest in society. A sense of war was in the air, one not of bullets, at least not yet, but of rhetoric and anger. Lines were being drawn, and those who would wish to stay asleep and live in this world built on pain were gearing up as well. Those who want things to remain the same, as if none of these horrors were known, or at the very least, were easily deniable. Those who claimed they had the best in mind for everyone, while still aligning with the most extreme and dangerous groups who share their views.
Those groups were what really scared Misha. The groups who would start a war of bullets, when so many were ready to move on to less primitive forms of disagreement. She knew many Capes who had sworn to protect those in harm's way, and wondered what would happen when harm came from within those groups they saw as under their protection? When those they had been protecting turned and showed their true face, like Demas, not one of selfishness, but self obsession. Those who, having never felt the sting of injustice and cruelty, and thus did not believe in its existence, those were the ones Misha worried most over.
Demas couldn’t be bothered with any of these notions. To him, this was an overblown issue. In his mind, these people who decried the injustice of the world were overblowing their story, embellishing it for the sake of fools like his sister, who could be swayed by sob stories. Demas had seen the worst of society (he thought) he had been a tiger in the jungle of men, scrapping for every inch he got. He had been born Alt-Human, had grown up in a time when the rapid growth of the Alt Human populace had been a thing spoken of with fear, illuded to a the cause of any and all pain and horror in the world. Men of all statuses had told him his whole life that he was the problem, that he was the danger to good hard working people. It was enough so he’d decided to just fulfil the prophecy, becoming the monster they always claimed he was. He was flabbergasted by Misha’s insistence when she pulled him out of the Underground back on the east coast, this ideal she was chasing that now was finally the time for the curtain to be pulled down, and the deceit and evil of the world to be exposed for all to see. This was certainly a world of evil, but Demas did not believe there was a version of it that could escape that fate.
This was the world of Men to Demas, this is what the cost of living this life was. The world could never have been built on bedrock, there wasn’t any in the first place; to build this world, people had to be sacrificed. If this was a troubling conceit for someone, it was a sign to Demas that they were afraid, because they were the bedrock, waiting to be built on; they were terrified as a result.
The large crowd began filing into the campus center. Large metal detectors and hired suits with long intimidating scanners stood at every door. As they approached, Misha knew what she’d need to do if she wanted to gain access. Jabbing Demas with an elbow, she pulled out a keycard, APF emblazoned at its top. “I’m Officer Misha Dombrowski, this is my brother and fellow officer. We’re here on official duty for the Pacifica Watch unit.” Even as she handed it over to one of the suits, another extended his long scanner towards her, the light on it flashing and giving off a shrill beep.
“Alt-Human, better not start anything Alty.” The suit gruffed to her. The one with her pass didn’t seem too interested in processing her through, instead taking lots of time to carefully inspect what was very clearly an official government issued document. Misha sighed, none of this was surprising. She waited patiently, not wanting to give these two any chance to label her as a potential danger. Finally, after much deliberation, she was allowed to pass.
Then it was Demas’ turn. Misha didn’t dare go far; she may be here on a mission, but Demas was far less committed, and far more easily offended. The moment the suit with the scanner brought it towards Demas’ head, there was a flash. Demas’ hand ignited in blue light, as it whipped faster than could be seen, and grabbed the hand and scanner of the suit. Misha quickly stepped in, seeing what would happen next if she left Demas to his own agenda.
“D, let him go, now!” She shouted at her brother. Demas forcibly gave a squeeze to the guards hand, cracking the scanner, and leaving the suit clutching at his wrist and cursing. “He’s with me, we have his reformer papers if you want, or you can call it in, up to you.” Misha said authoritatively.
The suits looked at her with venom, “He just assaulted a security person, we’re taking him into campus police, before he can do any more harm to these people!” The suit who’d taken their credentials stated. He put a hand on Demas’ shoulder, and Misha jumped into action. Like lightning, a streak of gold had erupted from Misha’s hands, one encircling Demas and pulling him out of the situation, the other acting as a barrier between the suits and themselves. Misha forcibly pulled Demas’ papers out, showing that he too was part of an APF division. Holding them in the golden field around her hands, Misha extended them so they are clearly in the face of the security team, “If you do, I will have you two arrested for interfering in APF activities and protections. We are here on official business for the government, and as part of an Alt Human policing force, you move against us, you better know what consequences come with such action!” Misha’s voice is clear and firm, tonely opposing her demeanor when the suits first took her papers. She’d had enough, and wasn’t interested in having these two get their jollies by torturing her and her brother; those days were behind them both not.
The two suits exchange a look of wrinkled noses and furrowed brows. “Fine, you go, but I’m reporting him as a potential danger to the campus security team! I see so much as a breath from him that’s intimidating, we’ll bring in the full force of god on you two.” The one suit spat, slamming Demas’ credentials into his chest.
Demas immediately began to glow, blue energy shining through his skin like a solar flair was erupting inside him. Misha grabbed him by the collar severely, “You don’t keep it cool D, I’ll throw you threw the roof. You want to start something, be ready to deal with me at the end of it!” Misha whispered with ferocity. This finally breaks through Demas’ pride, and the light recedes back into his frame. The twins turn, finally entering the campus center, still able to hear the suits reporting two very suspicious “Alt Human undesirables” that needed to be kept on surveillance during the proceedings.
Demas was angry all the way to his seat. He looked around the room, trying to spot all the different angles from which potential battles could start. A balcony hung over part of the audience, but otherwise the room was spacious, with high ceilings and exits lining the walls. But something was missing, no brutish men stood at the doors, only ushers ranging from squidy looking kids that could only be freshmen, and some old folks with saggy skin and saggier eyes. “There’s no one in here from security?” He turned to Misha, greeted by a look of resigned certainty.
“Not surprising,” She sighed, taking in the room herself. “They have cameras set up all over the place, but they don’t have any interest in putting actual bodies in the room.”
“But all that fuss at the front, what the fuck is the purpose of that if they’re not going to actually have forces on hand in case the need arises?” Demas asks, taking another look around the room “They're just looking for a chance to be asshats or something?”
“I’m sure the school would phrase it differently” Misha groans, “but that’s definitely what those power hungry jerkwads were after.” She jabs a thumb backward to the entryway hard. “The school has their security here for their own liability, they don’t want to suddenly be on the hook if anything happens. Actually providing security is less of a concern, they’d just as soon leave it up to the speaker to provide their own detail.”
Demas picks up on the truth of the situation, “These guys aren’t going to have their own detail.” He remarks with a gruff laugh.
“Bingo Bango D. If anything starts, the school just wants to be able to say they had forces on hand, but they’re more than happy to blame any fallout on their guests and anyone they might bring in; good or bad.”
It was true, the entire room was packed, but no one there looked particularly ready to stop an act of violence. There were no guards like at the front, not a sign of anyone there to keep an eye on those who even Demas could tell might be trouble makers. He knew his own kind, and some of the surlier looking white boys at the back of the room definitely registered concern.
After a few minutes, the speakers began, starting with a student who’d organized the evening, and building as various authors and business owners from the San Pedro area spoke about their own experience with racial, gender, status or Alt Human prejudices. Some of them didn’t strike Demas at all, sounding more like stories of people who’d taken hardship as discrimination. The more he listened though, the more he found connection with the ideals and frustrations of the speakers. Stories of jobs lost because of an applicant’s name, because their background was seen as undesirable, stories of jobs given to less experienced people because they looked more like the people hiring them. It was the stories of being prejudged though that hit the hardest, moments where people reacted with fear toward someone without cause, just from a sense of social engineering that had told them ‘these people are and always will be dangerous.’ Demas couldn’t help but think back to middle school, high school, the emergence of his powers on a larger more adult scale, and how the entire school had written him off before he had even stepped through the doors.
Finally, it was time for Mr. Morrison to speak. He was young, younger than Demas expected, probably only about ten years older than he and Misha. He was a handsome african hispanic man, with long dreadlocks that had been dyed different colors. He didn’t wear a suit, but instead a hoodie with the slogan “We Will Stand, Always” printed on its front, it’s sleeves pulled up to review tattoos and ashen skin. “My friends,” his voice crackled over the microphone, “I can’t thank you for your love and support in being here. These last few years have been devastating for many of us, be it because of the actions of others, or the inaction of the world at large.” His voice was soft, kind, but also tired. The more Demas studied him, the more he saw of this man. The ragged look of his clothes, the bags under his eyes, scars just barely hidden out of view on his neck and forearm.
“We live in a time of fear, as our fathers and mothers have before us. We live in a time when we can be ostracized, thrown out, cast away from the world, simply because of how we look, how the world sees us when they look at us. We have had our histories stolen from us, leaving us orphans with nothing more than a wistful feeling of home, one that has long since been disappeared. We feel the sting and bite of others in their voices and looks, the distrust they have with no basis other than the fear of others instilled in them.” He pauses letting this idea sink in, but also to take a beat away from the anger. “We were born into a world we were told was fair, one where anyone could be anything they wanted. That was never the case for us, that was made painfully clear over the centuries. It is enough to make anyone furious, to want to lash out and strike against anyone who would try to lull us back into the stupor we were born into. This can not be our path.”
This last sentence Mr. Morrison strikes hard, letting it hang in the air. “Make no mistake, violence has been levied against us in the most heinous ways. We have lost more than most people could ever understand, and more than many choose to believe. We have the facts, we have numbers and studies and all manner of science and metrics to judge the truth we’re trapped in, but still we are not believed. Some will never believe us, they seem to think that an increase in life and love for us means they will need to resign their own freedoms. This is not so. We are one family, and freedom is not a finite substance like oil or water. Freedom is as ever growing and embracing as we are. The one thing we have to do is show that we are all brothers and sisters and everything in between. We must show each other the love a family shows it’s members. We may not look alike, some of us may come from backgrounds that would scare, others were similarly born into a world under circumstances beyond their control. We have all seen violence and hate, but we’ve also seen how the face of that violence has been misappropriated towards groups who just want a chance to live. We are not here to start a war, of culture, of civility, or society. We are simply here to speak truth to power, the one thing power abhors more than anything. That truth is our weapon, our torch shining in the dark. Those who would want it extinguished will do everything they can, rally any who fear or hate to their sides, build cases made out of falsities and non truths. We must always perceive, and hold that light out. That light will illuminate the truth of this world we are in, and I believe in time, spread so every dark corner is illuminated with the light of peace and love”
There was a rumble that stirred Demas, who was himself surprised how enveloped he had become in Mr. Morrison’s words. He and Misha both looked around, as did several others. No security personnel came in, even as the rumbling grew. Both twins rose from their seats, trying to see where the source of this commotion was being drawn from. A brilliant red flash helped to resolve the question; it streaked through the air and crashed into the stage just missing Mr. Morrison.
Both twins saw the source at the same moment, as a crowd quickly began to scream and run from it’s epicenter. That epicenter happened to be a rather small looking individual, cloaked in a hood and grey silk mask, a red outline growing brighter and brighter around her, as people run past her to safety. She didn’t look like she had any armor on her, just crimson street threads, like a red hoodie freed of its sleeves, grey pants and long sleeves running to crimson gloves and boots. She may not look like she was dressed for a rumble, but that glow said enough to dissuade anyone from looking past her.
Mr. Morrison and the other speakers quickly came together, trying to find a way off stage before another blast could be shot. Misha was scanning the room, trying to devise a plan of attack that would endanger as few people as possible; Demas was less concerned. In an instant, the luminous blue glow that seemed to burn from within him returned, coating his entire body in light, broken only by the tshirt and jeans he wore. He was off like a shot, even as Misha cried for him to hold back. Demas was known as Meteor for reason as he drove hard at the Menace, complete with a luminous blue comet’s tail. In seconds he was about to collide with the woman in red.
Instead he was stopped dead as she grabbed his throat with a small but unstoppably strong hand. The wave of energy that Demas has generated washes over her, but with no effect. Demas’ struggles as a crimson wave of energy builds from this mysterious Menace, matching and surpassing his own. The woman gives a small laugh. “I always wondered when we would meet, I have heard so many things about you back east. What did they call you?”
“Impact! I’ll make sure you remember.” Demas’ growls as he tries in vain to pull away from the menace’s grip.
“Nooo no, no that wasn’t it.” She says with another tinkling laugh. “It was stupider than that. Momentum man? Momento?” Demas growls turn to roars, and he draws a mass of blue energy to his hand, “Oh that’s right,” the Menace resumes, “Momentus!”
“That was NEVER my name! Get it straight!” Demas screams wildly, but before he can unleash his torrent of energy, he has all the air knocked out of him by a glowing red fist, as the Menace jams him straight under the ribs. The red energy rushes straight into Demas, unloading an explosive cloud of energy that burned through Demas’ blue energy as it crashed over him. He sank to his knees, nearly drained and coughing profoundly.
“If you say so, Impact isn’t a great name either. Now Entropy,” the Menace points to herself as her glow returns, “That’s a good name.”
Two golden arms shoot out, the hands growing and encapsulating Entropy quickly. Misha walks purposefully, working hard to secure her grip even as she’s a dozen feet away. “Well that’s one question resolved, how about we do this nice and easy, no need to destroy this nice building right?” she shouts, pulling out a badge and continuing. “We’re APF, let’s not turn this into a whole thing ok?”
Entropy gives another soft laugh, “Sorry babe, unless you have a few hundred grand that comes with your badge, I got places to be and messages to delivrer.” She breaks from Misha’s grip easily, the red energy shredding through Misha’s psionic hold. Misha is unfazed, let alone intimidated. She reforms the golden arms, as the same energy took form over the rest of her body. She glowed brightly now encapsulated by psionic energy. “Cute.” is all Entropy says, before clapping her hands, unleashing a thunderous crash and generating a wave, which tears a path towards Misha. Metal chairs and floor boards become shrapnel in this wave of energy.
Misha hardens her stance, raising her arms in front of her, conjuring a large shield of energy as she does. The two forms hit, power crashing against invulnerability, with power still holding an edge. The red wave tears into Misha’s construct, cracking and shattering it in places, but she holds it; pushed back some ten feet. She doesn’t pause for a moment, quickly resuming her pursuit of Entropy. Throwing a hand toward the ceiling, she grabs the edge of the balcony with a construct, and flings herself across the room toward Entropy. She was in hot pursuit of Morrison and his fellows, who had disappeared from the stage.
Entropy wasn’t one for subtlety, leveling the stage and proscenium with another destructive wave of energy. Curtains of all sizes were ripped from the flies, crashing through the stage as they fell to gravity’s pull. At the back of the theater, near the stage door, was Morrison and his group. They froze only for a moment, before bolting through the door. Entropy sighs, but as she goes to take them, Misha gives her a good thwack on the back of her head.
Entropy is stunned for a moment, but she quickly gets to her feet. The spot Misha struck quickly begins glowing, as Entropy processes the kinetic energy that gave her this headache she pushes through. The speed of Misha’s flight has left her the brightest bulb in the room, her golden glow casting long shadows on the various detritus backstage. Entropy isn’t phased though, “So what do you call it, when you’re trying to help someone who’s broken bad? Is it fix? Are you… fixing good? That’s terrible, but right up you PR teams alley.”
Misha has no idea what this Menace is talking about, “Wha…” She gives a quizzical look, as Entropy fires another blast. Misha blocks this one, but it’s quickly followed by more, and soon Misha is trying to hold back the same storm of energy that had flattened Demas. Entropy pushes in, building the pressure on Misha by removing the distance between the two.
“You’re APF you said, they fucking love catching phrases they can market to the masses. Did they give you a name, something hokey like Glow Gal?” Entropy shouts over the rushing sound of her own energy storm.
The smile is quickly wiped from her face, as a hand and arm nearly a story tall emerge suddenly through the crimson storm. It cut through Entropy’s attack like it was nothing but air, quickly overtaking Entropy and carrying her to the far wall. On the other end was Misha, focusing all the energy she’d built into her right arm, using her left to steady it, a look of incredible focus on her face. “No, they didn’t need to, I picked my name years ago.” Entropy tries to free herself, but her energy isn’t enough to overcome Misha’s drive. “Name’s Godiva, a rebel, uniquely me. I don’t take guff, I don’t let other people tell me what I should be doing, and my spirit is much bigger than my frame would have you believe.”
Meteor rejoins the proceedings, bouncing like a pinball to build energy before landing several steps in front of his sister. Entropy stops her attempts, her eyes smiling behind her mask. Meteor makes his way toward the Menace, anger and determination scrawled all over his face. “D!” He doesn’t stop as Godiva calls to him. “D! Don’t make me put you down too!”
“Isn’t this what the job is?!” Meteor shouts over his shoulder. “Pure authority, unmitigated force, set an example for the rest of ‘em.” He prepares his own energy blast, staring down Entropy. For her part, Entropy is more tickled than intimidated.
Before Meteor can do anything though, he’s cold-cocked by a solid punch to the temple, coming straight from Godiva’s construct. She has taken her left hand, and jammed it into the construct, and as she slowly returns it to her right shoulder, the fist disappears back into the construct. Meteor got his bell rung, but the aggression and adrenaline puts him back on his feet. Before he can start trouble, Godiva lays down the law. “D, we’re doing this as the good guys, now stand down! I don’t want to, but I will bring you home unconscious if I have to.” Meteor looks at Godiva with the same venom he has for Entropy. The look doesn’t waver Godiva, but she does lighten her tone some, “I swore to mom I would help you out of that life you think you deserve, that’s a promise that doesn’t end today, tomorrow, ever, until you’ve made it out of your hell and back to the land of the living.” Demas slowly lowers his guard, shaking his head and trying to reset his emotions. The conflict is heavy, but he slows himself down, even if his brow still has a deep furrow.
“That’s very sweet you two.” Entropy calls out, her eyes still smiling. “You two see a therapist together? Might help with all this drama.”
“That’s quite the mouth you got, wanna do some helpful talking with it?” Godiva retorts. “APF would give you some bonus points if you told us who hired you and why you want Morrison.”
Entropy gives a disbelieving laugh, “Yea, no that won’t be happening. It’s cute of you to offer though, very sweet thought. But, I am a busy woman, and you’ve set me back a little with this…. Whatever it has been. Hope it’s helped you both, but I must be attending to other needs.” With a flick of her wrist, Entropy blows out the wall behind her, along with part of the parking lot behind the theater. She takes off like a jet, as her crimson aura returns and carries her off.
Godiva and Meteor rush towards the escaped Menace, but even as Meteor prepares to go after her, the two see people trapped in cars flipped over by the force of Entropy’s departure. “You get the civics, I’m going after her.” Meteor says sternly.
“Not a chance D.” Misha replies, her glow receding as she makes her way to the civilians in need. ”You’re staying right here with me, we’ll get these people free then report in. You’re not leaving my sightline after that display.”
The two make quick work helping people out and setting cars back on their feet, and by the time they’ve finished the APF has shown up in force. Misha handles talking to the higher ups, but makes sure she can keep half an eye on Demas as she does. Demas for his part looks angry, but also embarrassed and shamed. He hated what Misha had done, but also hated himself for how he had acted in the first place. Misha was going to force this second chance down his throat, citing their mother had made that very clear. The fire of emotions had drained his brain, and even as he seethed, he sank to the ground, his back to a wall, well within his sister’s visual range.
When she’d finished giving her report, Misha made her way to Demas, sitting beside him softly. “You run on emotion, it’s how you survived for so long in the Underground. Change isn’t going to be instant, it will take more work that you’re going to want to give every day. I know you Demas, I know you hurt and feel alone, but not anymore. Even if you don’t want me, you got me little brother.” Misha lays her head gently against Demas’ shoulder. It was a new feeling for him, sitting here after such a conflict with someone he trusted, feeling like he could close his eyes if he wanted to and still be safe. There was a peace in that, maybe an ember that the two could build around. For today though, Demas would be silent, Misha knowing this quiet wasn’t punishment or distance, but just a man trying to sift through a rapidly changing life.