Cait McIvor
It was frightening how often the line 'If Ginny weren't dead, I'd kill her myself' was running through Cait's mind. From capitalizing on Hydra's research to outright exploiting Marhsal - she was certain that would not have the gumption to show restraint. Her anger translated into a slightly messier raiding of Ginny's private files as she grabbed fistfuls of pages and stuffed them unceremoniously into the duffel bag. Anything with the word "HYDRA" on it went into the bag - she found some blueprints and folded them in half, still rolled, to get them in. They could have a nice campfire with this stuff after they cleared Marshal of any wrongdoing.
A page fell out of one of the files and she caught it in midair. Her eye caught the word "Knox" and automatically focused on the note. Nothing else in the safe had mentioned Marshal by name. So Ginny wasn't alone. Someone else knew what she was doing here. Knew what she was doing to Marshal. And had done nothing. No, worse than nothing, they were trying to improve on the method! And Ginny knew that what she was doing was killing Marshal! Her hand tightened on the page before she shoved it in with the others. She knew there had been something odd about Marshal's heartbeat...but they could talk about that later.
As Marshal emerged from the small room with the paperweight in hand, she gave him a nod.
"Good. And with this," she hefted the now full pack in one hand, "it shouldn't ever." She paused, looking thoughtful. "So, I don't know if you know a Doctor Thompson, but either way, we need to avoid him. At this rate, maybe we should just avoid all 'Doctor Tees'."
Cait flashed him a crooked smile and passed him the backpack before taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. "You did great. Let's get out of here."
The door to the safe closed, she put the crystal glass back where she'd found it after wiping her fingerprints off it with her shirt. Not that anyone would be looking for them. Force of habit, she supposed. She had opened the door to the office a crack and looked about before motioning Marshal forward and out of that horrible little office.
She'd received instructions on where to pick up Excalibur when they'd arrived. If they were later than expected, Cait was willing to play the 'we got lost' or 'tourist' cards. They couldn't dawdle at this juncture, though. Soon enough someone would figure out that the two of them had been where they shouldn't have and Marshal's life and freedom were in the balance. As they approached the reception desk, the two of them could hear two people talking just inside the lockup area.
"I dub thee Sir Gallant, Knight of the Realm!"
"I thank thee good sir, now allow me....I dub thee Sir Rushton, Knight of...."
The second man's voice trailed off as the two of them saw Cait. She was seething. Her face was pale white, her lips bloodless with rage. She had balled her hands into fists and was counting very steadily to ten. As she reached the magic number, she unclenched her jaw enough to spit out a few words in as low a voice as her preteen body could produce.
"You have no right to bestow anything. It is not your place."
Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Marshal Knox
Marshal shook his head when Cait asked if he knew a Dr. Thompson, and actually managed a small smile at her joke about ‘Doctor Tees.’ He squeezed her hand back, and for a moment things just felt… normal. Like they were just regular friends in a comfortable, relaxed friendship without any chaos or darkness sown between them.
But of course, that wasn't true, and he was the one entirely responsible for it. She had tried to tell him, tried to warn him that she changed ages at random - but he had either been too stupid to grasp what she was saying, or too willful to believe her. He had thought he had prepared for all the eventualities - she would grow to hate him, she would get tired of dealing with his problems, she would leave - but he hadn't prepared for the one obvious one, which was that if he let her too far into his life, he was subjecting her to things a child should never have to see and talk about.
He would never have told a twelve-year-old about the things HYDRA had done to him, or his history with Ginny. If he had known a kid might stumble into the middle of his suicide attempt, he would have made sure the door was locked. But he had thought letting an adult friend help him was okay… but then things changed in an instant, and he had retroactively done all those things to a child, because it was all still in Cait's head now that she had reverse aged.
Ginny was right about at least one thing, he thought. He was a bad person. HYDRA hadn’t caused that, only identified it and capitalized on it. He was still refusing to take responsibility. And people he crossed paths with were still ending up in pain as a result.
That thought made him want to hurt himself again. However, he'd made certain promises to Jameson about that. So the best he could do was push it aside and not think about it.
Stumbling upon the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents - and Cait's angry, horrified reaction - effectively distracted him from his spiraling thoughts.
“Hey!” he said. “Stop that. You need to give her sword back to her.”
The agents stared him up and down. “Give it… back to her?” one of them repeated. “She’s a child. You don't give children weapons. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
The other one knew, however, and answered for him. “Shocker. He's that HYDRA guy. You know, the one Mr. Stalwart was dealing with.”
“It doesn't matter who I am,” Marshal insisted. “This isn’t about me. She's not just some random kid. You can't just take something that belongs to her–”
“We are not arming a little kid--”
The agents seemed to be squaring up for a fight - which Marshal sincerely hoped was just going to be verbal, because getting into a brawl in the middle of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base was certainly not going to be beneficial to his future being an unincarcerated one - when Jameson came around the corner, apparently in response to Cait's raised voice.
“What is going on here?” the superhero demanded.
The agents suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Just having a bit of fun, Mr. Stalwart.”
“Fun? You're being wildly disrespectful. Return her sword to her immediately. And I believe you also owe an apology–”
“Sorry, sir–”
“No. Not to me. To her.”
The agents grudgingly handed Excalibur back to Cait, and muttered a brief, “We're sorry.”
Jameson nodded and turned away, allowing Cait to have the last word - or not, as she chose - but making clear to all parties he was not expecting thanks. That Cait was the one in charge here, not him.
Once they were out of earshot of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Jameson said, “Looks like you got what you came for? I made progress too. I think we should update each other back at home, though. There's already chatter about a potential office break-in; we shouldn't be here when they start to investigate. But Marshal… I know that was really hard for you. Good job getting through it. Being back there must have really triggered your PTSD…”
Marshal looked at him quizzically. “You think I have PTSD?”
“You… think you don’t?”
Marshal shrugged. “I never really thought about it, I guess. It never came up in therapy.”
“Of course it didn't. You need a decent therapist. Anyway, I know that was hard, and I'm proud of you.”
Then Marshal did what he was desperate to do - threw his arms around Jameson and hugged him. He so badly needed reassurance, was so starved for physical contact, and Jameson had made it clear hugging was okay. Belatedly, Marshal realized that what was allowed at home wasn’t necessarily equally welcome in the middle of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base in front of his co-workers, agents and maybe even fellow superheroes… but Jameson seemed fine with it. He hugged Marshal back tightly, and didn't release the embrace until Marshal did.
“Thanks,” Marshal said. “Yeah, let's go home now.”
***
Back at the house, they gathered around the table - Marshal, Jameson, Cait, and Maureen. It crossed Marshal's mind that he should probably tell Cait to go home. That he shouldn't drag her into any more of this than he already had. But was that better? She had been nothing but supportive and helpful. Would cutting her off and pushing her away hurt her more or less? He had no idea, so he stayed silent and let her decide.
"I made some phone calls while you were busy," Jameson told them. "My therapist, Dr. Laurel - I gave you her card, Marshal, but I'm assuming you haven't had time to talk to her. If you're willing, I want you to have an emergency appointment. Let her evaluate you. We can use that to challenge the things Ginny undoubtedly made up about your so-called treatment."
"Okay," Marshal said. "Uh, but... she isn't going to touch me, right?"
Jameson shook his head. "She doesn't need to have physical contact with you."
"Okay. Good. But do you think you could maybe... uh... stay for my appointment? Just to make sure she doesn't?"
"Yeah. Of course. She had actually asked the same thing. I promise I won't listen to anything you say confidentially to her, but she asked me to be present too. It's absolutely nothing personal. But she doesn't know you and under the... well, the circumstances..."
Marshal nodded. "I just killed my previous therapist. Yeah. No problem. I'm not offended. She's being smart."
"Good. Excellent. So then I called Sam Wilson--"
Marshal's eyes bugged out. "You... called Captain America? You just... called him?"
"Sure. He's a co-worker. We're acquainted."
"Jameson, he's not going to care about me. He's famous, and I'm just some random guy..."
"He did care, Marshal. He was very concerned about you. He wrote quite an eloquent and heartfelt letter on your behalf, actually, and he said he's a phone call away if it's not enough. He also gave me the number for Sergeant James Barnes."
"Bucky Barnes."
"Yes. I talked to Sergeant Barnes for quite awhile. He was pretty worried about you too. Made me promise several times that you were safe and okay, and that we were looking after you. He's also happy to speak on your behalf. But that wasn't the most interesting part of the conversation. Sergeant Barnes also told me that S.H.I.E.L.D. actually doesn't have means to remove HYDRA programming - Ginny was lying about that." Seeing Marshal's crestfallen expression, Jameson hastily pushed on, "But he told me who does. There's someone in Wakanda who developed an algorithm to remove the programming without damaging the person's memory. Sergeant Barnes said it worked for him, and he thinks it will work for you too. So once we get this thing taken care of - once we get your name cleared - we can work on getting you to Wakanda and getting you some real help with this."
Marshal bit his lip. He was starting to tear up, and trying not to. This was hope. Finally, real hope. He wiped his eyes, and whispered, "Thank you."
Jameson nodded. "So that's most of what we need to do before we go to your lawyer friend. That appointment with Dr. Laurel, and... reading through these files. Are you ready?"
Marshal nodded, full of trepidation. He didn't know exactly what was in there. What buried pieces of his past they were about to dig up.
Jameson opened the file with Ginny's treatment notes, scanned the first few sentences - then closed it. "I just want to set a ground rule here first: My friendship is unconditional. Nothing in this file could possibly change anything I promised you. Don't worry about that. Okay?"
"Okay."
Marshal looked at the page Jameson had been looking at - the section of the form where Ginny listed his diagnosis. Antisocial personality disorder with psychopathic features. Then she had added two notes. Struggles with uncontrollable anger and bouts of unprovoked rage and Completely unwilling or unable to take responsibility for his actions. There was of course no mention of the word 'trauma.'
"That's... that's what people think of me?" Marshal asked softly. His shoulders scrunched, and he seemed to shrink a little.
Jameson shook his head. "No, Marshal. That's not what 'people' think of you. That's just Ginny's lies to try to maintain control of you. That's not what we think of you. That's not what I think of you. You're my friend. You're my family. And I love you."
"You... love me?"
"Yes, I do."
Marshal looked away abruptly. No one had ever said that to him before. And those words fundamentally changed something deep within him. I am loved. I am a person who is loved. I can't be unlovable - not truly unlovable - if Jameson loves me. When he looked up, there was something subtly different in his eyes. Jameson had identified something broken deep inside him, and had unceremoniously stepped in and fixed it. And he was changed forever.
Marshal drew in his breath. "I.... you know... I..."
Jameson smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I know."
Marshal smiled too, and bumped Jameson affectionately with his shoulder.
The file wasn't easy to for Marshal to read - probably not easy for anyone who cared about him, either. Ginny's notes were full of lies and half-truths, transcripts of her manipulations and leading questions. The HYDRA files were even worse. Page after page detailed the programming and conditioning... and the brutal torture that had accompanied it, the efforts to break him. Marshal glanced around at the others, searching for any sign of judgment on their faces - were they wondering why he didn't fight harder? why it had worked? - but saw no sign of it. (Jameson did, however, rest his hand reassuringly on Marshal's forearm.) Then a cold, dispassionate list of all the violence he had been forced to inflict on others. Those pages seemed to go on forever. Again, Marshal looked between his friends, worried about what they were going to think. Waiting for someone to say, This is too much. You've done too many bad things. I can't help you anymore. But no one did. The next page was a brief account of his rescue by S.H.I.E.L.D. - then on to Ginny's experiments on Soldier 25. The doctor had kept meticulous notes. There was a transcript of one of the first sessions where she had used his conditioning...
Careworn.
Oil.
Eighty.
Transept.
Five.
Marginalia.
Anticipated.
Thirteen.
Hurricane.
Visage.
Soldier?
Ready to comply.
Jameson removed that page and tossed it aside. "We're going to need to redact that one," he said simply.
Finally, they were through it. Jameson and Maureen went to the kitchen to grab drinks and sandwiches for the four of them, so they could fortify before the next challenge. Marshal turned to Cait. "Hey - are you okay? I know that was a lot. I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't had to see that. And I haven't really gotten to check in on how you're doing, just like... in general? A lot has been going on for you too. The age thing, the sword - how are you holding up?"
Marshal shook his head when Cait asked if he knew a Dr. Thompson, and actually managed a small smile at her joke about ‘Doctor Tees.’ He squeezed her hand back, and for a moment things just felt… normal. Like they were just regular friends in a comfortable, relaxed friendship without any chaos or darkness sown between them.
But of course, that wasn't true, and he was the one entirely responsible for it. She had tried to tell him, tried to warn him that she changed ages at random - but he had either been too stupid to grasp what she was saying, or too willful to believe her. He had thought he had prepared for all the eventualities - she would grow to hate him, she would get tired of dealing with his problems, she would leave - but he hadn't prepared for the one obvious one, which was that if he let her too far into his life, he was subjecting her to things a child should never have to see and talk about.
He would never have told a twelve-year-old about the things HYDRA had done to him, or his history with Ginny. If he had known a kid might stumble into the middle of his suicide attempt, he would have made sure the door was locked. But he had thought letting an adult friend help him was okay… but then things changed in an instant, and he had retroactively done all those things to a child, because it was all still in Cait's head now that she had reverse aged.
Ginny was right about at least one thing, he thought. He was a bad person. HYDRA hadn’t caused that, only identified it and capitalized on it. He was still refusing to take responsibility. And people he crossed paths with were still ending up in pain as a result.
That thought made him want to hurt himself again. However, he'd made certain promises to Jameson about that. So the best he could do was push it aside and not think about it.
Stumbling upon the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents - and Cait's angry, horrified reaction - effectively distracted him from his spiraling thoughts.
“Hey!” he said. “Stop that. You need to give her sword back to her.”
The agents stared him up and down. “Give it… back to her?” one of them repeated. “She’s a child. You don't give children weapons. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
The other one knew, however, and answered for him. “Shocker. He's that HYDRA guy. You know, the one Mr. Stalwart was dealing with.”
“It doesn't matter who I am,” Marshal insisted. “This isn’t about me. She's not just some random kid. You can't just take something that belongs to her–”
“We are not arming a little kid--”
The agents seemed to be squaring up for a fight - which Marshal sincerely hoped was just going to be verbal, because getting into a brawl in the middle of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base was certainly not going to be beneficial to his future being an unincarcerated one - when Jameson came around the corner, apparently in response to Cait's raised voice.
“What is going on here?” the superhero demanded.
The agents suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Just having a bit of fun, Mr. Stalwart.”
“Fun? You're being wildly disrespectful. Return her sword to her immediately. And I believe you also owe an apology–”
“Sorry, sir–”
“No. Not to me. To her.”
The agents grudgingly handed Excalibur back to Cait, and muttered a brief, “We're sorry.”
Jameson nodded and turned away, allowing Cait to have the last word - or not, as she chose - but making clear to all parties he was not expecting thanks. That Cait was the one in charge here, not him.
Once they were out of earshot of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Jameson said, “Looks like you got what you came for? I made progress too. I think we should update each other back at home, though. There's already chatter about a potential office break-in; we shouldn't be here when they start to investigate. But Marshal… I know that was really hard for you. Good job getting through it. Being back there must have really triggered your PTSD…”
Marshal looked at him quizzically. “You think I have PTSD?”
“You… think you don’t?”
Marshal shrugged. “I never really thought about it, I guess. It never came up in therapy.”
“Of course it didn't. You need a decent therapist. Anyway, I know that was hard, and I'm proud of you.”
Then Marshal did what he was desperate to do - threw his arms around Jameson and hugged him. He so badly needed reassurance, was so starved for physical contact, and Jameson had made it clear hugging was okay. Belatedly, Marshal realized that what was allowed at home wasn’t necessarily equally welcome in the middle of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base in front of his co-workers, agents and maybe even fellow superheroes… but Jameson seemed fine with it. He hugged Marshal back tightly, and didn't release the embrace until Marshal did.
“Thanks,” Marshal said. “Yeah, let's go home now.”
***
Back at the house, they gathered around the table - Marshal, Jameson, Cait, and Maureen. It crossed Marshal's mind that he should probably tell Cait to go home. That he shouldn't drag her into any more of this than he already had. But was that better? She had been nothing but supportive and helpful. Would cutting her off and pushing her away hurt her more or less? He had no idea, so he stayed silent and let her decide.
"I made some phone calls while you were busy," Jameson told them. "My therapist, Dr. Laurel - I gave you her card, Marshal, but I'm assuming you haven't had time to talk to her. If you're willing, I want you to have an emergency appointment. Let her evaluate you. We can use that to challenge the things Ginny undoubtedly made up about your so-called treatment."
"Okay," Marshal said. "Uh, but... she isn't going to touch me, right?"
Jameson shook his head. "She doesn't need to have physical contact with you."
"Okay. Good. But do you think you could maybe... uh... stay for my appointment? Just to make sure she doesn't?"
"Yeah. Of course. She had actually asked the same thing. I promise I won't listen to anything you say confidentially to her, but she asked me to be present too. It's absolutely nothing personal. But she doesn't know you and under the... well, the circumstances..."
Marshal nodded. "I just killed my previous therapist. Yeah. No problem. I'm not offended. She's being smart."
"Good. Excellent. So then I called Sam Wilson--"
Marshal's eyes bugged out. "You... called Captain America? You just... called him?"
"Sure. He's a co-worker. We're acquainted."
"Jameson, he's not going to care about me. He's famous, and I'm just some random guy..."
"He did care, Marshal. He was very concerned about you. He wrote quite an eloquent and heartfelt letter on your behalf, actually, and he said he's a phone call away if it's not enough. He also gave me the number for Sergeant James Barnes."
"Bucky Barnes."
"Yes. I talked to Sergeant Barnes for quite awhile. He was pretty worried about you too. Made me promise several times that you were safe and okay, and that we were looking after you. He's also happy to speak on your behalf. But that wasn't the most interesting part of the conversation. Sergeant Barnes also told me that S.H.I.E.L.D. actually doesn't have means to remove HYDRA programming - Ginny was lying about that." Seeing Marshal's crestfallen expression, Jameson hastily pushed on, "But he told me who does. There's someone in Wakanda who developed an algorithm to remove the programming without damaging the person's memory. Sergeant Barnes said it worked for him, and he thinks it will work for you too. So once we get this thing taken care of - once we get your name cleared - we can work on getting you to Wakanda and getting you some real help with this."
Marshal bit his lip. He was starting to tear up, and trying not to. This was hope. Finally, real hope. He wiped his eyes, and whispered, "Thank you."
Jameson nodded. "So that's most of what we need to do before we go to your lawyer friend. That appointment with Dr. Laurel, and... reading through these files. Are you ready?"
Marshal nodded, full of trepidation. He didn't know exactly what was in there. What buried pieces of his past they were about to dig up.
Jameson opened the file with Ginny's treatment notes, scanned the first few sentences - then closed it. "I just want to set a ground rule here first: My friendship is unconditional. Nothing in this file could possibly change anything I promised you. Don't worry about that. Okay?"
"Okay."
Marshal looked at the page Jameson had been looking at - the section of the form where Ginny listed his diagnosis. Antisocial personality disorder with psychopathic features. Then she had added two notes. Struggles with uncontrollable anger and bouts of unprovoked rage and Completely unwilling or unable to take responsibility for his actions. There was of course no mention of the word 'trauma.'
"That's... that's what people think of me?" Marshal asked softly. His shoulders scrunched, and he seemed to shrink a little.
Jameson shook his head. "No, Marshal. That's not what 'people' think of you. That's just Ginny's lies to try to maintain control of you. That's not what we think of you. That's not what I think of you. You're my friend. You're my family. And I love you."
"You... love me?"
"Yes, I do."
Marshal looked away abruptly. No one had ever said that to him before. And those words fundamentally changed something deep within him. I am loved. I am a person who is loved. I can't be unlovable - not truly unlovable - if Jameson loves me. When he looked up, there was something subtly different in his eyes. Jameson had identified something broken deep inside him, and had unceremoniously stepped in and fixed it. And he was changed forever.
Marshal drew in his breath. "I.... you know... I..."
Jameson smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I know."
Marshal smiled too, and bumped Jameson affectionately with his shoulder.
The file wasn't easy to for Marshal to read - probably not easy for anyone who cared about him, either. Ginny's notes were full of lies and half-truths, transcripts of her manipulations and leading questions. The HYDRA files were even worse. Page after page detailed the programming and conditioning... and the brutal torture that had accompanied it, the efforts to break him. Marshal glanced around at the others, searching for any sign of judgment on their faces - were they wondering why he didn't fight harder? why it had worked? - but saw no sign of it. (Jameson did, however, rest his hand reassuringly on Marshal's forearm.) Then a cold, dispassionate list of all the violence he had been forced to inflict on others. Those pages seemed to go on forever. Again, Marshal looked between his friends, worried about what they were going to think. Waiting for someone to say, This is too much. You've done too many bad things. I can't help you anymore. But no one did. The next page was a brief account of his rescue by S.H.I.E.L.D. - then on to Ginny's experiments on Soldier 25. The doctor had kept meticulous notes. There was a transcript of one of the first sessions where she had used his conditioning...
Careworn.
Oil.
Eighty.
Transept.
Five.
Marginalia.
Anticipated.
Thirteen.
Hurricane.
Visage.
Soldier?
Ready to comply.
Jameson removed that page and tossed it aside. "We're going to need to redact that one," he said simply.
Finally, they were through it. Jameson and Maureen went to the kitchen to grab drinks and sandwiches for the four of them, so they could fortify before the next challenge. Marshal turned to Cait. "Hey - are you okay? I know that was a lot. I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't had to see that. And I haven't really gotten to check in on how you're doing, just like... in general? A lot has been going on for you too. The age thing, the sword - how are you holding up?"
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Charis Thomas
She pushed the tears away with the sides of her palm - one cheek, then the other - with determined strokes. As much as she was embarrassed to be caught crying, she leaned into Imiel's hand. The contact felt good. Grounding. And she realized that he was right. She was tired of being strong. Aunt Cait had told her it was part of her duty to be the clear head and swift fists for her family, but was that all she could be? Was she allowed to have these feelings - these horrible feelings that tore at her guts at night? How was she supposed to shoulder these burdens all by herself? Taking care of Ewan was enough responsibility...but lately she felt like she had to take care of their mom too. It wasn't fair.
The tears flowed out of her and this time she didn't bother to wipe them away. She hung her head, wishing that she were somewhere else. Somewhere she could take Imiel up on his offer. Away from the crowd. Away from her brother's perceptive ear - both physical and mental. Away from her mother and her simultaneous smothering and rigidness. The hand that reached for her, fingers curling at the last second, hand falling away. It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair.
"It will never be fair."
Her aunt's voice came to her, unbidden, rising to the surface of her memory with the string of words she'd just thought. Charis remembered how she'd looked at her. Aunt Cait was often laughing. Carefree. Teasing. But she'd become so still when she knelt before her that Charis had caught her breath mid-tantrum. It had seemed like her eyes were boring straight into her brain - willing Charis to remember her words. To remember the lesson.
"So, take that feeling of injustice that makes you want to stick your heels in and wait for someone to fix things - that feeling of powerlessness - and hold it by the scruff of its neck and give it a shake. Give yourself a shake. Things will never get more fair by you sitting there. You get up and you move forward. In spite of unfair."
Charis realized that she was pouting, which only served to make her angry again. She wiped her face with her sleeve and laughed at how ridiculous she felt. Looking up at Imiel, she managed a brief smile as she nodded.
"Thanks. Maybe later. That would be nice."
She pushed the tears away with the sides of her palm - one cheek, then the other - with determined strokes. As much as she was embarrassed to be caught crying, she leaned into Imiel's hand. The contact felt good. Grounding. And she realized that he was right. She was tired of being strong. Aunt Cait had told her it was part of her duty to be the clear head and swift fists for her family, but was that all she could be? Was she allowed to have these feelings - these horrible feelings that tore at her guts at night? How was she supposed to shoulder these burdens all by herself? Taking care of Ewan was enough responsibility...but lately she felt like she had to take care of their mom too. It wasn't fair.
The tears flowed out of her and this time she didn't bother to wipe them away. She hung her head, wishing that she were somewhere else. Somewhere she could take Imiel up on his offer. Away from the crowd. Away from her brother's perceptive ear - both physical and mental. Away from her mother and her simultaneous smothering and rigidness. The hand that reached for her, fingers curling at the last second, hand falling away. It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair.
"It will never be fair."
Her aunt's voice came to her, unbidden, rising to the surface of her memory with the string of words she'd just thought. Charis remembered how she'd looked at her. Aunt Cait was often laughing. Carefree. Teasing. But she'd become so still when she knelt before her that Charis had caught her breath mid-tantrum. It had seemed like her eyes were boring straight into her brain - willing Charis to remember her words. To remember the lesson.
"So, take that feeling of injustice that makes you want to stick your heels in and wait for someone to fix things - that feeling of powerlessness - and hold it by the scruff of its neck and give it a shake. Give yourself a shake. Things will never get more fair by you sitting there. You get up and you move forward. In spite of unfair."
Charis realized that she was pouting, which only served to make her angry again. She wiped her face with her sleeve and laughed at how ridiculous she felt. Looking up at Imiel, she managed a brief smile as she nodded.
"Thanks. Maybe later. That would be nice."
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Jameson Bryant and Maureen Finnegan
For a few minutes, Jameson and Maureen assembled the sandwiches in silence. Then Maureen said, "I'm just glad he's with us, y'know? Reading all that stuff... everything they did to him... it was horrible. It's good that he's with us. I would hate the thought of him being out there somewhere alone."
Jameson nodded. "I was thinking that too. It's a crime that Ginny basically had him in solitary confinement. Telling him that he had to stay in this house by himself all the time, that he couldn't interact with anyone, convincing him that it was too dangerous and he could hurt someone - it's the worst thing she could have done."
"Yeah, being alone must have been awful for him. I mean, you see how he reacts to us. How responsive he is to every scrap of kindness. But I think he's going to be okay now. I really do."
"I think so too. We just have to keep showing him that he's safe and loved." Saying that jogged Jameson's memory, reminded him of an earlier conversation. "By the way, I got... kind of an interesting offer today. Coulson invited me to join the Avengers."
"Wow! Congratulations! But your tone doesn't exactly sound like the unbridled enthusiasm of a future Avenger."
Jameson chuckled. "Yeah. I turned him down. It just isn't the right thing for me. It would have meant too much change. I'm in a good place right now. I'm happy with the way things are. And there was an issue about Marshal..."
"About Marshal?"
"Yeah. It was nothing personal. And I get it - a super soldier with HYDRA programming who could be controlled by anyone with the right words and bad intentions was a security risk. But that was a big part of why I turned them down. I made promises to him, you know? I didn't teach him to trust me just to walk away. It's not just all one-sided, either. His friendship is good for me too. I don't want to lose him."
"For what it's worth, Jameson? I think you did the right thing."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do. I'm grateful that you prioritized our family. I'm grateful that you followed your heart. That you didn't throw away the life we're building here for a new shiny thing."
Jameson nodded, relieved that she had seen it the same way. "Thanks." With a half-smile, he added, "You could have had the chance to sleep with an Avenger, though, you know."
She chuckled, but then became more serious again. "Sure. I could have. But I'd rather sleep with this Jameson Bryant, who keeps his promises."
For a few minutes, Jameson and Maureen assembled the sandwiches in silence. Then Maureen said, "I'm just glad he's with us, y'know? Reading all that stuff... everything they did to him... it was horrible. It's good that he's with us. I would hate the thought of him being out there somewhere alone."
Jameson nodded. "I was thinking that too. It's a crime that Ginny basically had him in solitary confinement. Telling him that he had to stay in this house by himself all the time, that he couldn't interact with anyone, convincing him that it was too dangerous and he could hurt someone - it's the worst thing she could have done."
"Yeah, being alone must have been awful for him. I mean, you see how he reacts to us. How responsive he is to every scrap of kindness. But I think he's going to be okay now. I really do."
"I think so too. We just have to keep showing him that he's safe and loved." Saying that jogged Jameson's memory, reminded him of an earlier conversation. "By the way, I got... kind of an interesting offer today. Coulson invited me to join the Avengers."
"Wow! Congratulations! But your tone doesn't exactly sound like the unbridled enthusiasm of a future Avenger."
Jameson chuckled. "Yeah. I turned him down. It just isn't the right thing for me. It would have meant too much change. I'm in a good place right now. I'm happy with the way things are. And there was an issue about Marshal..."
"About Marshal?"
"Yeah. It was nothing personal. And I get it - a super soldier with HYDRA programming who could be controlled by anyone with the right words and bad intentions was a security risk. But that was a big part of why I turned them down. I made promises to him, you know? I didn't teach him to trust me just to walk away. It's not just all one-sided, either. His friendship is good for me too. I don't want to lose him."
"For what it's worth, Jameson? I think you did the right thing."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do. I'm grateful that you prioritized our family. I'm grateful that you followed your heart. That you didn't throw away the life we're building here for a new shiny thing."
Jameson nodded, relieved that she had seen it the same way. "Thanks." With a half-smile, he added, "You could have had the chance to sleep with an Avenger, though, you know."
She chuckled, but then became more serious again. "Sure. I could have. But I'd rather sleep with this Jameson Bryant, who keeps his promises."
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Rhiannon McIvor
As the last notes of the harp song faded, she felt they carried the last of her stress away with them. She closed her eyes and sighed softly into the body of the instrument, her breath fogging the polished maple. How she'd missed music. Playing music. Hearing music. The deep longing in her that she'd thought was tied to her homeland was fulfilled - no longer did her heart pain her.
And so the applause startled her. Rhiannon looked up and blinked at the circle of people around the dias as if seeing them for the first time. Phones were raised and making sweeps of the small crowd. A blush coloured her cheeks and she ducked her head in thanks before tilting the harp back to its resting position and rising from the stool. She spotted her family off to the side - Imiel was talking to Charis and Annie was waving emphatically. Rhiannon returned Annie's wave with a smile before turning to exit the stage the way she had come.
Two people stood in her way. The first, a museum employee, identified by his pinned-on name tag. He was smiling and holding his hand to the side to escort her off the dias. She stopped to thank him for allowing her to play an instrument on display and apologized if she had caused any fuss. He was quick to assure her that all was well, but did suggest she ask permission before touching museum displays.
The blush was still on her cheeks when she came face to face with the second man who stood just outside the barrier, but clearly in the opening. He too was smiling and he was holding out a business card.
"That was quite the performance! It isn't every day a professional harpist appears in the city. Please allow me to introduce myself, my name is Lionel Caldwell and I am the music director for the Peace Arbor Philharmonic. We have auditions coming up in two weeks and I do hope you'll consider throwing your hat in the ring as it were. Miss...?"
"Rhiannon McIvor. A pleasure, Mr. Caldwell." She took the offered business card in hand, having no pockets, and folded both hands in front of her. While she wasn't entirely adverse to contact with strangers, she felt like her fingers were still tingling with the vibration of the strings and wanted to preserve that feeling as equally as she wanted to keep from accidentally passing it along to the music director.
"Likewise, Miss McIvor. I hope to see you in two weeks' time. Good day!" He bowed slightly in that oddly old-fashioned way that music directors seemed to have. It was as though working with classical musicians cultivated history in each of them and it naturally spilled it out in their speech and mannerisms.
She was nearly breathless when she caught up with her family. Charis looked as though she had been crying. Perhaps she should have been more sensitive in her song choice, especially when they weren't the only ones far from home. It seemed that Imiel had her in hand, though, which was much appreciated.
"I'm sorry, I left you behind for a moment there. It was so lovely to get to play again and I ... where's my bag?"
Rhiannon had been about to tell them about getting invited to a competition when she noticed that she still didn't have anywhere to put the card. She experienced a brief moment of panic, as one does when something of theirs has gone missing, but realized that she really didn't have much to lose. Just her ID, which had been manufactured by S.H.I.E.L.D. and could likely be remade by them, and a bank card, also fronted by the agency with more security on it than her whole house. Still, it felt like an attack even if its absence was innocent in nature.
Charis looked at the ground beside her, eyes wide. "I'm sorry Mum - I put it right here!" She pointed at the ground beside her. "But maybe...I moved a bit forward and someone thought it wasn't my bag?" The girl started looking around for said tote, hoping to spot it.
"Perhaps we should check in with the front desk. If someone picked it up thinking it lost, they should have turned it in there - if someone picked it up and didn't turn it in, well, we should be reporting it to the front desk."
Either way, the front desk was the logical next step. There was no sense in getting excited about something that was already gone. Rhiannon fell into step beside Imiel and he would see that in spite of missing a bag, she was still relaxed and her step was light. Her eyes still sparkled with the joy she took from playing and it would seem that she hadn't a care in the world.
Behind them, Charis and Ewan walked side by side. "I saw them again." the boy whispered into his sister's mind.
"Saw who? And how?"
"The person from the bus. They have magic on them. Red symbols that look like what an old cutting board feels like."
"Kinda...slashy?"
"Yeah. Slashy. They walked behind us while Mom was playing and in the direction we're going now."
"Do you still see them?"
"No. I don't." Ewan's voice sounded disappointed...and a little afraid.
As the last notes of the harp song faded, she felt they carried the last of her stress away with them. She closed her eyes and sighed softly into the body of the instrument, her breath fogging the polished maple. How she'd missed music. Playing music. Hearing music. The deep longing in her that she'd thought was tied to her homeland was fulfilled - no longer did her heart pain her.
And so the applause startled her. Rhiannon looked up and blinked at the circle of people around the dias as if seeing them for the first time. Phones were raised and making sweeps of the small crowd. A blush coloured her cheeks and she ducked her head in thanks before tilting the harp back to its resting position and rising from the stool. She spotted her family off to the side - Imiel was talking to Charis and Annie was waving emphatically. Rhiannon returned Annie's wave with a smile before turning to exit the stage the way she had come.
Two people stood in her way. The first, a museum employee, identified by his pinned-on name tag. He was smiling and holding his hand to the side to escort her off the dias. She stopped to thank him for allowing her to play an instrument on display and apologized if she had caused any fuss. He was quick to assure her that all was well, but did suggest she ask permission before touching museum displays.
The blush was still on her cheeks when she came face to face with the second man who stood just outside the barrier, but clearly in the opening. He too was smiling and he was holding out a business card.
"That was quite the performance! It isn't every day a professional harpist appears in the city. Please allow me to introduce myself, my name is Lionel Caldwell and I am the music director for the Peace Arbor Philharmonic. We have auditions coming up in two weeks and I do hope you'll consider throwing your hat in the ring as it were. Miss...?"
"Rhiannon McIvor. A pleasure, Mr. Caldwell." She took the offered business card in hand, having no pockets, and folded both hands in front of her. While she wasn't entirely adverse to contact with strangers, she felt like her fingers were still tingling with the vibration of the strings and wanted to preserve that feeling as equally as she wanted to keep from accidentally passing it along to the music director.
"Likewise, Miss McIvor. I hope to see you in two weeks' time. Good day!" He bowed slightly in that oddly old-fashioned way that music directors seemed to have. It was as though working with classical musicians cultivated history in each of them and it naturally spilled it out in their speech and mannerisms.
She was nearly breathless when she caught up with her family. Charis looked as though she had been crying. Perhaps she should have been more sensitive in her song choice, especially when they weren't the only ones far from home. It seemed that Imiel had her in hand, though, which was much appreciated.
"I'm sorry, I left you behind for a moment there. It was so lovely to get to play again and I ... where's my bag?"
Rhiannon had been about to tell them about getting invited to a competition when she noticed that she still didn't have anywhere to put the card. She experienced a brief moment of panic, as one does when something of theirs has gone missing, but realized that she really didn't have much to lose. Just her ID, which had been manufactured by S.H.I.E.L.D. and could likely be remade by them, and a bank card, also fronted by the agency with more security on it than her whole house. Still, it felt like an attack even if its absence was innocent in nature.
Charis looked at the ground beside her, eyes wide. "I'm sorry Mum - I put it right here!" She pointed at the ground beside her. "But maybe...I moved a bit forward and someone thought it wasn't my bag?" The girl started looking around for said tote, hoping to spot it.
"Perhaps we should check in with the front desk. If someone picked it up thinking it lost, they should have turned it in there - if someone picked it up and didn't turn it in, well, we should be reporting it to the front desk."
Either way, the front desk was the logical next step. There was no sense in getting excited about something that was already gone. Rhiannon fell into step beside Imiel and he would see that in spite of missing a bag, she was still relaxed and her step was light. Her eyes still sparkled with the joy she took from playing and it would seem that she hadn't a care in the world.
Behind them, Charis and Ewan walked side by side. "I saw them again." the boy whispered into his sister's mind.
"Saw who? And how?"
"The person from the bus. They have magic on them. Red symbols that look like what an old cutting board feels like."
"Kinda...slashy?"
"Yeah. Slashy. They walked behind us while Mom was playing and in the direction we're going now."
"Do you still see them?"
"No. I don't." Ewan's voice sounded disappointed...and a little afraid.
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Imiel
“Of course, Charis,” Imiel said. “Anytime you want. You know where to find me.”
He hadn’t expected her to spill her guts to him in the middle of the museum. Maybe not at all. But he wanted her to know it was an option, if talking to someone who wasn’t a mother, aunt, or brother would help. Regardless of his feelings for Rhiannon - which had gotten a little wayward - he cared about the kids, and he would be there for them as much as he could. They had called him family, and he would do his best to live up to that…
Then Rhiannon was back with them. Imiel was about to tell her how amazing her performance had been - but then the bag was missing. He nodded his agreement with checking at the front desk. “It’s not your fault, Charis,” he said. “I didn’t notice either. I’m sure it was just a mixup. We’ll get it back.”
After all, there was no reason to think anything untoward had happened. Some people imagined every city was packed with thieves and con artists, but Imiel tended to believe that most people in most places were decent. It very well might have looked like a lost bag, with all of them distracted, and some kind soul may have thought they were helping by turning it in.
They were in luck. As soon as Rhiannon gave a brief description of the bag, the docent tending the desk confirmed that the bag had been found, and handed it back to her.
What was that human expression? Imiel thought. Ah, yes. All’s well that ends well.
“Glad that worked out okay. Well, at least it seems like it did. Is anything missing?”
Rhiannon confirmed that there wasn’t, and Imiel breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently it had just been a misunderstanding after all.
“Your performance was incredible,” Imiel told Rhiannon once the bag question had been resolved. “You truly have an ear for music. That was beautiful. Your musicianship… amazing. You’re amazing.”
With the last bit, he realized he had stepped too far, and his annoying ‘human’ skin did the annoying human thing - he blushed a bright scarlet.
“Of course, Charis,” Imiel said. “Anytime you want. You know where to find me.”
He hadn’t expected her to spill her guts to him in the middle of the museum. Maybe not at all. But he wanted her to know it was an option, if talking to someone who wasn’t a mother, aunt, or brother would help. Regardless of his feelings for Rhiannon - which had gotten a little wayward - he cared about the kids, and he would be there for them as much as he could. They had called him family, and he would do his best to live up to that…
Then Rhiannon was back with them. Imiel was about to tell her how amazing her performance had been - but then the bag was missing. He nodded his agreement with checking at the front desk. “It’s not your fault, Charis,” he said. “I didn’t notice either. I’m sure it was just a mixup. We’ll get it back.”
After all, there was no reason to think anything untoward had happened. Some people imagined every city was packed with thieves and con artists, but Imiel tended to believe that most people in most places were decent. It very well might have looked like a lost bag, with all of them distracted, and some kind soul may have thought they were helping by turning it in.
They were in luck. As soon as Rhiannon gave a brief description of the bag, the docent tending the desk confirmed that the bag had been found, and handed it back to her.
What was that human expression? Imiel thought. Ah, yes. All’s well that ends well.
“Glad that worked out okay. Well, at least it seems like it did. Is anything missing?”
Rhiannon confirmed that there wasn’t, and Imiel breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently it had just been a misunderstanding after all.
“Your performance was incredible,” Imiel told Rhiannon once the bag question had been resolved. “You truly have an ear for music. That was beautiful. Your musicianship… amazing. You’re amazing.”
With the last bit, he realized he had stepped too far, and his annoying ‘human’ skin did the annoying human thing - he blushed a bright scarlet.
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Thompson's Man
He was in a strange position in regards to his orders. He had not fulfilled his mission objective, and therefore he was not currently obligated to return to Thompson... and he wanted to delay that return as long as possible. He was in for a rough evening if he turned up without the sword, which seemed increasingly inevitable. As long as he was actively searching for the sword and taking steps to retrieve it, he could avoid his master for as long as he was physically able to.
But what exactly did that entail? Thompson was probably wrong; they had probably just left it at home. But the soldier didn't want to concede that. Back in the watercolor gallery, he had started to remember. Started to surface from this horrible dream. If he could stay here at the museum longer, as long as possible, maybe more memories would come.
Maybe he would recover enough of himself that next time Thompson gave an order, the soldier could step in front of the bus instead of onto it, and this hell would finally be over.
He wasn't there yet. Not even close. Thompson's orders still compelled him, prevented any disobedience, including harm to himself.
The sword, then. Where else could it be? Maybe she had given it to her male companion? Her companion hadn't seemed the type, but if she didn't have it, where else could it be? And how, then, would he retrieve it? Engineering yet another accidental "bump" into the man to feel his jacket and trousers legs wouldn't exactly be easy to hide.
The other option was the baby stroller that the man was pushing around. The more the soldier thought about it, the more that made sense.
The problem with that, however, was that the baby stroller also clearly contained an actual live baby. The soldier had no desire to hurt the kids - not even to scare them - and he wasn't forced to do so. Not unless Thompson gave a specific order. He wasn't required to innovate. That order might be coming soon, though, unless... well, he wasn't going to think about it. One problem at a time.
All he could think of was that at some point the baby would need a diaper change. The man would go into the restroom with her to use the changing table, leaving the stroller unattended outside... hopefully. At the moment, it was the best idea he had.
He trailed them at a distance again - but he realized he'd been noticed. The kid he had assumed was blind kept looking at him. Probably thinking he was a creep. Well, that wasn't so far off, was it? At least with the orders he was currently following.
Why can't they go into the watercolor room? If I could follow them back there, maybe I could start to break free, start to remember more...?
Someone had discarded a flyer on a bench. The flash of color caught his eye. It was full-page ad for the watercolor exhibit, with tiny images of some of the paintings along the side. The soldier snagged it, and hastily folded it and stuffed it down the waistband of his jeans. That was the only place he could really hide it. Thompson would probably go through his pockets, and would definitely order him to remove his shirt so the mage could cut the runes again, draw fresh blood. But after. After. After the knife. After the beating that would come just as surely for his failure.
After all that was over, he could look at the tiny pictures and maybe start to remember more.
I was a painter... I was a painter... I was a painter...
He repeated the words over and over in his head as he followed his quarries. It was all that he had.
He thought about speaking to them. Trying to get them to understand. But what exactly was he supposed to say?
I'm trying to steal your sword. I can't stop doing that. Can you help me anyway for no reason?
His orders probably wouldn't even allow that. He would just stare at them, tongue-tied, until she shepherded her children away from the pathetic crazy man.
It was hopeless. Like everything else. No... just almost everything, now. With the flyer he had tucked away, maybe there was a tiny hope.
He was in a strange position in regards to his orders. He had not fulfilled his mission objective, and therefore he was not currently obligated to return to Thompson... and he wanted to delay that return as long as possible. He was in for a rough evening if he turned up without the sword, which seemed increasingly inevitable. As long as he was actively searching for the sword and taking steps to retrieve it, he could avoid his master for as long as he was physically able to.
But what exactly did that entail? Thompson was probably wrong; they had probably just left it at home. But the soldier didn't want to concede that. Back in the watercolor gallery, he had started to remember. Started to surface from this horrible dream. If he could stay here at the museum longer, as long as possible, maybe more memories would come.
Maybe he would recover enough of himself that next time Thompson gave an order, the soldier could step in front of the bus instead of onto it, and this hell would finally be over.
He wasn't there yet. Not even close. Thompson's orders still compelled him, prevented any disobedience, including harm to himself.
The sword, then. Where else could it be? Maybe she had given it to her male companion? Her companion hadn't seemed the type, but if she didn't have it, where else could it be? And how, then, would he retrieve it? Engineering yet another accidental "bump" into the man to feel his jacket and trousers legs wouldn't exactly be easy to hide.
The other option was the baby stroller that the man was pushing around. The more the soldier thought about it, the more that made sense.
The problem with that, however, was that the baby stroller also clearly contained an actual live baby. The soldier had no desire to hurt the kids - not even to scare them - and he wasn't forced to do so. Not unless Thompson gave a specific order. He wasn't required to innovate. That order might be coming soon, though, unless... well, he wasn't going to think about it. One problem at a time.
All he could think of was that at some point the baby would need a diaper change. The man would go into the restroom with her to use the changing table, leaving the stroller unattended outside... hopefully. At the moment, it was the best idea he had.
He trailed them at a distance again - but he realized he'd been noticed. The kid he had assumed was blind kept looking at him. Probably thinking he was a creep. Well, that wasn't so far off, was it? At least with the orders he was currently following.
Why can't they go into the watercolor room? If I could follow them back there, maybe I could start to break free, start to remember more...?
Someone had discarded a flyer on a bench. The flash of color caught his eye. It was full-page ad for the watercolor exhibit, with tiny images of some of the paintings along the side. The soldier snagged it, and hastily folded it and stuffed it down the waistband of his jeans. That was the only place he could really hide it. Thompson would probably go through his pockets, and would definitely order him to remove his shirt so the mage could cut the runes again, draw fresh blood. But after. After. After the knife. After the beating that would come just as surely for his failure.
After all that was over, he could look at the tiny pictures and maybe start to remember more.
I was a painter... I was a painter... I was a painter...
He repeated the words over and over in his head as he followed his quarries. It was all that he had.
He thought about speaking to them. Trying to get them to understand. But what exactly was he supposed to say?
I'm trying to steal your sword. I can't stop doing that. Can you help me anyway for no reason?
His orders probably wouldn't even allow that. He would just stare at them, tongue-tied, until she shepherded her children away from the pathetic crazy man.
It was hopeless. Like everything else. No... just almost everything, now. With the flyer he had tucked away, maybe there was a tiny hope.
-
Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
The Hammer of Justice, Earlier That Day
Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were talking. Kyle pretended he wasn't listening.
"Did you hear why Coulson is here today?"
"Yeah, I heard he's recruiting for the Avengers!"
"Who do you think it's gonna be?"
"Stalwart. Definitely Stalwart. Who else...?"
The two drifted off down the hallway.
Kyle didn't follow. Instead he stood - half-leaning against the wall in casual pose that showed off his chiseled arms and legs - and grinned as he pondered just how wrong the agents had to be.
It wasn't going to be Mr. Stalwart. There was nothing special about him. He was just a non-entity who bore an unfortunate physical type resemblance to Kyle but was too touchy-feely and hesitant to get the job done. There were things Kyle knew about Stalwart - that he was just his father's pet science project, a superhero only by an accident of someone else's will. It wasn't hard won, not like being the Hammer of Justice...
He spotted Coulson and quickly shifted posture, making his spine straight and heroic, his face stoic and serene. It was time. The moment was finally here. He was about to become an Avenger! "Good morning, Agent."
"Justice. What the hell happened down at the docks last night?"
That was not the response Kyle expected, and he blinked a few times. "I completed the mission. I retrieved the cargo--"
"You put three men in the hospital!"
"They were criminals."
"One of them may never walk again!"
"I got the cargo back."
"The shipping firm had insurance. They would have been fine."
"Wrongs can't go unpunished!"
"Yeah. They can. And they often do. This is not the time for loose cannon superheroes running amuck inflicting disproportionate retribution! After the Captain America fiasco..."
"Look, if Sam Wilson can't..."
"Don't play dumb with me, Kyle. You know I'm not talking about Sam Wilson. Or Steve. We're on thin ice with the public already. After what happened in Latvia, we can't afford another incident. Get it together, or hang up the mantle, because you're doing more harm than good right now. Okay, we're done here."
"Agent... they said you were here to recruit a potential Avenger. That's... not me, is it?"
"No."
"Stalwart?"
"Good day, Kyle."
The non-answer was answer enough.
***
After the horrible conversation with Coulson, Kyle wandered the halls, stewing.
They were criminals! Just criminals! Who cares if criminals get hurt? If he can't walk, he can't steal, and maybe the others will think twice...
Lost in thought as he was, he almost ran into Mr. Stalwart himself... hugging that HYDRA soldier, and totally oblivious to Kyle's presence.
Kyle drew back, shocked. Stalwart had just gotten into a scandal over some girl. Now there was a boyfriend, too? (Kyle could not conceive of any other reason for a man to hug another man.) And... Stalwart was a HYDRA sympathizer? Much as he despised the milquetoast waffler, he hadn't seen that one coming. And yet, the evidence was right before his eyes.
We'll see who ends up as an Avenger now, Stalwart...
Kyle hadn't decided how yet. But soon, the tables would turn.
Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were talking. Kyle pretended he wasn't listening.
"Did you hear why Coulson is here today?"
"Yeah, I heard he's recruiting for the Avengers!"
"Who do you think it's gonna be?"
"Stalwart. Definitely Stalwart. Who else...?"
The two drifted off down the hallway.
Kyle didn't follow. Instead he stood - half-leaning against the wall in casual pose that showed off his chiseled arms and legs - and grinned as he pondered just how wrong the agents had to be.
It wasn't going to be Mr. Stalwart. There was nothing special about him. He was just a non-entity who bore an unfortunate physical type resemblance to Kyle but was too touchy-feely and hesitant to get the job done. There were things Kyle knew about Stalwart - that he was just his father's pet science project, a superhero only by an accident of someone else's will. It wasn't hard won, not like being the Hammer of Justice...
He spotted Coulson and quickly shifted posture, making his spine straight and heroic, his face stoic and serene. It was time. The moment was finally here. He was about to become an Avenger! "Good morning, Agent."
"Justice. What the hell happened down at the docks last night?"
That was not the response Kyle expected, and he blinked a few times. "I completed the mission. I retrieved the cargo--"
"You put three men in the hospital!"
"They were criminals."
"One of them may never walk again!"
"I got the cargo back."
"The shipping firm had insurance. They would have been fine."
"Wrongs can't go unpunished!"
"Yeah. They can. And they often do. This is not the time for loose cannon superheroes running amuck inflicting disproportionate retribution! After the Captain America fiasco..."
"Look, if Sam Wilson can't..."
"Don't play dumb with me, Kyle. You know I'm not talking about Sam Wilson. Or Steve. We're on thin ice with the public already. After what happened in Latvia, we can't afford another incident. Get it together, or hang up the mantle, because you're doing more harm than good right now. Okay, we're done here."
"Agent... they said you were here to recruit a potential Avenger. That's... not me, is it?"
"No."
"Stalwart?"
"Good day, Kyle."
The non-answer was answer enough.
***
After the horrible conversation with Coulson, Kyle wandered the halls, stewing.
They were criminals! Just criminals! Who cares if criminals get hurt? If he can't walk, he can't steal, and maybe the others will think twice...
Lost in thought as he was, he almost ran into Mr. Stalwart himself... hugging that HYDRA soldier, and totally oblivious to Kyle's presence.
Kyle drew back, shocked. Stalwart had just gotten into a scandal over some girl. Now there was a boyfriend, too? (Kyle could not conceive of any other reason for a man to hug another man.) And... Stalwart was a HYDRA sympathizer? Much as he despised the milquetoast waffler, he hadn't seen that one coming. And yet, the evidence was right before his eyes.
We'll see who ends up as an Avenger now, Stalwart...
Kyle hadn't decided how yet. But soon, the tables would turn.
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Cait McIvor
She honestly wasn't sure what she would have done if Mr. Stalwart hadn't walked in when he did. Before walking in on the scene, Cait had been prepared to have access to the sword denied. She could have lived with that - and simply stolen it back later. But that was only if it were safely stored at SHIELD. And the two morons in stores weren't just brandishing the venerable weapon - they were...playing. Didn't they know they were toying with the Kingmaker? The Sword of Fame?
It would not stand. Cait knew she could easily handle a couple of clerks and take the sword, but what of Marshal? Inevitably, he'd intervene - or even if he didn't, he'd be blamed for it anyway. And so, she genuinely appreciated someone else solving the problem for her - for once. She received the blade with the reverence and care it deserved and she ran her fingers down the blade's edges, checking for tell-tale signs of rough use. Ignoring the two men, she turned on her heel and marched out the door behind Jameson and Marshal. Only once she was in the hall did she whisper the word to open her personal dimensional portal and slide Excalibur back into its sheath.
Once they were in the privacy of Marshal's home, she had more reason to be thankful for the superhero's clout. Marshal looked like she could knock him over with a feather at the mention at some of these names. Whoever these people were obviously had Marshal’s respect, but also clout in the world at large. It seemed like there was hope for freedom after all. She could see it in Marshal’s face, even though that face was also still filled with concern and fear over the papers in front of them.
She could tell he was uncomfortable and she assumed it had to do with the content of the papers, but what she couldn’t tell was how much of it was to do with her being there, reading said papers. Marshal didn’t say anything. Maybe he wouldn’t have – or maybe he recognized the need to have another set of eyes on this garbage Ginny called ‘patient notes’. Either way, she wanted to stay and help in any way she could.
Over the years, she had gained a remarkable talent for skimming. Cait could take in information and categorize it quickly. She also retained a lot of what she read, not that she would tell Marshal that. Hopefully he’d take her quick glances and decisive placements as a sign that she was both unbothered and not purposely nosing through his dirty laundry for her own curiosity.
The task complete, Cait took the opportunity to lean back and stretch, arms up in the air, eyes closed. Marshal’s question, however, immediately captured her complete attention. She looked at him – saw the embarrassment, the shame, the worry – and tried to figure out how exactly she could help alleviate any of those emotions. She saw the care, too. How he was neck-deep in turmoil and he still asked her how she was doing.
“I’m doing okay, really. This –“ she gestured at the table “wasn’t anything I haven’t seen – or done – before. I’ve been corrupted with knowledge since the fae invaded my body and there’s nothing to be done about that. So please believe me when I say the only hard thing about all this – was that it happened to you. That you had to see and do these things.”
The realization hit her then. The understanding that had been waiting for her analytical mind to turn off so that it could speak up and show her what it all meant. She took a sharp breath and then reached out to take one of Marshal’s hands.
“Marshal – I am amazed by you. No, truly you are a marvel to have gone through so much and still be this kind, conscientious man I have right here in front of me. If all this crap here showed me anything – it’s that you have a strength of character that I cannot fathom. That I couldn’t hope to find in myself. And I really…”
Cait caught herself, thinking ’if wishes were horses…’, mind trying to decide if she should finish the sentence. In the end, she thought she should be plain. Marshal didn’t deserve any kind of guessing games. Not from anyone.
“I really wish I wasn’t magically cursed with youth right now so I could be a better support person. A better friend. A better… I just…I miss being able to be close to you. You know, without having to worry about some rando taking a picture and selling it to the tabloids. I miss being on even footing with you. That’s the only thing that’s bothering me about the whole youth thing - not getting to continue a relationship with you the way I would have liked.”
As the words came out of her mouth, she knew they were true. She was deeply upset about not getting to pursue a deeper relationship with Marshal. But she’d made the choice anyway. A sacrifice for the kids – that they might get to live their first lifetime as normally as possible in exchange for her missing out on a life with a beautiful man and his hamster. Thinking back, she had hesitated briefly before accepting the bean sidhe. The idea that she could be first for a change had been so tempting. And seeing the fallout, knowing how things changed between her and Marshal, part of her pined for the decision to be made over again.
Except the outcome wouldn’t have changed. She still would have taken the years. And that broke Cait’s heart a little bit more.
She honestly wasn't sure what she would have done if Mr. Stalwart hadn't walked in when he did. Before walking in on the scene, Cait had been prepared to have access to the sword denied. She could have lived with that - and simply stolen it back later. But that was only if it were safely stored at SHIELD. And the two morons in stores weren't just brandishing the venerable weapon - they were...playing. Didn't they know they were toying with the Kingmaker? The Sword of Fame?
It would not stand. Cait knew she could easily handle a couple of clerks and take the sword, but what of Marshal? Inevitably, he'd intervene - or even if he didn't, he'd be blamed for it anyway. And so, she genuinely appreciated someone else solving the problem for her - for once. She received the blade with the reverence and care it deserved and she ran her fingers down the blade's edges, checking for tell-tale signs of rough use. Ignoring the two men, she turned on her heel and marched out the door behind Jameson and Marshal. Only once she was in the hall did she whisper the word to open her personal dimensional portal and slide Excalibur back into its sheath.
Once they were in the privacy of Marshal's home, she had more reason to be thankful for the superhero's clout. Marshal looked like she could knock him over with a feather at the mention at some of these names. Whoever these people were obviously had Marshal’s respect, but also clout in the world at large. It seemed like there was hope for freedom after all. She could see it in Marshal’s face, even though that face was also still filled with concern and fear over the papers in front of them.
She could tell he was uncomfortable and she assumed it had to do with the content of the papers, but what she couldn’t tell was how much of it was to do with her being there, reading said papers. Marshal didn’t say anything. Maybe he wouldn’t have – or maybe he recognized the need to have another set of eyes on this garbage Ginny called ‘patient notes’. Either way, she wanted to stay and help in any way she could.
Over the years, she had gained a remarkable talent for skimming. Cait could take in information and categorize it quickly. She also retained a lot of what she read, not that she would tell Marshal that. Hopefully he’d take her quick glances and decisive placements as a sign that she was both unbothered and not purposely nosing through his dirty laundry for her own curiosity.
The task complete, Cait took the opportunity to lean back and stretch, arms up in the air, eyes closed. Marshal’s question, however, immediately captured her complete attention. She looked at him – saw the embarrassment, the shame, the worry – and tried to figure out how exactly she could help alleviate any of those emotions. She saw the care, too. How he was neck-deep in turmoil and he still asked her how she was doing.
“I’m doing okay, really. This –“ she gestured at the table “wasn’t anything I haven’t seen – or done – before. I’ve been corrupted with knowledge since the fae invaded my body and there’s nothing to be done about that. So please believe me when I say the only hard thing about all this – was that it happened to you. That you had to see and do these things.”
The realization hit her then. The understanding that had been waiting for her analytical mind to turn off so that it could speak up and show her what it all meant. She took a sharp breath and then reached out to take one of Marshal’s hands.
“Marshal – I am amazed by you. No, truly you are a marvel to have gone through so much and still be this kind, conscientious man I have right here in front of me. If all this crap here showed me anything – it’s that you have a strength of character that I cannot fathom. That I couldn’t hope to find in myself. And I really…”
Cait caught herself, thinking ’if wishes were horses…’, mind trying to decide if she should finish the sentence. In the end, she thought she should be plain. Marshal didn’t deserve any kind of guessing games. Not from anyone.
“I really wish I wasn’t magically cursed with youth right now so I could be a better support person. A better friend. A better… I just…I miss being able to be close to you. You know, without having to worry about some rando taking a picture and selling it to the tabloids. I miss being on even footing with you. That’s the only thing that’s bothering me about the whole youth thing - not getting to continue a relationship with you the way I would have liked.”
As the words came out of her mouth, she knew they were true. She was deeply upset about not getting to pursue a deeper relationship with Marshal. But she’d made the choice anyway. A sacrifice for the kids – that they might get to live their first lifetime as normally as possible in exchange for her missing out on a life with a beautiful man and his hamster. Thinking back, she had hesitated briefly before accepting the bean sidhe. The idea that she could be first for a change had been so tempting. And seeing the fallout, knowing how things changed between her and Marshal, part of her pined for the decision to be made over again.
Except the outcome wouldn’t have changed. She still would have taken the years. And that broke Cait’s heart a little bit more.
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Monkey Kitty
- Posts: 784
- Joined: Thu Oct 29, 2020 7:31 pm
Re: Welcome to the Suburbs. Population: Odd.
Marshal Knox
Marshal was shocked that Cait still liked him, after what she had learned about him. That she still wanted to be around him. That she would say such kind things about him...
...That she would still take his hand, now that she knew exactly what those hands had done, how blood-stained they were. Marshal didn't initiate physical contact with Cait anymore - he was too afraid of scaring her or hurting her - but when she reached out, he took the offered hand gratefully.
For just an instant, when she talked about the relationship she would have liked, Marshal couldn't quite manage to hide how much it hurt. That he'd let himself dream of things, let himself hope that maybe there was a tiny chance that...
He instantly chided himself. You were never going to convince her to love you. Never. The things you wanted are a moot point. She just means your friendship. You're being so weird with her. You need to just snap out of this and reassure her that nothing needs to be different. He rearranged his face so the pain didn't show anymore.
"An even footing? Cait... you're incredible. I've been in awe of you since I met you. That hasn't changed. It's not going to change. You're always going to run rings around me - don't worry about your footing."
He sighed and struggled to explain himself. "I'm sorry for how I've been. It's just - it was all a shock. But it's not... the issue isn't you. I've never been around kids. Well, besides when I was one myself. I don't know how to act. I don't know what to say. It's not that I don't like kids. I do. I just kind of... freeze up and get nervous. Because it's new. But please just be patient with me. I'll figure it out. I promise. Things will be normal and we'll be good friends and have fun again."
It was difficult, but Marshal forced himself to meet her eyes. "You're an amazing person, Cait. You're so smart and kind and funny. I know you'll do amazing things with all the time you're given. And I... well, if Ginny and this Thompson guy are right, time may be something I don't have a whole lot of. But it's okay. I'm the happiest I've ever been. Whatever you choose to do with your life, I'll be cheering you on. As for me... I have everything I need. I'm finally safe. I'm not alone anymore. I have family. I have you as a friend. I'm okay. And you're a big part of that. Thank you for being here."
Marshal was shocked that Cait still liked him, after what she had learned about him. That she still wanted to be around him. That she would say such kind things about him...
...That she would still take his hand, now that she knew exactly what those hands had done, how blood-stained they were. Marshal didn't initiate physical contact with Cait anymore - he was too afraid of scaring her or hurting her - but when she reached out, he took the offered hand gratefully.
For just an instant, when she talked about the relationship she would have liked, Marshal couldn't quite manage to hide how much it hurt. That he'd let himself dream of things, let himself hope that maybe there was a tiny chance that...
He instantly chided himself. You were never going to convince her to love you. Never. The things you wanted are a moot point. She just means your friendship. You're being so weird with her. You need to just snap out of this and reassure her that nothing needs to be different. He rearranged his face so the pain didn't show anymore.
"An even footing? Cait... you're incredible. I've been in awe of you since I met you. That hasn't changed. It's not going to change. You're always going to run rings around me - don't worry about your footing."
He sighed and struggled to explain himself. "I'm sorry for how I've been. It's just - it was all a shock. But it's not... the issue isn't you. I've never been around kids. Well, besides when I was one myself. I don't know how to act. I don't know what to say. It's not that I don't like kids. I do. I just kind of... freeze up and get nervous. Because it's new. But please just be patient with me. I'll figure it out. I promise. Things will be normal and we'll be good friends and have fun again."
It was difficult, but Marshal forced himself to meet her eyes. "You're an amazing person, Cait. You're so smart and kind and funny. I know you'll do amazing things with all the time you're given. And I... well, if Ginny and this Thompson guy are right, time may be something I don't have a whole lot of. But it's okay. I'm the happiest I've ever been. Whatever you choose to do with your life, I'll be cheering you on. As for me... I have everything I need. I'm finally safe. I'm not alone anymore. I have family. I have you as a friend. I'm okay. And you're a big part of that. Thank you for being here."