a supervillain writing experiment (6)

The can of beer greets me with a pleasant little pssht as I pop it open and slide down in front of the computer. Once again routine is a friend that I rely on, a safe port in an emotional storm. I should let out the frustration and rage I feel at being put in this position, but I can’t allow it. Rage is a dangerous thing for a telepath, it makes us lose control, makes our shields brittle, and it makes any man or woman a fool. You need a clear head, and I do not intend to mess this one up by being frustrated at life.

So, if I am not to be angry, what should I be then? Productive perhaps. Meeting Rick again has rattled me. I have no idea whether I can manage to keep up the mask of who I was long enough to do what they ask of me. I hardly remember what I talked like back in those days, let alone what I felt. What I thought. Did I trust Rick? I suppose I did. Did I like him? I surf the web, thinking back. I click through the fansites, and a mosaic of Static Discharge’s face stare back at me. Those impossibly blue eyes. The white and blue mask with tinted lenses that he used to wear before the Incursion hides nothing, so it only makes sense that he has removed it these days. Perhaps whatever private life he had protected back then fell apart as thoroughly as mine had. The thought is oddly pleasing. “What is your game old man” I whisper to myself, flipping through reports of his recent career and his mentorship to the Quartet. Somewhere in that myriad of datapoints are answers, but instead I find myself distracted by the link that leads to former associates, and as a result, to me.

No, I think as I sip my beer and watch myself on my profile page. This is not me anymore. I remember the day that picture was taken, me still out of breath and covered in debris after the FireTree invasion. I am talking to someone off screen, Ashfall, if I remember correctly. My smile is wide and God, did I use to be in that good a shape? My uniform, while being in no way as skin tight as Lady Argent’s is still showing off what it felt like being twenty, and the shaded pattern of white over grey to black is a haunting premonition of what is to come. From white to black, it would be almost poetic if I had planned it that way. Sidestep. Who I used to be. Thank God that I my mask covered my head and half my face, I would hate to have had groupies chase me down the street. The laugh takes me by surprise, how long has it been since I laughed? It’s a night of old memories to be sure.

The important question however is whether I can still play at being this man or not. I need to go into Lady Argent’s head and aim her suspicions in the right direction. I need to feel like somebody completely different, surf the edge of her frustration at being mind-raped, and direct her at whatever target I choose. I know who to pick of course, Locus have been missing for the past months and the papers have run with the story. An alpha level telepath gone missing is always fodder for the media, and I’ve read enough about the woman to push Lady Argent in the right direction. The perfect patsy, if I can pull it off. It’s not like this is a lie that needs to hold up forever, all I need is a month or so to have my last plans come together, and then it won’t matter. I will be outed. So, still watching my old smile on the screen, I lean back in the chair and let myself slip.

The dislocation always hits me when I open my eyes, Yasmin’s eyes. From male to female is more disconcerting than most people would give credit for. The body feels different, and I need a few moments to adjust at I pull her body from the bed. She rests during the day, but at night she is all mine. Especially tonight, I need to forget, need to get the anger out and cleanse my head. I stumble into a shower, then clothes, and wanders into the street in search of distraction. I need the gym; I need to hit something, something hard. If I’ve let my normal body go, that is all because I spend that time on her. She is where I go to be free, to be strong, to be angry. It was necessity at first, because she was in such a bad shape when I pulled her from the hospital that I needed to put her back together from the ground up. But, after a little I begun to enjoy the escape. The silence. When I am in her, my thoughts are quiet. I hear nothing. I am not a telepath. Sometimes a little silence goes a long way to keep a body sane.

A little silence and a lot of violence. I give in to the anger as I punch the sandbag, putting my whole body behind the blow. The gym buzzes around me, I rarely go here except when I need to be alone with the bag. It is my enemy, my receptacle of agony. I pound it again and again, until my hands ache in their gloves, and my microfiber top is working overtime to keep up. I want to get it all out, the fear, the hatred, the frustrations. I breathe hard and my heart pounds in my chest, my lungs burn and my eyes have teared up. I am not sure why I’m crying, but I am. Maybe for lost chances and missed opportunities, maybe for what I fear I might have to do. I honestly don’t know, and I don’t care as I step back, burying my face in my towel. It smells like sweat and perfume, the scent of a stranger that is as familiar to me as my own body. I’ve spent so much time in the quiet corners of her brain lately. Yasmin. My sanctuary.

“Are you alright miss?” The voice rumbles into familiarity, and I look up, eyes red and moist.

“I’m not sure” I confess and look up, stomach making another turn as I recognise the man. “Just stress” I tell Rick where he stands, completely unaware of who rides inside the skull of this woman he is concerned about. Rick, with his impossibly blue eyes and fashionable gym clothes, the towel around his neck smelling of sweat.

An impossible fluke, I tell myself. A coincidence.