redflagromance - Tumblr blog

redflagromance · 7 months

Text

Short Story Release: Marc Dukem Nukem (Marc Duke Story- 2,217 words)

"Don't forget your 21:00 tonight, sir." Vance called as he left the building promptly at 5pm. "That sad little businessman said he'd meet you in the Denny's parking lot by the broken streetlight."

Marc called back a rote, "Thank you, Michards," as the secretary left.

He didn't look up from his staring contest with the sensor prototype on his desk. It needed to be ready for its next round of tests soon, but he still hadn't ironed out the overheating issue from last time. It was meant to monitor the magma being routed as a heat source, it couldn't afford to fry. When you're using magma a certain level of caution is required.

Not for the first time, he cursed magma for being such a pain in the ass. Ultimately he knew that he'd been right to pick it. It was the cleanest, most efficient power source available. It was plentiful all over the world, and not weather dependent. Once installed the longevity was unmatched. But it added a lot of overheating and design issues that solar or wind power just didn't have.

He played with changing out the plates around the computer chips inside, trying to protect them adequately from extreme heat. Most of the alloys he had tried conducted too much heat, and if it managed to keep the heat from the magma off the circuit boards, it conducted excess electricity, shortening the lifespan of the tech.

It was sloppy. He fucking loathed sloppiness.

"I need to clear my head." Luckily it was a good time to take a break. Marc slung his jacket over his shoulder and left, hitting the lights on the way out. Violence might help him take a step back and reassess.

He arrived at the venue- a cracking heap of asphalt and tar in the worst part of town- half an hour before his appointment.

Marc glowered at the ill-lit parking lot and wafted air pointlessly away from his nose. Every breath smelled like pancakes. That made him hungry and he was cranky about it.

A scuffed white car pulled into the lot, scraping the bottom of the car over the small curb. It swung around the parking lot, bypassing several parking spots.

It finally came to a stop in the darkest area of the lot- the broken streetlight where Marc was supposed to be.

His muscles tensed in anticipation, watching the car for any sign of the man he was supposed to meet.

The car idled, leaking tendrils of exhaust into the January air. It curled up past the streetlight and dissipated into nothingness.

A family left the restaurant, a colicky toddler crying on his mother's shoulder. They got into a blue van and drove away.

The car was still idling.

Marc was thinking about having eggs with his congratulatory pancakes.

The door opened, and a man unfolded long legs. He sauntered to the broken light, getting harder to see with each step. Marc moved to turn off his engine– and realised it was a different man entirely.

Someone in a hoodie came out of the restaurant, head down. They walked directly into the unlit space beneath the broken streetlight.

Marc cocked his head to the side, frowning slightly. He got out his phone, and pretended to text. He watched the person over the top of the screen as they seemed to pace back and forth.

In his notes application, he wrote "blueberry". He nibbled at his lower lip as if he was concentrating, and after a second added, "with strawberry syrup".

Several seconds passed. The person in the hoodie left, hands moving visibly in their pocket. About twenty seconds later, the other man went back to his car and immediately drove away. Marc turned his head to watch it go, eyebrows raised.

"What am I a witness to?" He muttered aloud.

A few minutes passed. Marc googled crimes on his phone. He looked up at the sound of a sleek engine pulling up into the same parking spot that had just been vacated. It was clearly the kind of car on the top end of budget for that asshole businessman, with two doors and a custom paint job.

"That's gotta be him." Marc stuffed the phone in his pocket and put on his game face. This was absolutely beneath him, so of course he was excited to do it. He just couldn't let his oh so superior older brother know he'd actually scheduled a fistfight.

The expensive car's door opened up. A woman got out, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She slammed the door shut and locked it audibly. She looked around the parking lot, and nearly made eye contact with Marc.

Marc screwed his mouth up into a pout and let his skull fall back onto the head rest. "Come on," he complained softly. He got out his phone again and became immersed in the task of pretending the reason he was disappointed was because he was being dumped via text. He purposely sniffled a bit as he tapped out amendments to his future pancake order. The woman was still looking at him, but less hard. Eventually she'd move on.

When he glanced up carefully, she was still watching him. He pretended he'd just received a text and sobbed loudly before punching his steering wheel.

"Cangela, whyyyy," he bellowed near the open window, hoping that this woman wasn't interested in his fake personal saga. "I told you that the puppets were only my friends."

He almost missed it when the woman huffed a laugh before slinking into the dark spot under the broken light.

"...Is this where all the crime in the city happens?" Marc leaned forward now, intrigued. "Wh- why did a fucking accounts manager know to schedule this here?" He put a hand on his face.

Wow. He'd actually cried a little bit. Cangela must really be something.

Now fascinated, he watched until the woman left. He didn't see any sign of someone coming to join her in the interim - was it a drop off situation? Or did someone come up through the shrubbery on the other side? He made a mental note to look at the bush when he went over there.

He checked the time. There were seventeen minutes until his fight.

Another car pulled up and parked in the same spot as the previous two. He didn't even get his hopes up, which was funny, because his 9:00 was the man to get out of the car.

"Finally!" Marc huffed, even though there was plenty of time left. The other fighter started walking towards the dark spot. Marc took off his seatbelt and looked over to see someone bolt out of the restaurant and cut his opponent off.

"Hey, it wasn't your turn," Marc said, a little too loud. The runner didn't seem to care. They disappeared into the shadowy spot underneath the broken light.

The businessman stood there awkwardly. He looked from side to side. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

Marc got out and slammed his door shut. "Gonna have to vulture the spot," he grumbled. "To hell with this." He made his way over, stalking between cars and over a pile of what seemed to be candy wrappers.

Too late, he realized that he didn't know what to say. But it was too late, he had gotten too close to avoid it. He probably should have asked someone. Harmes was good at inciting violence, if the other night was anything to go by.

"Good evening," he said through sheer social muscle memory, kind of hating himself for the failure even as the words came out.

The businessman just stared at him.

"Nice night for it." He said, slowly.

"Shall we?" Marc gestured, extending his arm in what he suddenly realized was a loose imitation of one of those models on a game show.

'Do not comment,' he willed at the man, glaring. 'That was not weird.'

"After you," the businessman replied.

They both still stood there. It seemed neither of them knew how the hell to turn from polite nothings to a fistfight.

"Let's go. Bring it, you sad little man." Marc switched fears and lifted his hands.

"Likewise, lava twink." The man tried to roll up the sleeves of his cheap dress shirt. One of them fell back down immediately.

Tired of waiting, Marc threw the first punch- a precise hit to the man's stomach.

He wheezed and stumbled backwards, then pushed forwards, aiming at Marc's jaw.

Marc dodged, and the knuckle lightly connected with his chin. It made the businessman lose balance, and he stumbled forward into Marc's chest.

He tried to push the man away, but they were falling. He hit the ground and it took all the air out of his lungs.

Marc was pinned and gasping. The businessman rolled off just enough to the side to try to start punching Marc on the ground.

Every hit connected with a thud. Marc was just trying to catch his breath- if he could only get a second to recover. His hands were in front of his face, taking some significant abuse. His arms were going to be one big bruise.

The businessman got either tired or bored after a few punches, and Marc kicked him in the chest to get some distance. While the man was staggering, Marc went in to finish it.

'One to the stomach should do it.'

He punished the man's internal organs once, then headbutted him.

The man fell back onto the ground, contorting in pain. He groaned.

Marc watched as the man curled up into a ball on the ground. He had won. It was doubtful the guy wanted more punishment than that.

Marc grinned with teeth, breathing heavily and watching a single tear threaten to fall from his opponent's face.

Riiiiip

A millisecond later, he registered that his right ass cheek was stinging.

He yelped and slapped both hands to his ass in a bid for protection. It was too late. It felt like there were lines of fire down his right cheek. Teeth? Claws?

"What the fuck was that?"

Belatedly Marc realized something about what was under his palm.

The man on the ground opened his eyes and squinted. "Is that a huge weiner dog?" He wheezed, still in the fetal pose. "No, what? That's not a dog. The hell?"

Marc didn't feel jeans under his left hand. He felt warm, bare skin.

Affronted, Marc looked around in the direction the man was looking in. If he squinted, he could see the faint shape of some large four legged animal running away. It was definitely not a dog.

Then he angled his head around to confirm what he already knew. The back pocket of his jeans was missing. His ass was bleeding.

"It mugged me?" Marc slapped at his ass again as if that might make the pocket reappear. He repeated incredulously, "The thing mugged me?"

How and why? Why was this happening to him?

"Well, at least I beat you." He looked at the businessman, who seemed sympathetic. He was uncurling now. It took a few moments to stand.

"I'm not the one who got mugged by a rat." The guy said, gesturing a thumb in the direction of the fleeing creature. "That thing definitely took your wallet."

"It was not a rat," Marc said, standing. He felt lost. But he was confident it wasn't a rat. "It was some kind of…"

"Mustelid?" The other guy guessed. He rubbed at his face with a hand.

Marc pointed at him for emphasis. "That seems right," he agreed loudly. "It was- it had a very distinctive way of running."

"Almost hopping." The businessman swayed closer. He clapped a hand on Marc's shoulder. Marc wasn't sure if it was for support or balance. "With a characteristically long torso and short legs."

"Definitely a mustelid," Marc nodded. He didn't shake the other man off. He frowned, crinkling his forehead. "There go my victory pancakes. And my driver's licence. Do you think I should risk it or call someone to get me?"

The other man hummed low in his throat and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Ah…" He sniffled and then spat out some blood onto the sidewalk. "I'll treat you, you magma bastard. Let's have victory pancakes while we wait for your ride."

Touched, he noted he'd been upgraded from lava twink to magma bastard. Twink death didn't seem to be as bad as the internet said it was. He broke into a tentative smile.

"They're only victory pancakes for me," Marc specified. The man seemed nonplussed. "I kicked your ass, buddy." He nudged the other man in the chest.

That got him a wince and a companionable back slap. "Yeah, and then you immediately got mugged by a huge weasel. It was obviously avenging me." The other man seemed unreasonably cheerful about that. "That's a loss if I've ever heard one. Your asscheek is just hanging out." He snickered. "You cold? Let's get inside."

…Marc covered it with a hand. "Perhaps the dress code-"

The other man absolutely howled with laughter. "Don't worry." He slung his arm over Marc's shoulder and steered him to the door. "They will not care. At all."

NOTE:

This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!

#deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #redflagromance #short story #Marc Duke #love interest short story

4 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 7 months

Text

Short Story Release: An Unexpected Party (Aster Black Story: 4,914 words)

Aster grunted with effort, readjusting their grip on the brown paper bags of groceries that were going to get them through the weekend with panache. Their arms trembled. They could feel the cold where the glass bottle of milk was pressed up against their stomach. Aster huffed visible clouds into the air and swung their head to try to dislodge the streams of sweat on their forehead.

As always, there was a line snaking around the club on the other side of the street. Distant conversations and shrieking laughter blended into background sound. Music with a thumping baseline spilled out as Aster came onto the home stretch, crumbling brownstone apartment stairs in sight. A gust of wind carried the stink of cigarettes directly into their face from across the street.

Aster tried to blink away the sting, wishing that they had a hand free. The watering in their eyes made what was waiting in front of their apartment even more disorienting than it had to be.

The disco ball-like reflection of mylar balloons bobbing gently under the streetlight drew Aster’s attention. They squinted to read the print on a balloon but it spun in the air to reveal only silver backing. The warm light from the streetlight bounced off of the tiny wrinkles and reflective polyester to create a moving silver and gold kaleidoscope in the air.

They were tied to the side mirror of an orange van parked on the street. Three men were waiting there, a driver and two men leaning against the van. One of them was holding an explosive bouquet of yellow and red flowers in his right hand. The other man was holding what looked like a box against his chest with one arm. The driver’s face was hidden in shadows, but Aster could see the outline of their jaw.

‘It looks like someone is having a great night. Good for them.’

They stole another glance up at the balloons, fighting the childish urge to touch them. Aside from the three mylar balloons, there was a positive riot of yellow, red, and blue latex balloons. Aster had the phantom taste of birthday cake in their mouth when the party guests seemed to notice them.

“Hello!” The man with the cheerful flowers waved with their free hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been doing?” They kicked up off of the van to stand straight. He had a memorable voice, scratchy and low.

Aster couldn’t tell if they knew them in the dark. Which was awkward. “Hello,” they greeted the men, “I’m doing well! Having a party?” Aster coughed again and tried to wave away the cigarette smoke from the club.

Flower Man beamed a smile back and moved a little closer. Their braces glinted. “A surprise party! We’re just lying in wait for the guest.”

“It’s going to be a great time,” added Box Guy, a little less enthusiastically. His eyes were obviously tracking Aster as they walked closer. He pulled a party popper out of the box and gave Aster a conspiratorial look, before dropping it back into the box.

Neither of their voices was familiar, at least.

“Wow, that’s exciting!” Aster peered at the balloons, contorting their left elbow up to their face to block their coughing. One of the paper bags shifted and nearly fell. Their eyes were starting to tear up a bit, but Aster could see that most of them didn’t have any print. “What’s the occasion?” They were starting to feel a little awkward. They wished that they hadn’t stopped to talk.

“New job.” The Box Guy still leaning against the van laughed. His companion looked back with a stern face. The man just smirked. His face still didn’t look familiar. Why had he greeted Aster that way, so loudly?

‘Maybe they’re friends with that new neighbor? I did meet quite a few people at their housewarming party last month.’ Aster rationalized.

“Wonderful, hope you both have a great night!” Aster awkwardly dug out their building key without dropping the bags clutched to their chest. They turned right to take the steps up to their apartment. They were on the top step when the club music paused for a second and Aster heard footsteps.

A chill ran up their neck. That was-

“Surprise,” a man’s voice murmured from right behind Aster.

The strangest thing was pressed up against their back. Aster felt a cold, metal circle surrounded by the straight lines of… the box that the man had been holding?

Aster froze.

‘Is someone shoving a gun in my back? He had a gun in that box of party supplies?’

They waited for a breathless moment for the other person to say something- hopefully ‘whoops’, and to carry on.

Instead, there was the heat of someone breathing on their neck.

‘Why does he have a gun?’

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said in a calm, reasonable tone.

Aster did not want to get into their party van. “My wallet and keys are in my pockets.” Aster said quickly, hoping against hope that that was all they wanted. Maybe whoever it was would go away if they got money. “I don’t have any jewelry on me.”

The gunman sighed, low and disappointed. “Party plan it is.”

Flower Man laughed out cheerfully and shouted, “Surprise!” He grabbed them from behind and lifted Aster straight off of the ground. Aster shrieked in surprise and tried to claw away the bouquet, which was now scratching up against their face. The grocery bags were so heavy that Aster couldn’t push the flowers away. They were just about to drop the bags when someone wrenched the paper bags out of their hands.

“My eggs!” Aster cried, watching as the carton threatened to fall. Box Guy caught the eggs with a grunt and shoved his way past them up the stairs. He turned to wait expectantly.

The heat of a large hand slipped into their back pocket. Aster tried to wrench around to see but the arm snaked around Aster’s waist was tight. There was a tinkling of metal as Aster’s keys were lifted out of their jeans pocket.

“Stop it!” Aster scrambled desperately to get their feet on the ground, but it was no use. The world turned around them as Flower Guy turned and jogged down the steps toward the van. Their stomach swooped nauseatingly with each bounce.

The van engine started up. There was the click of a lock. They were headed toward the back door of the van.

They swung their head around- the club was just down the block, surely someone would have seen. “Help!” Aster screamed. They struggled, kicking at the man holding them prisoner.

“It’s my friend Zair’s engagement party!” someone shouted at the clubbers. It must have been the driver. “Take a balloon! They’re getting married!”

The people outside smoking and talking stopped, and a chorus of whooping began to fill the evening air. A girl sprinted across the street to the front of the van for her balloon. After a moment a few cheering partygoers joined her.

‘The fuck?’

Aster was taken aback as they were being taken back towards the street. It took a few precious seconds for them to comprehend what was happening, by which time they were probably almost at the curb.

The double doors at the back creaked as they swung open.

Aster shrieked. “No! Let me go! Let me GO!” The people outside of the club continued to whoop and whistle.

“Good luck!” A drunk girl slurred, hoisting her balloon high. “Have good party!”

“Don’t let them take me!” Aster pleaded, kicking into the air like that might make the ground closer. “I don’t know these people! Call the police!” They craned to see the driver as he gave Aster a shitty look, laughed loudly, and threw up a fist. “Police, police, police!” He chanted.

And it worked. The drunks around the car started joining in, calling for the police cheerfully.

Why.

The driver winked at Aster and untied a balloon to give away.

“What is happening?” Aster sobbed.

Flower Guy shoved them into the back of the van, chanting cheerfully for the police. Aster caught themselves with their hands and pushed back up, scrabbling to get out before the doors closed.

It happened too fast. The door slammed shut. Aster was in the dark.

Aster stood, staring dumbly at the pitch black space where they knew the door was. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. A minute ago, Aster had been walking home.

The van honked the horn. “Party bus is leaving, say bye bye!” the driver’s muffled voice called out. Partygoer voices chimed in with a chorus of farewells to Aster, off to god knows what grim fate.

The situation didn’t feel real.

The van started moving. Without any ability to see or brace for the movement, Aster slammed face forward into the metal with a thunk and an explosion of pain.

They struggled to a seated position, clutching their forehead with one hand and using the other to brace against the corrugated floor.

The sounds of the cheerful drunks faded away. Aster heard their own shallow breaths. Aster heard the engine. After a minute, faint conversation started up from the front seat.

Bang.

Aster startled, letting out a shout.

The men in the front laughed.

‘One of them hit the back of the cab,’ Aster realized. They swallowed. ‘That’s all.’

The air was stifling. It pressed in on Aster from all directions, stale and warm. They ought to have been a little hot, but they felt cold and disgusting. Their clothes and hair were still a little damp with sweat from their walk home.

Slowly, Aster drew their feet up into a protective posture. It took a while of gingerly scooting to place their back against the wall. Then Aster carefully wrapped their shaking arms around their knees and tried to think of a way out of this.

Realistically, the situation could be better. Getting taken into a vehicle was the worst case scenario because it was impossible to guess how far away they would wind up. But this was hardly Aster’s first time being kidnapped. They’d learned about this. They knew how to survive a kidnapping, Aster reminded themself. They drew in a shuddering breath and pressed their forehead to their knees.

The van turned to the right. Aster’s stomach swooped unpleasantly along with the motion.

It was hard, but they forced their breathing to slow down.

‘That felt like a couple of minutes before the turn. We’re probably on the next major road,’ Aster guessed. They licked their lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were.

No more fighting and no more yelling. Now that they had actually been overpowered and taken away, the best chance for survival was to be compliant and make the kidnappers empathize with them. That meant no anger, no hysterics, no behavior that would be annoying.

Tears welled up. Aster blinked them away furiously and sniffled, trying to reach a physical state of calm.

This was bad. It was really fucking bad. But it probably wasn’t personal. It was probably about money.

‘No one who knew about my professional connections would risk kidnapping me,’ Aster thought, a little ruefully. They’d felt so safe. The risk-reward calculation just wouldn’t balance. Barry wasn’t a villain, by any means, but anyone who was anyone knew that he wasn’t someone to mess with. And Aster, without their family name, was just a small business owner and artist. They liked their life and their job. It was fulfilling. But there was no real material benefit to kidnapping a florist.

Therefore, this was the same old problem. Someone wanted money from their family, and Aster was the easiest person to grab.

‘It figures,’ they thought wearily. ‘No security team, no gated community, no dorm cameras.’

They’d been foolish. They’d made it too easy, been complacent.

The party theme of the kidnapping, though… It didn’t sit right with them. Aster shifted uncomfortably against the bare wall of the van’s siding.

It was awfully whimsical for a bog-standard kidnapping. They could admit that it was even pretty clever. The assault had probably looked like friends playing around. How many times had Aster seen someone lift up a protesting friend and haul them around? You’d see that at least once an hour at a public pool.

But it had to be a financially motivated kidnapping. It had to be. They’d ignored Aster when they offered money, but that was probably because they were too cautious to get dragged into negotiations on a doorstep when anyone could walk by.

Aster really wanted to believe that theory. But the doubt grew as the van took a turn to the left, as it stopped, as it started up again and went around what seemed to be a sharp turn and climbed up.

The van turned, what felt like a loop. It went and went and went until finally it stopped, reversed, and came to a stop. The engine shut off.

Aster swallowed. This might be showtime. They sat up a little straighter and unwound their arms from around their legs.

Gravel crunched outside as someone walked around the van.

Their heart rate picked up. Aster dug their fingertips into the floor a little bit for stability.

The doors were yanked open. Flower Guy and Box Man stood there, backlit by the faint glow of cheap overhead lights across what seemed to be a deserted parking lot. Flower Guy had a party kazoo in his mouth.

Aster forced a trembling smile onto their face.

“You’re the guest of honor,” Box Man explained. He seemed proud of their ruse. He shifted his weight as he grinned down at Aster.

“That was funny,” Aster agreed.

“Very funny,” Box Man said decisively. He cracked his neck. “You’re going to stay here for the night, but you do have to come with us to work in the morning. So you’ll need a coat. We got one from your place.”

Aster watched in confusion as the sweatshirt they’d worn to the gym yesterday was tossed into the back of the van. “Thanks,” they said, a bit delayed.

Box Man shot them a thumbs up. “No problem, what are friends for. Anyway, any food allergies or dietary restrictions?”

That was good news. The smile that Aster gave them was a lot more genuine now. Feeding Aster strongly implied that they didn’t intend to kill Aster. Not yet, at least. “I can eat anything but… maybe not dairy,” they said weakly, thinking about how unpleasant that might be in an enclosed space with no bathroom. “Uh. Is there a restroom I can use?”

“Yeah.” Box Guy pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “Port a potty. I’ll take you over in a minute, and he’ll get you some Mediterranean chicken along with a nice wild rice salad, and this beautiful little apple tart.” He pursed his lips in thought. “I think that’s all. Happy kidnapping!”

Flower Guy blew the kazoo.

The goons bustled in and out making a weird little nest for Aster from a few blankets, a pillow, and a folded mattress. Really? They were going to leave Aster in here? No. They couldn’t. Wouldn’t Aster overheat, run out of air? Aster waited to be moved to a building, to be told something. But the doors closed and they were left alone in the parked van.

The van didn’t get hot. It didn’t feel stifled, either. Eventually even anxiety ran out. Aster found it harder and harder to stay awake.

There was no way to gauge the time. It had been late when they were taken, so it made sense that Aster was getting tired.

Aster roused when the engine of another car approached. Aster leaned towards the source of the noise, straining to hear anything that might be useful.

The car turned off and a door opened and closed. There was a conversation, but Aster couldn’t make out much for words. Then another door opened and closed.

A few moments later, there was a muffled voice. Low.

The voice that answered, on the other hand, was higher pitched and much clearer. Something about it instantly prickled at Aster’s subconscious as relevant.

‘That voice sounds familiar.’

Some car doors slammed shut, and a louder car started up and pulled away. Footsteps approached the van, but no one said anything. Aster braced for the door to open. This was it. They were going to have their chance to talk their way out of this mess. Aster swallowed hard, heart somehow racing all the way up in their throat.

There was the electronic buzz of someone’s phone, and then footsteps away.

"Just get here. What?" There was a pause. The voice became incredulous. "Take a bus."

Aster strained to hear their kidnapper outside. The thud of their heartbeat made it hard to hear.

‘This person sounds so familiar. Where do I know them? It’s not Harmes. Definitely not Barry. Obviously this isn’t my Mom. So why do I know their voice, and why can’t I place it?’

"Don't you have your company issued laser?" the voice scoffed.

‘What kind of company issues lasers?’ Aster panicked. ‘A security company? Are they professionals?’

"City bus-" There was a flurry of annoyed finger snapping. "You have a gun! The bus route is wherever you tell the driver to go!" Heels clicked against cement.

The finger snapping startled Aster to attention, and their hindbrain perked up. That was a distinctive tic. They knew who did that.

Aster leaned against the wall, reeling in surprise.

No wonder the voice outside the darkened van was familiar. Aster had heard it on the phone only yesterday, requesting that their floral shop provide cold proofed roses for the Vice President’s birthday party. She knew damn well Aster was locked into a contract.

Sunny Aviichen’s pitch rose. “What do you mean a little old lady needs to get off in Newark?”

Aster swallowed an inappropriate giggle. Their heart rate was up through the roof and sweat was starting to form in their hair. It prickled uncomfortably.

'I guess that call was my last chance to break my exclusivity contract,' Aster thought, shock isolating them from the situation. How was this real? They let out a long, slow breath, trying to force their heart rate to slow. Being panicked wasn’t likely to help them right now. They’d just start to hyperventilate in a parked van. ‘I didn’t realize that the situation was that serious. I know other good florists, I could have introduced her.’

In their gut, they knew that wouldn’t have satisfied Sunny. She wanted Aster- not because Aster was a great florist, which they were!- but because they worked with Harmes.

Whatever beef they had with Harmes ran deep, strong, and was solely one directional. Harmes never even seemed to remember Sunny’s name.

“She can't walk?- you'renot killing the driver. He can just go back and drop her off when you're done.” Footsteps clacked angrily outside.

The fact that Sunny didn’t seem to expect her employee to gun down a bus driver was reassuring. It wasn’t a perfect guarantee of Aster’s safety, but it did imply that Sunny wasn’t overly violent.

‘That could change if she realizes that I can hear and recognize her,’ Aster thought. They shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better position and distract from the queasy feeling in their stomach. It was easy to resolve to play dumb. They wanted to go home with all the phalanges they started with.

‘Please let that work.’

Aster wouldn’t complain at all if Sunny Aviichen thought Aster’s head was empty.

It sounded like Ms. Aviichen was finishing her phone call. Her voice got even louder as she snarled, “I’m starting to think you don’t want to be here. All you present are problems. Bring me some solutions!”

Aster held their breath and waited, heart pounding. But no one seemed to be interested in coming back to them. There were conversations and the sounds of feet scuffling on the ground, but they didn’t come in.

Eventually even the adrenaline ran out. Aster fell asleep in their little nest of blankets. They woke up to the sound of the door unlatching.

“Good morning,” sang Box Guy. He flipped a switch as he entered the back of the van. Something started humming. “It’s going to be a busy day today, so you’ll have to excuse our poor hospitality. I thought we’d get you started off with a fruit salad, cheesy scrambled eggs, and a nice rye bread with butter and jelly. Would you like coffee, tea, or juice?”

“...Coffee and juice?” Aster asked. They eyed the space between the man and the door. They probably couldn’t make it. But what if they could?

“Coming right up.” Box Guy had a hairnet on. “Just a moment.” He pulled out his phone and texted with one hand, not letting Aster out of his sight. “Would you like to use the facilities before or after breakfast?”

“Before, please.” Aster tossed aside their blankets and stood gingerly. They were so sore from sleeping on the hard floor.

Box Guy swept an arm theatrically. “Your Port a Potty awaits. I’ve got face wipes and dry shampoo as well.”

‘I want a real shower.’

Aster felt their lips thin. “Thank you,” they said, as genuinely as they could muster. They took advantage of the generous facilities. The offered breakfast was waiting by the time Box Guy took them back to the van, which had gotten a lot colder since Aster left it. Box Guy lingered while Aster ate and made casual conversation.

When Aster finished, Boy Guy fished something out of his back pocket. Something fabric. Aster eyed it with trepidation. “Alright, we are going to work today,” he said cheerfully. “I’m afraid that for professional reasons we really can’t have non-employees involved in food preparation, which includes overseeing it. So I will be covering your eyes today.” He unfolded and brandished what Aster now realized was a cotton pillowcase.

“Okay,” Aster said slowly. These people were really weird. They managed a smile. “I understand completely. Clients pay a premium for professional service.”

“You get it,” Box Guy said happily. “Here we go.” He pulled the pillowcase over Aster’s head. That was fine, it was not good but it wasn’t a surprise.

There was a metallic click. A hand grabbed Aster’s wrist.

“Wait, what-”

A handcuff snapped shut. “Can’t have you totally loose,” Box Guy said. “Here we go.” Aster didn’t fight the hand that pushed them back against the side of the van. “Careful, your balance isn’t going to be very good when you can’t see.”

‘It won’t be very good with one hand secured against the wall, either,’ Aster thought, a little hysterical.

“All set,” Box called out. “What time is it?”

“Shit, we have to go.” Aster craned to see the last bits of sunlight through tightly woven fabric before the caterers slammed the van door shut.

The drive that followed was massively unpleasant. The turns jerked Aster around, unable to brace well because their right hand was secured behind their back. At least their left was free.

‘Did they realize I could take this off?’ Aster wondered. Most of their body was cold, but it was hot and damp from their breath inside the pillowcase.

At least it wasn’t a long drive.

The van stopped. The doors opened. “Hold on, don’t mind us,” said Flower Guy.

Aster didn’t say a thing. They just breathed. And they listened to the sounds of the van being loaded up. Eventually the noises stop, the doors shut, and they go for another drive. The repetition starts lulling Aster to sleep. Numb, they don’t really react when the van stops again.

At least, not until there’s a new voice outside. Aster snaps their head up before they register the words.

“Hey!” There’s a pause. “Do you have a hostage in there?”

Aster felt their eyes go wide. ‘Someone came for me? Who is that? I don’t know that voice.’ They struggled to sit up straighter. It didn’t really work.

It sounds like there’s a fight outside. Aster cranes to hear. There’s a thump against the outside of the van and some scuffling noises. If they’re talking, it’s too quiet for Aster to hear. Someone makes a sound of pain.

It feels like hours. It was probably seconds.

Someone tries to open the van. The lock jiggles.

“Give me the keys, nerds.” The same voice as before calls out. “If I have to break in, Sunny’s gonna be pissed at you.”

‘It’s gotta be a vigilante,’ Aster realizes. The relief is incredible. ‘Who is this? Are they new? Do I know of them at all?’

A few seconds later there is a familiar voice.

“Let’s go.”

Aster blinks back tears. That’s Harmes. Holy shit, the event planners did it. The event planning firm found them.

Something jingles as someone picks up the keys and unlocks the van. Aster stares in the direction of those doors. The cotton pillowcase was sticking to the stress sweat on their face. It was something even more stifling than before.

“Hello, Aster.” Harmes says, sounding casually unsure.

‘I was right. It’s Harmes. Harmes is here and I’m getting out of this van. Sunny can eat dirt.’

“Hey!” Aster tries to say, but the sweaty pillowcase clings to their mouths. They try to spit it out, but it just keeps kinda sticking to their tongue and lips.

Then the pillowcase is mercifully removed. Aster looks up at Harmes, glorious Harmes. Mildly terrifying Harmes.

“Hey.” They say breathlessly, and smile. “Wasn’t sure I was ever gonna see you again, Harmes.”

Then the door swings open again, as an Asian woman with a spiked bat athletically jumps up into the van. She doesn’t pause for a second and kneels down in front of Aster to look at the cuffs around their wrist. There’s a metallic sliding sound and then your hand is free. “That was… not well planned.” Aster turns to look at it, lifting their hand in disbelief. The whole handcuff is still attached. Was the other end just hooked onto something?

‘That’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t actually restrained. Maybe I could have gotten away.’

“Can you get this off?” Aster asks pitifully. “Or do we just need to go and figure it out later?”

The vigilante nods, cocksure. “I can. It’s not a very good lock,” she snarks, pulling out some little metal tools and jamming them around inside the keyhole. After a few seconds, the lock opens. Aster leans into Harmes’ side, accepting the help out of the van into sunshine. It’s a little painful after so long in the darkness.

There’s no sign of Box Guy and Flower Guy. There are some grimy looking cummerbunds on the cement, though, and an empty silver tray.

There’s a jingle. Aster looks over in time to see Harmes casually throw the keys onto the driver’s seat.

Aster climbs in and collapses gladly next to a serious looking woman in a suit, while Harmes and their vigilante friend pile in the car. But try as they might, Aster just can’t stop shaking. Their entire torso is vibrating with adrenaline and exhaustion. The woman in the suit is right up against Aster’s body, and the human warmth is nice.

“Glad to see you made it, Aster!” a person Aster vaguely recognizes as a social media thembo turns around and waves. “Nice to meet you.”

Aster is too tired to really think about any of that. Harmes is a weird person. They have weird friends. The serious woman pulls a small bag out of her briefcase and puts it on Aster’s lap without looking away from her papers, while the person Aster can only remember as “that hottie with the villain hotpants line” drives out of the parking lot and back in the direction of town. Aster peels one eye open politely when the woman next to them begins to speak.

“Apple juice, a sandwich, and a banana. You need to hydrate and eat.” Then she turns back to her papers.

That gets Aster up like a shot, and they eat it with a frenzy. Honestly, it isn’t as nice as the catering leftovers, but a sandwich and juice does wonders for Aster’s nerves.

Eventually the driver switches on music. It’s dark, and the streetlamps pass by slowly. They get brighter and newer as they approach the city center, halos of warm light bathing the inside of the car.

Time passes slowly now that the adrenaline is fading. Harmes’ friends keep glancing at you. Harmes is busy on their phone.

Harmes turns towards you and raises their phone. “Aster, proof of life.” Aster extends a weak smile and a peace sign for the picture.

‘I’m out. I’m safe. It’s done.’

Finally, Aster’s heart rate starts to go down. Everything is going to be okay.

The car ride is quiet. The vigilante polishes her bat with a grin that is concerning, but Aster can’t really bring themself to focus on that. The methodical folding of papers over the rumble of the engine. No one speaks. Aster’s eyes begin to feel tired, and they decide not to fight it. They lean back into the seat of the car, and relax into the tranquility of newfound safety.

They fall asleep almost immediately.

NOTE:

This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!

#deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #short story #love interest short story #Aster Black

7 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 8 months

Text

Natural cheese implies the existence of both unnatural cheese and super natural cheese. Which cheese is superior?

#tumblr polls #polls

5 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 8 months

Text

Short Story Release: Duck Hunt (Maeve Le Fey Story- 8,122 words)

"I won't be making frogs." Maeve slapped the papers onto her end table, next to the lamp. "I appreciate you dropping these off, I really do. But I'm a little offended that you would even add that spell to my library requests unasked." She sniffed. "It's simply not to my tastes, Adelaide."

Adelaide followed her down the entryway, giving a cursory glance at the songbird peeping furiously for his attention in a golden cage.

"It's a classic for a reason." Her old classmate rolled his eyes, as if she was being unreasonable. "How can you call yourself a practitioner if you've never turned someone to a frog?" He turned away from the bird and fiddled with a ceramic on a display shelf. "People are starting to talk, Maeve."

"Why would I need to do that?" Maeve threw her hands up, sighing. "Why do they even care?" She shrugged off her coat and hung it on the hook. “Busy bodies, all.” She shot a disapproving look at the silly red bird beating its wings for attention.

Adelaide turned and shook his head piteously at her. "I suppose that if you don't know, you'll never know. Chin up darling, you have other skills. Eventually people will forget. Maybe you could make a point to show off something soon?" he suggested kindly.

‘They think I can’t do it? How ridiculous.’

Maeve took a deep breath and shook off whatever latent insecurity made her fear peer disapproval. She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone.

"I'm afraid of hyenas," Adelaide said. He was clearly trying to comfort her with some relatable anecdote. "I've been as far back as I can remember." His voice went quiet, his gaze distant. He was seeing some other time and place now.

Maeve tuned him out.

"It's probably just because a pack of hyenas ate my Father," Adelaide muses. "I wasn't old enough to remember, but I was there. The first time I saw The Lion King on Broadway, I lost my mind and killed 34-"

"Adelaide," Maeve interrupted tersely. "I appreciate that you're trying to cheer me up, but I'm not in a headspace for it."

He stopped talking entirely. He gave her a dazed look. He didn't seem entirely present.

She ignored that. "I'll see you tomorrow," Maeve said, hoping he'd take the hint and get out of her living room without their customary cup of coffee. She let out a sigh, because he was being kind. "Thank you for bringing this." She picked the spell details back up. He really did mean well. “I’ll think on what you said, darling. And I’ll see you at the reunion next month.”

Adelaide looked at her long and hard. He let out a sigh. His eyes softened with fondness. "Don't work too hard," he admonished. Then he left in a swirl of smoke. The distinctive aroma of his magic spread out through the room.

She closed her eyes and indulged in a deep, calming breath. Then she opened her eyes and gave the songbird a stern look. It had gone quiet and sullen when Adelaide left. “Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Maeve chided.

It peeped in response.

“So rude,” she muttered, and went to make something for dinner. She gestured sharply upwards with her left hand and the cookbook obligingly lifted to hover above the counter. She hummed and flipped pages, looking for the recipe that she’d chosen yesterday.

Music started for her, a pleasant background to the evening chore of preparing food. She was in a very good mood by the time that she had finished meal preparation, a ritual that soothed the rough edges of an irritating day at work. She plated a serving and put the rest away for her lunch tomorrow.

At said lunchtime Maeve opened the fridge at work anticipating culinary perfection- a particularly exemplary rendition of duck confit and a salad- but all she found was confusion.

“Where is my lunch.” She asked the universe flatly.

The universe didn’t respond, but the nosy man from the advertising department did.

“Oh, wow,” He said, coming up behind her. His hot ham breath was on her neck.

Disgusting.

“Looks like you’re the latest victim of the lunch bandito.” His pronunciation was abominable. Why were white men like this. This interaction was somehow worse than some contemptible peon stealing her lunch.

He was definitely doing his finger-guns thing. She shut the refrigerator door and walked away.

‘Someone is going to pay for this. For my lunch, and especially for Greg talking to me.’

Incensed, she went back to her office and flung herself onto her office chair. She stared at her laptop, musing over her options.

‘How long has this been going on? Greg implied that I wasn’t the first.’

She opened the anonymous HR complaints inbox, noting not for the first time the sheer number of complaints regarding the ply of the company toilet paper (unlikely to be changed).

Maeve would not say that she was particularly given to caring about the concerns of others, but she did like to think that she was competent at her job. She tended to review most suggestions on the same day, so it would have been bizarre to not have known about a, a- what did Greg call them?- a lunch luchador.

The only complaint that she could identify as being plausibly related was from four months ago. Faheema in Client Relations had had her tomato and peanut sauce salad stolen from the break room. Unfortunately, there were no suspects and the complaint had languished there.

‘That can’t be the whole story.’

Maeve leaned back and gently massaged her temples. ‘I should check back at the crime scene, and interview the witnesses.’

The work refrigerator betrayed no new information, save that her expensive glass container wasn’t there.

Neither was it in the sink, or the trash can.

‘The unsub must have taken the evidence with them.’ Maeve took out a tiny pad of paper from her pocket, and wrote ‘careful’ in it.

Of course, lunch was mostly over, so there was no one to interview in the break room.

‘I guess that means I have to go back to my contact.’ She mused. ‘Find other victims and witnesses. Walk the streets.’

She found Greg at his cubicle, drinking stale coffee. His oversized khakis billowed in the air conditioning breeze.

“Mr. Wilson.” She greeted, putting her hands behind her back. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

He looked up at her, wide eyes filled with something she couldn’t discern. Fear? Hope? Guilt? Surprise at being accosted by an HR attorney?

“That- that would be fine.” He put down his green mug. It said ‘I’d rather be golfing.’

“How can I help you?”

“My lunch.” She stated clearly. “It wasn’t the first to be stolen, was it?”

He coughed.

‘A sign of guilt?’ She eyed him up and down. Greg would be a prime suspect, if contemptibility were a sign of the criminal element. He didn’t seem to be able to afford a full pair of shoes to go with his socks, which would explain his motivations in purloining paninis.

“No, ma’am. It wasn’t. It’s been happening for over six months.” He rolled over to part of his desk, where he removed a legal notepad covered in scribbles. “I think the first one was Niraj,” he gestures a few cubicles over, “but there’s been one almost every work day.”

Maeve did some quick mental math and the answer was appalling.

‘The depths of this unsub’s depravity knows no bounds. That’s over 120 lunches.’

“Why haven’t people been reporting this?”

She could tell from his flinch back that her tone had come out too sharp. Meave compensated with a smile.

Greg gave her a wavering smile in return and ducked eye contact. “No one wanted to bother you,” he said vaguely, with a smarmy grin that made it evident it was a joke at her expense.

Her immediate theory was that the lunch thief had somehow intimidated the cubicle peasants into silence. She dismissed that after a moment- they would have compromised their anonymity if they communicated. No, the answer was much more likely that she had some kind of reputation for being unapproachable.

She got no further with the mystery that day. The incident might have faded if it wasn’t for the fact that when she warily opened the shared refrigerator the next day, her butternut squash risotto with porcini mushrooms and chicken was not in it.

“I am going to take a life,” Maeve said through gritted teeth. She ignored the sudden sound of a chair scraping and someone leaving the room. Someone coughed. She stalked over to the sink to look for her container– there it was, along with yesterday’s. She picked it up and made a sound of disgust. “Neither one of them have been washed.” Her voice came out incredulous. “This- this animal kept the first container in the office, unwashed, for 24 hours?”

She absolutely had to unmask this vile and petty bandit.

Maeve stalked back to her office and wrote up a scathing email. Then she deleted it and wrote another one, addressed to the entire company, with sugary sweet concern for whoever had eaten her lunch. She’d just found out that the sauce in it had been expired, after all, and anyone who ate it should seek medical attention immediately. She hit send and waited.

She did not have the kind of reputation that made people dismiss her as a threat. Whoever had eaten that was probably feeling fear for their life right now. Any minute now, someone would confess, or ask for permission to go to the doctor for a sudden stomachache.

Any minute now.

Minutes dragged on into hours and Maeve had to admit that whoever had robbed her had done something far more insulting than steal from her. They had dismissed her as a threat.

With that poisonous thought in her mind, Maeve found herself tempted to put a little something extra in the next day's lunch.

She refrained after remembering that the pattern indicated that it was likely she would be eating her own lunch tomorrow.

It wasn’t a targeted attack: the thief selected victims randomly.

After making that assessment, it was absolutely infuriating to open the fridge door at lunchtime and discover once again that her lunch was not inside. This time there was, again, no storage container in the sink or garbage.

“It’s in their desk,” Maeve muttered to herself, punching in an order for delivery with unnecessary force. “That little freak has my storage container in their rancid desk.”

They were definitely targeting her now.

…It was legally inadvisable to actively poison her own lunch, as well as a waste of a good container.

‘My only option is surveillance.’

It took a few days for the equipment to arrive and for the mail personnel to deliver it to her desk.

She reviewed the instructions multiple times, and waited for the end of business hours.

As usual, the feral masses fled the building at exactly five. She stalked back to the crime scene with a box of cameras and wires.

She was furiously drilling a hole into the wall when she heard someone call out to her from behind.

“Ma’am.” Someone said, vaguely threatening.

She turned around, one hand on the ladder for balance.

The security guard turned a gruesome shade of pink at the sight of her face. “I’m sorry ma’am, but do you have permission to do this?”

She waved her drill at him. “I’m a lawyer. This is all very above-board, I assure you.” Then Maeve leaned down at him. “I have noticed that you have been remiss in your duties. This lunch thief”, she spat, “has been allowed to run amok in this place for far too long. I am merely putting it right.”

“O-Okay then.”

The guard left in a hurry. No one evidently dared to check into whether she did have the authority or permission to install cameras, which was the first bit of luck Maeve had had all week.

Once they were installed, all she would have to do was watch and wait.

Maeve resentfully checked the recording from the previous day, rewinding and rewatching over and over again to try to catch sight of her container as hands moved in and out of the fridge. But it was no luck- she hadn’t managed to capture any definitive proof. It was difficult to determine at what time the unsub was striking, and there was significant traffic in the break room at all times of day.

She scowled as yet another office worker got their coffee and then stepped back to hang around in the aisle, blocking her view. They seemed unaware of the woman who was obviously waiting for them to move. Her blood pressure rose and she gritted her teeth, fighting her anger.

Why? Why were so many people that way? There was perfectly adequate seating.

Not for the first time, she considered moving her camera. But the only answer was patience. So she set her jaw and admitted that it would take at least one more day.

The options for camera placement had been limited. It would have been ideal to put it three feet from the refrigerator: except that the thief would see it immediately.

The unobtrusive placement she'd settled on had a direct line of sight to the fridge - as long as no one was standing in the way or there wasn't a tall person sitting at a certain table. That should be fine. What kind of lunatic spent their time standing around cluelessly in the walking path?

Apparently, one of the most beloved traditions of office workers was lurking in the walkway clutching their instant coffee. One of them was swaying back and forth on the recording she was watching at the moment. Maeve felt her hand curl into a fist.

She rewatched Angelica sip coffee on the monitor, taking over half an hour for a paid coffee break that she seemed to nurse beyond reason. Good for Angelica, honestly. She wasn't paid enough: Maeve had checked.

‘What I have managed to discover is that a large number of workers are avoiding work in the break room.’

But that wasn’t her concern. Frankly, she didn't give a damn about squeezing productivity out of office workers. She wasn’t one of the managers. Her concern was not with the cubicle jockeys escaping the crushing oppression of open plan offices, but of weightier merit. And she was failing at identifying the culprit.

‘I will find this thief if I have to comb through every inch of this office campus.’ She gripped her own coffee mug tightly. Her coffee was certainly cold by now, but she drank it anyway.

The office grade coffee left a sour aftertaste in her mouth and a film on her tongue. It was even more contemptible cold, but her sorry detective work merited sorry coffee.

She sent the next update, cc'ed to the President and Vice President, as per her habit. She didn't mind that they didn't respond.

Every day, it was the same. She would bring in lunch -unpleasantly textured, overly spicy, bland- the criminal devoured them all. Maeve would find her containers in the sink over the next few days, unwashed.

She considered seeing if DNA was left behind, and trying to see if the culprit could be identified that way.

It did seem likely that the kind of monster that would do this might have DNA on file with the authorities, but she didn't have access to any DNA databases in her capacity as an HR representative.

It made her think about criminal profiling, though. Everyone who'd had food taken was a young woman.

…That meant that he'd been in the room watching people either put their food in or eat it, she realized. In order for there to be a type of victim, the lunches couldn't be randomly selected.

He'd been grocery shopping. Looking at a menu.

And that, Maeve realized, implied free time.

She didn't know what that meant, but it wasn't something she'd forget.

The problem was beginning to interfere with Maeve’s actual work. Stacks of policies up for review were threatening to topple over her desk, erecting skyscraping monuments to corporate thoroughness.

But it was hard to care about that right now. Maeve hadn’t had a proper lunch in three weeks. She was tired of ordering in or waiting until after work. She was also tired of making lunches she was never going to eat, even if they were inedible.

‘I could always just stop bringing in my own lunch.’ She glared at the empty fridge accusingly. It wasn’t like she’d truly expected her lunch to remain. ‘Or I might put a mini fridge in my office.’

But both of those options were intolerable. The lunch thief would just be forcing her to either continue to not eat, eat foods that she did not want to eat, or buy a fucking fridge just to avoid them. And even if she solved the problem for herself, this godforsaken cyst of a person would just steal from someone else.

No. She had to solve it. She could crack this case.

The cameras had identified a few general trends. There was a general group of peons that came in around 10:15 for coffee refills, and then it was consistently busy from 11:00-1:00PM.

‘I’m going to check the fridge at half hour intervals, to see if there’s a pattern as to when the thief strikes.’

The next day, she clutched the steering wheel just a bit too tight on her way in. She wasn't even at work and the tension was ruining her mood. She hit the brakes at a crosswalk, eyes glancing over to check for children among the pedestrians by sheer force of meticulous habit.

There was a gaggle of elementary students laughing in an uneven pack on the left. She kept some attention on them in her peripheral vision as she went through the intersection.

In her rearview mirror she saw the next car come up the block and barrel through the intersection without stopping at the sign. They caught up with her right away and clearly hit the brakes hard, jerking when they slowed suddenly.

She saw the driver lift a hand and gesture at her in irritation, mouth moving as they doubtless raged.

The muscle in her jaw twitched with tension. She glanced at her speedometer to confirm that yes, she was driving at the limit.

So. That asshole was speeding in a school zone and blowing through stop signs.

"You know what I do to men like you?" Maeve asked her empty car, all coiled tension and tightly leashed violence. She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel and considered it: they'd pass her, legally or not, as soon as she gave them the chance.

She could follow them. They wouldn't notice. Anyone who didn't notice stop signs and children in a school zone was too self absorbed to realize they were being followed. It might make her late, but she had flex time. She could just arrive at work later. It wouldn't be the first time.

Maeve was sorely tempted, her blood rising with the thrill of the hunt.

It took real, punishing self control to flick on her turn signal at the normal place. She turned away with only a lingering glance at the bad driver in her rearview mirror.

She had to get to work on time to put her bait in the fridge at the normal time. She was already hunting down one piece of human refuse. Besides, that kind of thing required resources that she hadn't yet freed up.

Her iron self control got her to the break room by 8:00 am. She put the container in the fridge and gave it one last resentful look before she closed the door. It wasn’t even appealing to her anymore. She’d made this food to punish an asshole. It wasn't enough retribution, but it made her feel a little better.

The lunch was fish, cooked in ghost pepper sauce and served with leftover pasta. She'd gotten the fish on sale and then left it in her fridge for two days.

‘Honestly, I hope they eat this. I can’t.’

When she checked the fridge later, it was still there. And at nine, and nine thirty. Perhaps they had some self respect after all.

At ten it was gone. She made a note in her notebook. She hoped it caused vicious indigestion.

The next day, her lunch was gone at ten thirty. It seemed like a general pattern might emerge.

The trend held on Friday- her lunch disappeared sometime between ten and ten thirty.

She went into the weekend feeling victorious. Monday. This would end on Monday. She’d do a stakeout from 9:30 or so, until she caught the thief red handed. She couldn't just camp out in the break room and stare all day; not while catching up on her workload. But she could spare one morning.

It was not to be. At 9:30 on Monday, Maeve found herself staring at the empty space where her lunch (a phoned-in effort of three boiled eggs and a quick pickled salad) ought to have been. It was already gone.

The rest of the week made it clear that there was truly no pattern. This maniac took her lunch anytime from 8:05 (within the amount of time she’d used the break room bathroom on Tuesday), to 11:45.

That tickled at her hind brain. There was something familiar about that… Oh. She'd thought before that the thief must have a lot of leisure time in order to wait in the break room and choose victims. But the times that the food went missing was a clue too. No one who was being managed could just go wandering around the building at any time in the morning. Breaks were staggered to prevent congestion.

That meant that the thief wasn't being managed. The thief might be a manager.

That would narrow things down a lot. She printed off a few pages of company headshots of all managerial staff in the building.

When she took the document with her to the head of security, he got an uncomfortable look on his face. "I don't think that we can send someone to watch the break room for managers," he said in a steady, soothing tone.

"Why not?" Her tone came out sharper than she wanted. Maeve compensated with a little smile.

"Because," he said slowly, "no one will enjoy their breaks if they think that security has been deployed to watch them taking their breaks."

She rolled her eyes and left the security station in a huff. Something had to be done. This couldn't go on.

It was ridiculous and undignified. She'd never been hounded in such a petty way before. The effect that it had on her was surprising.

Her sleep started to suffer. She didn't enjoy cooking as much as she had before. That was infuriating, since she had deliberately cultivated the skillset as part of her routine. Spending a long time cooking quality food had made her feel proud of herself: now she just felt annoyed, constantly bothered by the hovering reminder that someone was toying with her.

She wasn't going to waste gourmet ingredients on live bait for some asshole, so she either had to eat leftovers or adjust all of her recipes for single portions. For weeks, she wasted time making a lunch that she knew she would never eat. It made her shake with a sort of helpless fury in her own home. This person was stealing more than food: it was her time and labor, her peace of mind and some of her dignity.

Maeve could feel her tight grip on her life slipping. It was on the fourth week of this unending nightmare that she realized that she’d nearly missed a meeting while waiting for lunch delivery in the lobby, and she hadn’t even ordered.

‘Enough is enough.’ She slammed a briefcase full of files onto her desk and gritted her teeth. ‘I’m going to find this person and deal with them myself. They're going to regret toying with me.’

The next morning, she packed up her laptop and brought everything to the break room, setting up at the table closest to the fridge.

People edged around her anxiously over the next hour, filling up their coffee mugs quickly and escaping to their cubicles in a way she knew was atypical from her study of the cameras and several office sitcoms. No one lingered foolishly several steps away from the coffee station, blocking the walkway.

She watched and waited for her patience to be rewarded. But no one came. At two in the afternoon, she left.

The next day, she considered her options. The thief had not struck when she had placed herself directly in the break room.

‘Then again, I was visible from the doorway. They probably saw me and chose not to steal. Perhaps they didn't even enter the room. If I want to observe my prey without detection, I should sit further away and decrease suspicion.’

The nature of her job made it very difficult to do in a public setting like the break room, which meant that Maeve was forced to only do reports instead of bringing out private files. She waited and waited, glancing up from her computer every few seconds.

Time drug on, and her nerves were shot. Maeve felt fried, tired, and hungry. She wanted to leave. Patrick from accounting kept trying to make bad puns in her direction. He'd seemed to misinterpret her behavior as an attempt to make friends with the other workers.

Movement by the doorway caught her attention, as someone in an obnoxiously colored jacket shuffled in. They crossed the room, pausing by the coffeepot to leave their mug with a careless clatter before making their way to the fridge.

It caught her attention. It wasn't criminal, but it was a little antisocial and selfish to leave your dirty dishes around.

Her intuition was humming at her. She watched intently as this person opened the fridge and removed a small glass container. She felt a heart-stopping thrill.

It was him.

The thief didn't even pause before turning to refill his dirty mug with coffee. He looked totally unbothered and casual, as if he did this every day. He wasn't in the least bit worried.

‘That’s mine! He's actually holding my food. There's no way to explain that.'

She quickly closed her laptop with a nasty little smile and got up, crossing the room in a graceful lope. She managed to insert herself between the long legged thief and the break room door just as he was about to exit with his coffee and her lunch.

He barely avoided walking directly into her. Instead of looking at her face, he tried to step around her. She side-stepped to block him.

“Hello.” She smiled, poisonly sweet. She was so close to vengeance. “Is that my lunch?”

“Hey.” The man just looked at his phone, and barely addressed her at all. “Nah, it’s mine.” He sounded so casual. He was blowing her off.

“That is clearly my container.” Maeve said sharply. Her tone rose a little. Of course it was hers. She'd paid extra for the customized design on the glass. "That's a ridiculous lie when I actively watched you try to steal my food." She put a hand up for her food. "Here." She waited.

He sighed as he lowered his phone. He lifted the container with the braised duck she’d made last night, and finally made eye contact with her. He stuck out his lower lip in a mocking pout for a moment before he responded. “I don’t see your name on it. That’s one hell of an accusation, miss.”

He was… amused. He was fucking getting off on this power play.

The sheer fucking gall of it stole her breath for a moment. She'd caught him holding her property, and he didn't think she could do anything about it.

‘I made that food. The rest of it is still in my fucking fridge at home. I could fit that duck breast back in like a puzzle piece.’

“Give it back.” She said, low and slow. Anyone could hear the danger in her voice. Even people who had no idea that she was a witch knew she was intimidating.

“Why would I do that? It’s my lunch.” Then he chuckled at her, and walked around her. She was frozen stock still. “You should be careful of who you accuse of things, miss. I’m an important man and you don’t want to get in trouble.”

Her heart rate was through the roof and her whole body was tense with fury. She turned to watch him go, blood thumping in her ears. Had that really happened? She'd caught him in the act and he'd condescended to her? He didn't even glance over his shoulder.

She'd never been dismissed like that. Never.

She had a furious and helpless lightning realization: this was why the other women hadn't complained about the theft. They'd known that they were powerless to stop it. People just had to accept this vile, selfish behavior, because it was coming from someone above them.

'And it's because I'm a woman. He thinks he can do this to me because I'm a woman.'

Well. The unpleasant joke was on him. She wasn't an office worker. She was a lawyer. She'd go over his head. The company owner was a family friend: whatever caché this shitstain had wouldn't outweigh her position and connections.

He was going to regret the way he'd treated the office workers. Even if empathy was beyond him, he'd know that he fucked up by stealing from her.

“I am going to find out who he was," Maeve said to herself, icy cold in the chatter of the break room. He didn’t look familiar. "He's not from this department."

She would know. She'd been studying pictures.

“I think he’s a programmer.” Someone said quietly, and Maeve swiveled her head around in time to see a cubicle worker’s face disappear behind their mug. Whoever it was didn’t matter.

“Does anyone know his name?” She asked. No one met her eyes, but everyone shook their heads.

"He said he's a team lead," someone offered.

People had been watching that confrontation. A few weeks ago, she might have been mortified to be disrespected so publicly. But it wasn't the first time, she realized. That was probably why the complaints had stopped: someone had seen this man steal, and he'd threatened their job the way he'd tried to threaten hers.

She’d start with the website development team. They were only a floor down.

The unfortunate thing about massive streaming businesses is that they have an infestation of programmers. Maeve had to click through hundreds of faces before she found the rat-faced dillhole that had stolen her lunch and lied about it to her face.

“Raymond Atwater, meet your doom.” She whispered in victory at the screen. Evidently he was a team lead for the server security team.

What was obscene was that his team was in an entirely different building. This asshole had gone across campus to steal her lunch.

To be clear, he'd walked out of his office, through the office pool, out into the lobby of his own building, across two parking lots and a decorative garden, through the lobby of her building and up the elevator to the 9th floor, all to steal her fucking lunch. And he'd done that almost every day for 3 and a half weeks. What was wrong with him?

‘Maybe he got caught in his own building.’ She mused, before sending a quick exploratory email to the HR team in his actual building, as well as the HR heads in the buildings closer to it. They might have more information.

She wanted dirt. Filthy dirt. And as much of it as possible.

In the update to the president, she happily included the footage and Raymond's name.

The response from the HR head in Raymond's building was fast, professional, and immediately confirmed that he was a problematic employee.

Maeve frowned at the email, rereading one line in particular.

"Management has been disinterested in pursuing suggested corrective measures for multiple instances of problematic behavior," the rep had written. Maeve glanced back up at the head of the email to jog her memory of the other woman's name, Kimberly Lianson.

"I would recommend a meeting with his head of department, Mr. Patel, and perhaps part of the executive team, since Mr. Atwood's actions have had an impact across the campus."

"I can do that," Maeve murmured to her screen. She sent off an inquiry with the company President's secretary about meeting availability. Most people needed to wait a week or two. But for Maeve, the secretary made time.

Two days later, she met Kimberly Lianson outside the meeting room. The older woman's eyebrows shot up.

"Would you like any help preparing for the meeting?" Maeve said, instead of a greeting.

Kimberly's face relaxed. She smiled. "That would be very helpful, thank you. Could you get the door?" She shifted her burden to the side and shook one hand free so that Maeve could access the key dangling from her wrist and open the door.

She pushed it open and strode in first to find the light switch.

"Thank you so much for putting all this evidence together," Kimberly started. She blew a little strand of sweaty hair off of her face. "I really start to wonder if they'll ever be willing to punish a manager, but I'm hopeful."

Maeve let out a surprised laugh. "He's guilty," she said. "I have him on camera stealing from me, and notes about everything I can see that he stole. The dollar value actually becomes rather substantial."

Kimberly's warm smile became a bit fixed. "Well." She glanced over Maeve's shoulder for a moment. "I think it's an uphill battle, if I'm honest."

Maeve stared. "There's enough complaints against him to wallpaper my office."

Kimberly's lips went thin as she pressed them together. "Yes," she finally said. "He does a very important job and makes the company a lot of money."

That was such bullshit that she couldn't speak for a moment. When she could control herself again, Maeve took a deep breath. "Well, I do a very important job as well," she said. "I'm confident that we can present the facts and get some justice."

Kimberly was obviously not convinced.

Maeve didn't mind. She'd see.

They finished setting up for the meeting and were ready before the head of information and security and the company President arrived, obviously finishing up some funny conversation. The president clapped Mr. Patel on the shoulder before he took in the room, amusement crinkling his eyes.

"I hear that there's a presentation." He took a seat. "About a, uh- somewhat difficult engineer."

Maeve smoothed the front of her skirt as she took a seat. "Yes, Ms. Lianson has a presentation prepared to make things shorter. Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Conway, Mr. Patel."

"Yes, it's about Atwood, isn't it?" Mr. Patel didn't return her greeting. He glanced over at Mr. Conway. "Brilliant man," he explained casually. "Steps on some toes, but he gets results."

"Interesting," Maeve cut him off. "Ms. Lianson, if you wouldn't mind?"

She sat with her fingers folded precisely on her lap as Kimberly listed the types of complaints leveled against Mr. Atwood from his department and others. She had a still image from Maeve's camera of Atwood taking one of Maeve's lunches: and two other photos of him with different lunches. Because apparently he'd been stealing more than one lunch per day.

As Kimberly spoke, Mr. Patel fidgeted, pulling at his collar and fiddling with his cuffs. He tapped at his watch at one point, peering at the second hand. He didn't touch his stapled papers.

Maeve hated him. He obviously didn't care about this.

"When confronted about the theft, Mr. Atwood lied and insinuated that confronting him for the theft would mean retribution." Kimberly seemed resigned.

Maeve felt very tense.

The President was a family friend. He wasn't much more interested in the facts than Atwood's department head was. But that didn't matter. He wasn't going to let someone treat her that way.

When Kimberly wrapped up, Mr. Conway was the first to break the ice. He shifted in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table as he spoke. "Well, what are you expecting to happen?"

"According to company policy, he should be terminated immediately," Maeve answered immediately. "In light of the fact that he's causing disruptions in three different departments with impunity despite being made aware of the unacceptability of his actions, he doesn't meet the standard for employees."

Mr. Patel let out an incredulous scoff. He waved a splayed hand around the room. "Over a few missed salads?" he said incredulously. "Don't you think that's a bit dramatic?"

"It does seem petty," Mr. Conway agreed, shaking his head. "The whole thing- he should write up an apology." He rubbed his hands together as if to wash them of this affair. "He's clearly immature, but no real harm was done.

Maeve stared at him. Making someone apologize is what one does with naughty children.

"This is a case of theft. Theft is a fire-able offense, and the dollar amount Mr. Atwood has stolen from employees is in the thousands."" Kimberly said, a little stiff. "Regardless of what has been stolen, Mr. Atwood has been stealing from other employees for years. This is not to mention the multiple complaints of harassment and creating an unsafe work environment."

"Snacks," Mr. Patel dismissed. He let out a sigh. "I'll increase the budget for snack food in our department so he isn't roving around for food."

"Good man," Mr. Conway said, and stood up cheerfully. "Well, thank you for your time, ladies, keep up the good work." He winked at Maeve. "Your cooking must be something! Your mother would be proud." He left with a little chuckle at his own joke.

Maeve was too furious to speak. If she opened her mouth, actual venom was going to spurt out. She stood dangerously still as the two men left the office.

A sigh from Kimberly broke the spell. "As I said," she started ruefully, "an uphill battle." She gathered up her materials.

She managed a stiff nod.

The older woman looked sympathetic. "I know," Kimberly said. She let out a sigh and rifled a hand through her hair. "That was frustrating. You could always go to the police." She gave Maeve a wry look. "I don't know that it would be much more effective." Then she walked out of the room, balancing the precarious stack of folders that neither Mr. Conway or Mr. Patel had bothered to even open.

She felt like her legs were numb in her expensive shoes. The red bottoms wobbled awkwardly on the carpet as she stood still and tried to process what had just happened.

The shame won out after the door closed behind Kimberly, and she exhaled a painful held breath. At least there was no one in the room to see her like this. Ungainly and unbalanced, Maeve walked to her office in a haze. People walked by her, clutching papers and mugs. She hugged the wall and averted her eyes.

'Maybe they'll do something about it,' she lied to herself. The elevator dinged above her head, but it sounded dull and remote. The lie coiled in the bottom of her stomach like a viper. She carefully stepped into the elevator, mindful that if she acted too out of the ordinary, people would make it the subject of gossip.

She tried again to console herself in the quiet of her office. 'At least he might stop.'

He'd changed buildings after the last few complaints, anyway. It seemed likely he'd move on to a new victim. Then Maeve could hold her head high enough in her building, and pretend that that meeting didn't happen. She could fix it.

Her lunch wasn’t missing the next day. Maeve ate it, thankful for the return to her routine. But it tasted like nothing.

She'd forgotten to season it properly. Maeve ate it mechanically, bite after bite of bland pasta.

Something worse happened in the afternoon.

It started with the little ‘ding’ sound her computer made when an email landed. Maeve put down the files she’d finally started working on, and clicked on the notification.

It opened an entire email from that skunk, Raymond. It started out banal enough.

“I’m sorry”

‘A good start, if a little lackluster in the begging he should be doing.’ She thought sourly, before starting on the rest. The viper in her stomach twisted.

“- if you were offended that I enjoyed your cooking. You are a decent cook, and I thought that the opportunity I provided you for someone else to try your cooking might improve your abilities while providing me with a quick lunch. I am, after all, very busy- I have 50 people under me”

‘No you don’t, you twat, I can see the personnel files. Why are you lying to me?’

“And my time is very valuable. Someday, if you work hard, I’m sure you will understand. As for feedback, I have to say that some of the food was better than others. You make a competent risotto, but you need to work on how you prepare fish. Hopefully you can improve.’

She had to look away from the computer for a long moment. The rage and embarrassment were bubbling up again. She felt nauseous.

“The President said that I needed to send you an email to resolve this misunderstanding. If you have any questions, please let me know. I’ll try to get back to you within a few days, as my schedule allows.

Thanks,

Team Lead Ray”

“You’re not my team lead,” she uttered, feeling petty and filled with bile. “In fact, you’re a fucking loathsome little worm. An utter wretch, a thieving pile of donkey mucus.”

The air in her office began to feel a little claustrophobic from her own malign energy, so Maeve took a second to breathe and lean away from her computer. Her stomach roiled.

“So, they won’t be doing anything about him.” That should have been less surprising after that awful meeting. Maeve would have thought that her history with the President and his family might merit a little more consideration.

At the end of the day, it obviously meant nothing. Or worse, that that doddering twit thought she was a whining child. Whose mother would be 'proud of her cooking'. It made her feel sick.

Something she'd heard yesterday came to mind, unwrapping a painful present of context.

'The President implied he hadn't heard about this before.' she realized. 'I've been sending updates on this for weeks. They… didn't read them. Any of them.'

Maeve’s outlook on her employment really began to shift at that moment.

'They didn't care about my work. And they don't care about my position. About me.'

She took a look at the pile of HR complaints and considered her options.

‘I’m going to ensure that this is the worst mistake they’ve ever made.’

She turned back to the computer screen, still lit up with the offending email.

“And I’m going to start with you," she promised venomously.

Two weeks later, she was waiting on a bench under sun-dappled leaves in the local park. It was earlier in the day than she would have usually been off work, and she was enjoying the chance to relax and commune with nature. The birds were singing, the breeze was blowing, and the sun was shining its beneficence upon her.

She watched the ducks in the pond bobbing in the warm water, while a bird yammered endlessly next to her. Some elderly couples and a young mother were slowly walking around the lake, while some speedwalkers marched around the paths single file. She waited for all the passersby to face the other direction.

A particularly large bird scream in her ear disrupted her sense of peace, and made her ears ring.

“Oh, shut it.” She turned to the bird in the birdcage. It peeped at her, seemingly furious. “I’m about to release you anyway.”

She opened the cage and reached her hand in, delicately lifting the bird out of the door. She whispered something onto the wind, and threw it up into the air.

Its wings outstretched as it reached heavenward, before curling down around it in a shimmering golden light. Within a second, a dazed man in a red running suit was standing in front of the bench. He blinked blearily at her, before swaying. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed on the dirt path.

She left him there.

“Good luck explaining to your sand volleyball friends why you were missing for three months, you ass.” His hand moved, but it was going to take him a while to remember how to use those limbs again. Doubtless someone would report a man collapsed on the running path within a few hours, and the police would return him to his grateful family. Pat would never remember where he’d been, and couldn’t explain his absence. All he’d remember would be the new, bone-shattering aversion to running red lights in a school zone.

The tinny quality of a personal bluetooth speaker heralded her quarry.

As ever, she was well-timed. Just as Pat began to snore into the dirt, a familiar figure jogged around the bend of the lake. His long legs worked lazily, eating up ground in the middle of the path. He barely seemed to register the other people, prompting one of the elderly men to take a doddering leap off of the path, before Ray clipped the side of a stroller with his right thigh.

Maeve watched as the woman tried to tear into him, but Raymond, Team Leader Extraordinaire, seemed very convinced that she had been in his way, being that she wasn’t entirely off the public sidewalk.

He huffed at her, and then left, diverting up to the otherwise abandoned path Maeve was sitting on.

She idly ran her fingertips over the wire frame of the birdcage next to her. The sun had made it almost uncomfortably warm.

Raymond only stopped in front of her when he tripped on Pat’s unconscious body.

“What is that doing there?” He asked, sounding disgusted.

It somehow inspired more contempt for him than she had previously possessed.

‘Anyone remotely decent might wonder if he was alive or okay, you infested carcass.’

“Hello Raymond.” She rose, and stretched out her arms. “Lovely day.”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked at her without any comprehension. This muppet faced buffoon had stolen her lunch for over a month, and didn't know what she looked like outside of the office.

It rankled more than it should.

“Do you happen to have a fever, a cough, or any symptoms that would lead you to believe that you might have the flu or another illness?” She asked, businesslike. Her hands were at the ready.

“Of course not.” He had the audacity to look offended. “And where do you get off asking me that? Who-”

She waved her fingers and concentrated. His long white shirt became wings, and he shrank. And shrank.

In the span of a few moments, a confused white duck was standing on top of Pat’s back. She pulled her waiting phone out and snapped a picture, and sent it to Adelaide with the caption 'Look what I found in the park!'

Then she tilted her head, mentally measuring the waterfowl's dimensions.

“I probably should have made you a songbird.” She sighed, grabbing the duck with both hands. He made a weird sound in response. “I was just thinking of those beautiful ducks on the pond. Now you’re too big for the cage.” She stuffed him in anyway, working with the fresh transformation limpness. It would be more difficult to deal with him later, when he’d figured out how to be a duck. Then again, nothing she’d seen would have led her to believe that Ray was capable of learning.

She shoved the cage into the newspaper-lined backseat of her classy black car, and left the park without a second glance.

NOTE:

This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!

#deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #short story #Maeve Le Fey #love interest short story

4 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 8 months

Text

Short Story Release: Neither Whole Nor Unbroken (Barry Grivus Story- 3,036 words)

He didn't usually contract kills. But this hit was outside of his usual sphere of competence.

Barry kept an eye on the criminals and villains bustling through the convention center. There were so many options, if he really wanted to just get the first person who would agree.

But he was patient. He had one person in mind, with the specific skill set that he needed. He'd already reached out on the secure app on his phone. There hadn't been a reply, but that didn't mean anything.

A particular motion over the top of his newspaper caught his eye.

A slight figure in black was visible from his line of sight. She was in the narrow space between two booths, inches away from someone who had no idea she was present. Her posture and body language communicated control and tightly leashed violence.

He controlled the desire to smile. That was her.

As he looked up, her gaze snapped to follow a large, handsome man in red strut down the main thoroughfare. He was too busy chatting with Gene to see the assassin's whole body go tense as she honed in on him. Barry could see the whites of her eyes and her carefully controlled breathing from over here.

Even without seeing the man's face, he'd know that was the social media star, underwear model, and chronically small-time supervillain Hammer from her furious body language.

'She focused on him like a hawk,' Barry thought, bemused. 'She wants to attack him on sight, in a building with thousands of witnesses.'

The passion there always surprised him. Personally, Barry found Hammer to be a delight. But reasonable people can disagree on matters of taste. He broke his stare and cleared his throat.

"Harmes." His junior partner looked over from the other chair in their booth. "Would you mind getting coffee? I'll hold down the fort. I could really use the caffeine."

Harmes stood easily, clearly stir crazy. "Of course. The usual?"

"You know me," Barry agreed idly. "I'm a predictable man." He watched until Harmes was out of sight.

Barry folded up the newspaper and put it down on the booth.

"Echo," was all he had to say.

His contact sidled over with a swing in her hips. The furious tension in her shoulders was gone, for now. "Mr. Grivus." Her tone was flat, but he didn't take it personally.

"Did you get my message?"

"Yes. What did you need?" The rogue had a brisk, flat tone that he didn't really care for. She must not have thrived in customer service, he thought.

He looked around in his periphery. Harmes wouldn't be back for at least a few minutes.

He reached into the secret pocket of his blazer, and pulled out a thick envelope.

"Instructions and cash. Non-consecutive bills." A deft little hand snapped out, but he pulled back the envelope in time. He leaned down. He lowered his voice.

"Just make sure it gets done."

"I can do any job related to my skill set," she retorted. Barry smiled faintly and handed over the envelope.

A few minutes later, Harmes returned. He had already resumed his paper. There was nothing to indicate he'd talked to anyone or arranged for anything that would infuriate his business partner.

About an hour later, his phone buzzed.

The notification from his secure channel said only, "job complete."

He was tempted to arrange things so that he could be present for the discovery. But it's too sloppy. More than a few people know about his grudge.

Barry is patient. Barry waits.

The end of the conference comes and goes without any mention of a discovery. It's two days, nothing said. His anticipation is only going to make the eventual fallout better. There's no news on Saturday or Sunday either. It's agonizing.

It happens. Monday, Harmes comes into work. Tired. Disgruntled. Driving an expensive car that he damn well knows Harmes would never buy.

He's thrilled. He can't quite keep the predatorial satisfaction off of his face. As he pours coffee Barry casually asks, "Did something happen to your car?"

Harmes is still. Their expression is best described as dangerous.

He has a frisson of discomfort, a bad feeling that he's been caught.

Harmes can't possibly know, Barry tells himself. There's no way.

"No," Harmes lies lightly. "It's just in the shop. It'll be back, as good as ever." Their fingertips turn pale as they clench their teacup.

His jaw is tense.

'Not if I have anything to say about it.'

"That is terrible," Barry responds. He can't help it. It's too heartfelt to keep in. "That old heap is the worst thing I've ever seen. Holly agrees with me."

Harmes narrows their eyes at him. He's imagining the suspicion there. Did he overplay his hand?

No. It's fine. Harmes already knew he hated the car. That's the whole purpose of the exercise, the reason to contract a rogue mechanic. It would be more suspicious if he was empathetic or neutral.

"My mother isn't always right," Harmes says stiffly.

He's irritated now. Even though he knows that Harmes is lying! His hackles are up. Barry excuses himself to his office and paces. He does some deep breathing to calm down. He checks his message again to confirm that the mechanic really did get rid of Harmes' car once and for all. The message still says "job complete." It's unambiguous. The car has been murdered.

"It's dead," he says grimly. "I paid a ludicrous amount."

The empty office didn't answer him.

"It was a good use of 500 thousand dollars," he says darkly. "I never want to see that thing again."

He stops. He had been pushing down the urge to contract his hitwoman again, but for what he'd paid her? She can cope with a follow up question.

Barry glanced to the main office once more, to confirm that Harmes isn't lurking out there. His junior associate is in their private office. He won't be seen. He messages the hit woman.

"The car is definitely not repairable?"

He waits a while. She must be working. Barry lets out a sigh and gets back to work. He examines the invitation he received for another company's event with a sigh. The owner came to his booth personally at the conference to say hello and give invites to him and Harmes.

The owner is new, but doing admirably to establish herself in the villainous industry. He's a little fond of her. He nearly hired her, in fact. But Harmes was just a little more… innovative.

He sends his confirmation of attendance. It would be a bit of a snub to not attend.

His phone buzzes. The hitwoman has responded, "It was barely holding together before I got to it. I sent a letter saying that it's totalled and detailing the insurance payout for a replacement."

Barry chuckles. He steals a glance at the office. He narrows his eyes.

Harmes is standing by Janine's desk, holding a familiar invitation.

Hm. He pushes open his door and takes a step out, curious. He takes his nearly-empty cup of coffee to have something to do with his hands and a pretense for going out.

"decline," Harmes is saying. "I won't be alienating anyone too important?"

…Ah. He controls the urge to smile. He wonders if Harmes even remembers that Sunny Aviichen interviewed for the same position at Grivus Events that Harmes did, all those years ago.

"No," Janine agrees. She's examining the invitation. "It would be good to go, but I'm sure they're not looking for you specifically."

…He sips the last of his coffee. He had actually had the impression that Ms. Aviichen was quite eager for Harmes to see how well she was doing in her career. Ms. Aviichen seemed rather competitive, even before Harmes got the position. People like that never enjoyed losing.

"Barry?" Janine looks up and spots that he's already out of his office. "You'll represent the firm at this?" She holds up the invitation.

"Of course." He agrees calmly.

"Great." Harmes flashes a smile at him and Janine. "I have pottery class that day."

Janine snorts. "I wouldn't tell anyone that's why you're declining to attend the Vice President's birthday party."

Harmes shrugs and goes back into their office. Barry finds himself watching until the door closes.

He's always enjoyed that about Harmes, he muses. They just don't give a damn.

Ahem.

Someone has cleared their throat. He looks at her.

Janine's face is amused. "Barry, I saw that poor Harmes didn't drive the usual car today." Her lips twitch. "Would you know anything about that?"

"No," he lies smoothly. He tilts his head at her in faux confusion. "But I'm very busy today." He busies himself with getting some water and leaves his coffee cup in the sink.

"Mm," Janine agrees, in a way that lets him know she's certain he's full of it. She pulls open a drawer and withdraws a yellow envelope. "Tell Echo that I said hello."

He frowns at her. She knows too much. She knows everything that happens. "I will," Barry agrees, defeated.

The car is vanquished, he tells himself. He goes back to work. He's finally slayed the beast. It only cost him a year's earnings to never have to see that wretched amalgamation of rusted metal again. His mood begins to lift.

'I wonder what Harmes will buy with the insurance money,' he wonders indulgently. Harmes' actual insurance would never have covered a suitable car, of course. Luckily, the rogue mechanic is also certified in car insurance. She was only to keep half of the money he gave her, and have the other 250 thousand allotted to Harmes.

…He's not certain what a half decent car costs, but surely that would have covered it.

Waiting to see what Harmes buys with his money is the most interesting part of his week. The pleasant anticipation gets him through the vexation that rises when he discovers that that little worm Duke has made a dinner appointment via Janine. "We can't cancel," he says darkly.

"No, but I'll know not to take further appointments with him," Janine says, a little embarrassed.

Barry sighs. "You couldn't have known. I didn't tell you." He turns his gaze out of the window, to the parking lot. "We'll go, find out it's not a good fit, and not take his business."

"That'll work," Janine agrees. She tracks where he's looking, but she doesn't say anything this time.

Harmes is still driving the rental to work. Surely they'll buy one soon. The rental isn't their style at all. Barry's anticipation builds as the work days go on.

And then Harmes comes to work in something so wretched and old that he hears it two blocks away.

Barry stands up at his desk. That could be anyone's car clanking. But he has a miserable premonition. Slowly, he walks out to the main office.

Janine must have the same instinct. She's already at the window to pull back the curtains. She starts to laugh as Harmes pulls into the parking lot in a positively ancient truck.

"No," Barry breathes, wounded.

Janine starts snorting between gasping laughs.

He puts a hand on his heart. "This can't be happening." It hurts. Harmes is killing him. Harmes is doing him harm. This has to be purposeful.

Harmes drives over a curb. There's a demonic scrape as something unfortunate happens to the underside of the already ill-used vehicle. The car stops. Harmes clearly struggles to open the door. After a few seconds, they kick it open. It's somehow even more dented now.

Janine is fully laughing, and obviously struggling to keep the tears of mirth down. It's worse that she's pitying him.

Barry closes his eyes. "I'm going to go lie down." He feels faint.

Janine passes him an eye mask and hiccups a stop to her giggles. "Set a timer for your 10 o'clock, sir."

"Thank you," he says, bleak. He's going to become one with the darkness. He's going to break down into his components to escape the pain of reality. And then the door closes behind him and he has another idea.

He could sink into a black miasma of despair. But instead, he calls the mechanic. Maybe there's a solution.

As soon as they pick up, he starts to speak. "Harmes must not have had an adequate budget."

There's a pause. "Hello to you too," says a disgruntled voice. "What are you talking about? I sent them 200 thousand dollars."

"250 thousand," Barry corrects offhand.

The mechanic makes an acknowledging noise. "That's an adequate budget," she says dryly. "Harmes could get any nice car on the market."

Oh. "Perhaps. But there's a rusted 2013 farm truck in my parking lot," Barry confides in a tortured whisper.

There's a bark of surprised laughter so loud that he pulls the phone away from his ear.

Barry scowls. He wishes that other people would stop laughing about this disaster. He crosses his arms and waits with ill grace for her to calm down.

The mechanic controls herself. "Is there some kind of outdoor hobby that might have prompted that choice?"

He freezes. He's finally compared Harmes' regular schedule and the timeframe that the car died in. He knows what happened. "Rocking."

"....what?"

Barry ignores the question and starts to pace. "The car gave out on some muddy back road," he says to himself. Damnit. He curses himself for a fool. "Harmes thinks the solution is a better backroads vehicle." He hurries to his computer and checks his theory. Yes. The exact model is the first example of a reliable used vehicle that results when you search for heavy duty trucks.

"Is there something else I can do for you?" the mechanic asks. There's the sound of a car door opening in the background. "I don't think a follow-up letter from the insurance company saying that the new vehicle is subpar would convince your associate to reconsider."

"No." Barry clears his throat. "You're right. You did your part." He runs a hand through his hair and winces when he realizes he's messed up the style. "Thank you."

"Have a nice day." The mechanic hangs up first.

There is a grieving process. Barry takes his lunch in the attic so that he can gaze into the parking lot undisturbed. The truck… it is wretched. It is a pathetic thing.

He tries convincing himself that it isn't so terrible. He wanted to indirectly buy Harmes a car that was safe and made them happy. The truck, however damaged the body may be, seems to be in better shape than the old thing. It doesn't even give off white smoke. That's certainly an improvement.

He spends a brief dip in the bargaining stage. Perhaps Harmes would buy a second car, a work-appropriate car? How much money would he need to give for that?

…it's a moot point. Harmes doesn't accept gifts.

Barry lets out a beleaguered sigh.

The week passes. The truck is an open wound. It only falls to the back of his mind in the wake of the disastrous dinner meeting with Marc.

…It wasn't his best showing. He hadn't even considered that the weasel was a desirable client for his junior partner. That oversight was embarrassing in retrospect.

He comes into work too shame-faced to even sigh about the truck. It isn't there yet anyway. Barry writes an apology and leaves it on Harmes' desk.

There's some excitement that afternoon when Gene pioneers a new and exciting way to get a felony charge. But Barry can't really enjoy it, because Harmes is avoiding him so studiously that they miss out on the resulting office party.

Eventually, Barry coaxes Harmes out. He's tentatively hopeful that he hasn't done anything irreparable to their working relationship.

Two mornings later, Janine gasps.

Barry makes a questioning sound. He's facing the counter, making his morning coffee before heading into his office.

"You're going to want to see this, Barry."

He puts down the cup with a clink. He turns around slowly. Her serious tone has his full attention.

Janine is standing at the window. Harmes doesn't drive over the curb this time, carefully whipping around the corner in a precision turn.

"This is worse," Barry says numbly.

Janine pats his back in sympathy. "It is," she says. Even she can't laugh about this. She goes back to her desk solemnly.

Barry can't move. He's still stuck there staring out the window in open-mouthed horror when Harmes walks in.

"Good morning, Janine. Good morning, Barry."

Janine responds. He can't.

Harmes walks over to him. "New car," they say cheerfully. "I'm just going to use the truck for rocking." Keys jingle.

He tries to respond. The sound he makes is a croak.

"Isn't it nice?" Harmes asks innocently. They indicate the bright red, shiny sports car in their parking spot.

Harmes bought a volcano car. Harmes gave his money to that insufferable businessman Duke.

Barry finally tears his gaze away and makes eye contact with Harmes.

Harmes is waiting for it. They hold prolonged eye contact.

"Marc gave it to me." Harmes keeps staring at him. There is something unhinged in those eyes. Barry blinks, and four seconds pass. Harmes doesn't blink.

His stomach twists faintly in disgust. Marc? Harmes was on first name terms with that twerp now? He can't find the wherewithal to muster a response.

The seconds stretch on. Janine staples something. Someone washes their hands in the next room. Harmes is still looking deeply into his eyes in some sort of sick dominance play.

"That's nice of him," Barry says weakly. He looks down as blood begins thumping in his ears and dimming his vision. He retreats into his office.

He's lost. Barry knows that now. He sits at his desk and buries his face in his hands.

Did Harmes know? Did Harmes realize he'd assassinated the car and do this to punish him? Or was it even worse- was it fate? Had he pushed Harmes and Duke closer together?

Barry inhales a long, shuddering breath. He lets go of his face. He accepts the total loss, and he gets back to work.

NOTE:

This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!

#deplorably devoted to you #redflagromance #short story #Barry Grivus #Neither Whole Nor Unbroken

3 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 8 months

Text

Short Story Release: Genes Big Day Out (Gene Colmer Story- 6,797 words)

“I’m gonna miss you, man.” Officer Hernandez wrapped his arm around Gene in a half-hug. “Don’t be a stranger. You know my number?”

Gene rattled it off and squeezed the other man around the waist.

He made a mental note that he needed to get a phone. His old one had been shot, years ago, when he’d thought it would be funny to throw it in the air and shoot it. He somewhat regretted that, but it had indeed been amusing.

“That’s good.” Hernandez pulled away and scrubbed at his face. “Just don’t tell me anything I’ll have to report, alright?” He wagged a finger in Gene’s face.

“I would never dream of it,” Gene assured. “I’m going straight from here on out, on my mama’s grave.”

The prison guards laughed again. Gene slapped them all on the back one by one until someone gave him a cardboard box with his belongings. “Oh, I nearly forgot about these.” He quickly started putting on his personal effects. He shucked the prison issue soft shoes and pulled on boots. Then he realized he needed to change his pants first and took the boots back off.

“You can change in there,” Officer Sealy said, pointing at a door.

Gene shrugged. “Naw,” he said, and took off his orange pants. He let them fall to the floor, forgotten. He pulled on his black jeans with a shimmy and touched the pocket. “Can I have my gun back?”

The guards exchanged a look. “You can have everything that you had at the time of admission to the jail,” Officer Sealy said carefully.

“Neat.” The left pocket of his jeans was suddenly heavy with Gene’s favorite gun, the one that never ran out of bullets and he’d had since he was too young to remember getting it. He patted it companionably. “Well. Is that all, you think?”

Officer Apple pulled open the door. Gene grimaced at the light that spilled into the room. “You’re free to go,” she said, smiling with her teeth. “Don’t come back here too fast now.”

“But don’t just give up,” Officer Hernandez said hastily. “We are all rooting for you, man. Go make something of yourself!”

“I’m already real famous.” Gene said it casually, but his feelings were pretty hurt. He sniffed and walked out into the day, marveling at how the air smelled. Then his next thought was that the world was uncomfortably big and open. He needed to get inside someplace, get somewhere less exposed. He took a shaky inhalation and squinted around. Hammer wouldn't have left him on his own. There would be a car waiting for him.

He saw the car. But he was immediately distracted by something beyond it, something with a signboard.

He was pleasantly surprised to see that the restaurant next door still existed. Gene walked directly there from the prison, cutting short his goodbyes to the guards.

“See you soon, Gene!” called one of them.

He waved absentmindedly. “Sure thing, Rodney,” Gene agreed. He beelined to the restaurant, barely noticing that one of his gang was waiting in the car. The man’s ghastly white face turned to watch him walk past. Gene heard but did not think about the sigh. Reginald was a big sigher.

He stopped abruptly outside of the glass door. “Hell,” Gene said, disappointed beyond words. “Hell and damnation and a real letdown.”

“They’re closed,” agreed the driver, in that weird echoey voice that all 9 of Gene’s buddies had. “It’s 6 am, my lord. There will be no distribution of burgers.”

“There’s nothing good in the world,” Gene said, and despondently got in the car. He leaned over to hug his old friend, and pretended not to notice the off-putting smell that all his boys had. “Where are we going?”

His buddy revved the engine. “We go now to meet the wicked woman who claims loyalty to your ostentatious former cellmate.”

It didn't take long for Reginald's weird dirt and mold smell to fill the car. Gene looked for the bar thing that he’d wind in a circle to roll down the window. It didn’t exist. “Shit, did they get rid of car windows that open while I was in prison?” Genuine disappointment threaded his voice.

This was already not what he’d hoped. Maybe he should just go back in another 2, 3 years, Gene bargained internally. He just needed a little more time to get used to how terrible everything was all the time. Maybe he should just turn around now, since he was already right outside. Rodney would unlock the cell for him.

There was a pause. His buddy sighed again. He touched something under the driver’s side window. Separately, magic compelled the window by Gene to open.

“Oh, good,” said Gene, not wondering why the window had opened. He kicked his feet up onto the grey plastic shelf under the largest window. He felt a lot better. “Where are we going?”

The buddy that Gene personally referred to as ‘Reginald’ sighed again. His grip tightened on the wheel. His touch screen gloves were loose around his bony fingers and hung off his wrist. “Chicago, my lord.”

Gene frowned. “That’s a real letdown.”

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the drive. Gene loved his boys, he really did, but not a one of them was a good conversationalist. He watched the grass pass and counted the terrifying wooden poles that loomed out of the ground at regular intervals, strung with silver wire. There was a multitude.

‘I can’t go back yet,’ Gene reminded himself. ‘I made a promise to Hammer that I would make an attempt to flourish outside of the carceral system.’

His buddy parked the car in a dark garage. There were only two other vehicles inside. One of them was a truck. A man with a baseball cap got out of his, avoided his eyes, and went around to the back of Gene’s car. The other vehicle was a small, pale yellow thing. He knew the woman who leaned against the open door, if only because she had once come to visit Hammer in prison.

"Hello, Gene," she said warmly. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled at him. “I hope you don’t mind a little wait. We’re just going to have the plates changed out.”

He didn’t know what plates were involved in anything, so he ignored that comment.

Gene ducked his head in a greeting. "Hello, ma'am." He eyed her outfit, drinking in what must be modern fashion. She had slim-fitting black slacks, a long white shirt, and a yellow scarf over her hair. It matched her yellow nails, hoop earrings, and sunflower necklace.

He wasn't certain he could deliver that look with aplomb. Firstly, he always got blood on his whites. Second, he wasn't confident he knew how to wear bold jewelry. He only had one simple golden ring, and he hadn't taken it off in decades.

Gene quietly gave up the idea of updating his wardrobe.

Sunspot looked very nice, though. "You look very nice," he said, because it was his personal philosophy to say his good thoughts out loud.

She batted a hand at him. "You're just saying that because I'm not in a prison uniform."

"That's true," Gene agreed amiably. That was his only other basis for comparison. "It's been a while since I was out on the streets."

"Yes, I know." She looked at her phone screen. "Six years. Congratulations on serving your sentence!" Her nose crinkled. "Excuse me, I need to take this."

"Take what?"

He cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. She ignored him to lift the phone to her ear. Her voice transformed from the warm, bubbly tones he knew from calls to something hard with an accent he didn't know.

"What about the ice sculptures?" Sunspot paced three steps and then turned around. She bared her teeth. "They have to last all day. We'll just freeze the event center. No." She snapped her fingers twice and took the phone away from her ear to look at it when she growled, "Tell the venue that we're freezing them the night before. If they disagree, I'll happily get them a new director." She hung up with a violent motion. It looked like she wanted to throw the phone. Instead, she put it in her yellow purse. Her expression instantly melted into her earlier kind-eyed smile. "So sorry about that." She batted her eyes at him.

"What?" Gene blinked at her. He had been thinking about what his first meal out of prison should be. "Oh, it's no mind."

Maybe it should be steak. That was boring considering all the culinary options available, but he just plain liked it. Gene had never claimed to be an original man.

But that was the problem, wasn't it?

He frowned, and stopped listening to whatever Sunspot was saying.

His career had been stagnant for over a hundred years, and he knew it. It hurt his pride. But he didn't really feel the same passion that he used to.

It was intimidating, though. He didn't understand the new super villainy. He'd grown up on the simple, elegant principle of shooting people in order to acquire money. But that wasn't the done thing anymore. Hammer had explained that to him. No, now people had personal brands and presences and panache on a scale that made him feel uneasy and out-dated.

"I need to expand," he said, kicking his heel up against the cement divider with a number painted on it. "Learn, grow, do something new."

Sunspot made an encouraging noise. “It would be good to do some professional development,” she agreed. “You’ve been stagnant for the last hundred years or so.”

“I have not,” Gene said, and glared at his boots. They needed to be replaced. They’d gone brittle and funny in storage. He kicked himself for not asking someone to oil them while he was in prison. It was a waste of boots.

“Don’t you and Hammer have something exciting planned?” Sunspot cajoled.

He blinked back to paying attention. “We do,” Gene said, uncertain. He wasn’t wholly confident as to what Hammer had been proposing. Science had really advanced since he'd been educated to the third grade in 1732.

“That’ll be fun.” Sunspot looked at her phone again and her nostrils flared. “Excuse me.” She jabbed the phone and held it up to her ear. She jutted out her hip to one side and held the elbow of the hand holding the phone. “Hello, I have just one little correction about the wine fountain. It absolutely has to be white wine. We cannot have a fountain of red wine, it’ll look like we’re maniacs. Yes, that’s great.” She hung up again and bared her teeth. Then she took a careful, long inhalation. She swallowed. Her expression became sweet again. “Hello?”

Gene jerked to attention. “Hello?”

Sunspot ignored him. Ah. She was on a new call now, he realized.

“Buy the Bank of America. Yes. Yes, that’s fine. Alright then. Yes, we want it to crash. No, we can just get a government bailout.” She laughed, twisting fingers around her necklace. “Take care now. Buh bye.” She hung up. She put the phone down. “Sorry about that,” she said breezily. She focused on him. “You’re going to meet with Hammer tomorrow, that’s right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gene agreed, a little bored by all the talking. “He says that this will be good for my career.”

She smiled at him, showing both rows of teeth. “Well, he would know. He’s doing so well.”

“She lies,” hissed Reginald. His eyes somehow darkened. It gave the odd illusion that he had empty pits where eyes ought to be. “The woman has her own ambitions, and she conceals her motivations behind a false humility and loyalty. Take heed.”

“That’s nice,” Gene said to both of them. Sunspot didn’t seem to have heard Reginald. Most people had a difficult time making out the boys’ words. He sympathetically wondered, not for the first time, if that was frustrating. Maybe he oughta suggest they learn that hand language.

“Well, that’s done.” Sunspot withdrew an envelope from her bag and took two clicky high-heeled steps to hand it to the man in the baseball hat. The sound echoed in the empty cement cave. Gene had completely forgotten the man was even there. He tried to see the other man’s face and completely failed. “Thank you, you’re a darling. Gene, it was lovely to see you. Go raise hell, alright?” She shook his hand and looked him in the eyes.

He leaned back just a bit. She was a nice lady, but she could be real intense.

“Make a ruckus,” she encouraged without blinking. “Do something really ostentatious that will catch the world’s attention.” She held his face between her hands and stared at him intently. “You hear me? I want you and Hammer to be so loud that no one even thinks about me for a week.” She was so close that she was breathing on his nose.

“I will,” he said, touched. “You have a good day now.” He carefully pulled her hands off of his face.

Reginald hissed again. Sunspot ignored it and got back in her car with a friendly little nod at him. A guitar-heavy song started playing as she turned the key. On the other side of her car, the unfamiliar man started the engine in the truck. It was a cacophony. Gene grimaced, once again overwhelmed by how damned loud the world was outside of prison. He barely had the presence of mind to raise a hand in a goodbye as Sunspot disappeared into the blinding light outside of the parking garage.

Gene clapped Reginald on the bony back and got back in the car. “Well, we oughta head out.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face with the base of his palm. “I wish the other boys were here.”

There was a shift in the air that made Gene's ears pop, accompanied by the bone-deep chill that always followed his best friends. He looked up to see that four more of his boys were crammed into the backseat, cloaks and heavily embroidered clothing spilling over each other in a way that physically did not quite make sense. The other four were standing outside of his window.

“Oh, you came,” he said, touched. “Goddamn. Come here.” Gene hauled them into a hug one by one. “You’re the best, guys.”

“We are bound to you,” Archibald wheezed, voice like the sound of a tree creaking in the wind. “We will never be free until the token that you carry has been-”

“It means a lot to me that you're so dedicated,” Gene said, slapping Archibald’s shoulder. "A long-term friend is the most valuable thing a man can have."He sniffled. “But we can’t all fit in this car. You four just run on behind and meet us in Chicago, alright?”

“We could simply materialize-” Archibald 2 tried.

Gene cut him off. “No, I insist,” he said, because he didn’t know what materialize meant and it sounded troublesome. He didn’t wanna put anyone out. “I’ll be seeing you there.” He sat back down in the car and peeled off his ruined boots. Ah. He frowned down at them. “Could one of you get me new boots on the way?” he tried.

Reginald sighed again. He did that a lot.

“Yes, my lord,” said the four boys outside the car. One of them added, “Black leather, in a ladies’ size 9?”

Gene gave him finger guns. “You know I love the heel,” he agreed, as Reginald finally eased out of the parking spot.

They got on the road again and didn't talk. The quiet didn't bother him. Gene had gotten used to long silences and periods of solitude, when he'd been in solitary confinement. His hands itched for a book.

He started at the realization that he hadn't done anything with the books he'd been accumulating. "What happens to all my books?" Gene wondered aloud. "I forgot 'em in my cell."

Reginald glanced at him sideways, never fully turning away from the road. "I arranged for them to be mailed to your next legal residence."

"Thanks," Gene said, relaxing. "You are a valued partner. Your forethought is commendable."

Reginald didn't respond for a long moment. "My thanks," he managed. He cleared his throat and hissed, "Did you prefer the latest novel or the treatise upon recidivism and the prison industrial complex?"

"I read the one with the lady who inherited a bakery," Gene said, scratching at his hairline. "I also liked the book about the process for making towels. I confess I did not get very far into the weighty tome you recommended regarding the science of stars."

"Yes," Reginald said wearily. "I am aware."

He glanced in the mirror and brightened up. There were four regal shadows behind the car, legs pumping furiously, cloaks billowing, crowns bouncing in the wind.

He stuck a hand out and waved. One of them raised a hand and waved back.

They were nearly to the meetup when Reginald slammed into the back of another car. He hit the brakes too late to prevent the crunch of their car's front buckling.

"Ah!" Gene whipped out his gun, suddenly awake. The car behind them came to a stop, jolting them from the back as well. Someone laid on their horn. He looked around in a frenzy.

The car in front of them had totally stopped. One, two, three seconds passed. Then tires squealed as it started, veering to the right and blowing through the light.

"He hit that walker," Reginald said, appalled. "The scoundrel is escaping!"

Gene lifted his gun and fired at the car. The tiny mirror on the left side exploded in shards of glass and plastic. The car swerved violently but didn't stop.

Gene covered his face with an elbow to protect it, because the glass in front of him was collapsing inward. It didn't act like normal glass– no sharp projectiles. He wondered why.

A middle aged woman got out of the car behind him and ran in front of Gene's car. He leaned forward to see that people from the sidewalk were rushing over to kneel by a crumpled human figure seeping blood onto the road.

"Shit," Gene observed. "That ain't no good." He put away the gun. He pursed his lips. Goddamn irresponsible, that's what it was.

That was when someone ran up to Reginald's window and stopped to glare across the intersection. Gene glanced over to see a young woman, petite with dark eyes and bleached blonde hair. She was like a wiry version of Sunspot, wearing dark colors and bright accessories. She looked furious, tense with barely contained violence.

He eyed her tiny red shirt and fruit earring skeptically. He was feeling less and less comfortable with modern fashion, defensive of the clothes he already had on.

He kicked open the door with a sigh and stood, subtly stretching his shoulders in the sunlight.

"Gene?"

The sound of his name in an unfamiliar, feminine voice got his full attention. He frowned down at her. "Have we met?"

"No, I just watch the news." Her eyes were a little wide. "Hit and run?"

Hit and run, that's what this was called. He made a mental note of it. It sounded familiar. Sounded like a sport thing.

"Yeah, gotdamn irresponsible and rude." He scowled, still insulted that the driver hadn't stopped. "I shot off their mirror but they ain't fucking stop." He watched bystanders move the victim off the road. Huh. Must still be alive, then. He rolled his shoulder, contemplating. Should he help? The boys did have those big black bat things. "Think I should have one of my boys taken 'em to the doctor on their wing things?"

What were they called, anyway. Had anyone ever said? Had Gene ever asked? He didn't recall.

The girl's voice was a little stiff. "No, you shouldn't move an injured person more than you have to."

It finally hit him that she had recognized him on sight. That meant he wasn't irrelevant. Gene felt his back straighten a little bit, buoyed. He couldn't be that stagnant and outdated. He was still a celebrity criminal.

Oh. A funny thought occurred to him. Technically, he wasn't on the run from the law at the moment. "I can't go, right?' he checked. "I need to talk to the police?" He cocked his head, amused by the thought.

"Yeah. I'll get them. It was silver, right? Did you see the make and model? License plate maybe?" Her expression was intense, vaguely predatorial. Once again, he thought of Sunspot.

Her nonsense words registered. Plate. Sunspot had also mentioned plates. "I have no idea," Gene mused. "I don't know what any of that means."

Reginald broke into the conversation. "It was a silver 2016 Ford," he said. "His license plate was local and the first digit was 65."

He glanced at the girl, curious to see if that string of babble meant anything to her.

She was stock-still in that funny white-eyed pose that usually meant someone needed him to chime in.

Gene let out a sigh. Poor Reginald. So he repeated what Reginald had said. She blinked and focused on him midway, starting to breathe again.

"Tell her that the driver was a tall and heavy-set man," Reginald added. He did.

"Tell the police that," she ordered. His eyebrows went up. Bit imperious, wasn't she? "You shot through your windshield?"

A shield of wind was a fascinating concept. Gene blinked at her, very interested in where this was going. "The what?"

She indicated the sheet of glass that hadn't shattered right.

Ah. He felt his interest flee. "Oh, that." He rolled his shoulders. "Yeah."

The girl scrunched her nose up and then tilted her head to the side. "Fair enough. Tell the police that the window broke when you hit the car in front of you, no gun involved." She grimaced. "If they ask, say you don't have collision insurance."

Reginald turned to look at her with such intensity that Gene was surprised she didn't notice it. She was too deep in whatever thoughts she was having.

"I don't know what that is," Gene agreed amiably. Right, the gun. Didn't need that anymore. He put it away and stopped thinking about it.

The girl bit her lower lip and stuck a hand down the back of her trousers, shoulder contorting as she searched for something. She didn't notice Gene's eyebrows shoot straight up. "Ah, fuck." She made a face, clearly unhappy. "You have a mechanic?" She gestured at the front of the car. "You should get that checked out asap."

"No, I do not," Gene shrugged. "You know somebody?"

"She is the mechanic," Reginald whispered, eyes flashing. "I sense it, master. She possesses formidable knowledge. Ask her the secrets of liability and coverage."

"I'll fix it," the girl promised. "Or at least check it out. Don't drive on it more than you have to. Call me before 7 tonight, alright?"

Oh, shit and brimstone. He suddenly remembered the time. He was gonna be late to meet Hammer. If he'd had a phone, he woulda contacted him. Once more, he regretted not asking Hammer to arrange a phone.

"Accept the offer," Reginald urged, frustrated. "We have no insurance. This mechanical chariot was stolen."

The girl didn't react. Man, no one ever seemed to hear poor Reginald. Gene smiled at the girl. "That would be much appreciated. I don't have a phone now, can you give me your number?"

She gave him the number and left, pulling over to the right of his car and through the intersection.

"Mechanic," Gene said, cementing the new context for the word in his memory. He casually looked around for a piece of paper to write her number on, to no success.

"Her departure is suspicious, my lord. How does a craftsman intend to apprehend-"

He cut Reginald off mid sentence on accident, furrowing his brow. "Mechanic, mechanic." He rubbed at his temple. "Shoulda gotta phone already," he said ruefully. "We'd've been better off if I'd've done." He repeated the mechanic's phone number once more, fixing it in his long term memory.

There was a pause. Reginald didn't seem to know what to say.

There was a knock on the car. "Broooo," Hammer stage-whispered. He was grinning, mouth opened wide under enormous black glasses that hid his eyes. Gene noticed he was wearing a plain white t-shirt. His fashion related anxiety quieted.

Gene threw his arms open. "When did you get here?" He hugged his prison friend.

Hammer jerked a thumb backwards. "I was behind that car that just peeled out of here."

"That's my mechanic," Gene proudly said. "She's gonna fix the car."

Hammer hugged him again. "You've got a professional contact four hours after getting out of prison?" He playfully shook Gene. "You're unstoppable, man! You're a force behind reckoning!"

Gene grinned sheepishly down at his boots, ladies size 9. "Naw," he demurred.

"What happened?" Hammer tilted his head to the side. "Somebody die?"

"I'm waiting to talk to the police," Gene explained. "I saw a home run."

"A what?"

Gene pointed. "Car hit a man on the stripes," he explained. "Saw what he'd done, and drove off real fast."

"What a dick," Hammer said. His tone implied that this was a bad thing. Gene made a mental note to ask why genitals were bad, at a later time. "But you don't have to wait. Reggie, you'll explain everything, right?"

Reginald raised a hand in acknowledgement.

"Come on." Hammer steered Gene a few steps backwards from the scene of the crime. "You just got out today. We should do something fun. I was thinking we could empty geocaches in the park and not replace them. Or we could go shopping, or head to the gym to take updated ass pics. Your social media is empty, bro. It would be fire for a first photo. What do you say?"

"I don't know…" Gene glanced uncertainly at the casualty on the sidewalk. "Seems wrong to flee the scene of the crime when I wasn't involved."

"It's not fleeing," Hammer dismissed. "You just have better things to do." His voice turned deadly serious. "Gene, my man." He faced Gene straight on and took off his glasses to make eye contact. "The McRib is back."

Gene slammed the car door shut. "Let's go."

The fabled sandwich was as fearful and wonderful as promised. Gene gagged, put a hand to his stomach, and took another bite. "I understand why you talked about this so much." It was repulsive. He wanted a second one immediately.

"I'm not sure it's fit for human consumption," Hammer said contemplatively. "Incredible, isn't it?" He shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth. Then he wiped away some sauce with a napkin.

After eating, they went to the park with two small shovels from the trunk of Hammer's car. Gene ambled along, thumbs in his pockets, squinting around.

Hammer was consulting his phone, turning a few degrees at a time and then bee-lining towards something. "Here." He tapped the ground with a shoe. "I think this is it."

Gene obligingly stuck his shovel in.

It didn't take long to hit something. They victoriously extracted a capsule and unscrewed it. Hammer immediately threw the note over his shoulder without reading it. "Hey, look." He held up an envelope. "What do you think this is? Cash?"

Gene dropped his shovel and crowded in. "I don't know. Open it!"

Hammer broke the seal, quietly saying “Ahhhhhhhh” the whole time, eyes wide, grinning fiercely. He pulled up a photograph. His expression fell.

Gene lost his patience and pushed Hammer over to see the photo. His jaw dropped. “That’s a good cat!” He exclaimed. “Look at this thing!” He marveled, briefly flipping the photo over to see that the word ‘Cinder’ was handwritten on the back. “You can’t see his feet at all! What’s he doing that for?”

“It’s such a good cat!” Hammer jostled him, grin in place once more. “Hell yes, bro!”

“I am keeping this for my personal records,” Gene said firmly, and carefully put it in his back pocket. He hoped it didn’t get bent. “Is there anything else?”

“Nah,” Hammer said. He let the capsule fall to the dirt. “That was all that was in there. Wanna go case food trucks?”

“Absolutely I do,” said Gene, who didn’t know what that meant.

Apparently it meant that they went together to parked trucks that advertised various foods. They got a taquito at one, a truly repulsive slice of saccharine pizza at another, and then an ice cream bar so smooth and fruity that Gene cried.

“That’s the one,” Hammer said, pointing back at the ice cream truck. “That’s our guy. It’s perfect. They close up at 5 and their shit is fire.”

“It is,” Gene agreed. “What do you mean?” He licked his ice cream again.

“We’re gonna borrow that to use as our getaway vehicle tonight.” Hammer punched him on the arm companionably. “I’ll have Sunny figure out where it’ll be parked. Wanna go get some clothes?”

“Yes and also no.” Gene scratched at his chin. “I’m afraid of updating.”

“We’ll find something that you like,” Hammer promised. He slung an arm over Gene’s shoulder and steered him back to the car. “We have to look good for the buyers, after we make off with tonight’s incredible loot.”

That was a fair point. They drove to a store that Hammer liked and wandered around, picking up clothes and trying to collect enough to go to the changing rooms. Gene ran into a problem early.

"They don't have my style," Gene said with a frown. He folded back up the jeans and put them on the shelf. "Are we in the wrong section?"

Hammer looked down from where he was comparing two identical sleeveless shirts. "What cut are you looking for?"

Gene shrugged and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. They had absurdly tiny pockets. "Like this," he said, kicking out a leg.

His friend's eyes narrowed in on them and then Hammer grimaced. "Bro, those are super skinny jeans," he said apologetically. "Man, those are painted on. I can see the major muscle groups of your thighs."

"And calves," Gene pointed out with a flex. "If I turn around, you can see the glutes." He lifted his shirt a little and twisted to show Hammer his muscle definition. "Do you see that? Boom."

Hammer made a teeth sucking sound. "Bro…" He put down the shirts he was looking at. Gene had a feeling of trepidation. "Bro, I am so sorry. Skinny jeans are out of fashion."

Gene stared.

"You can't find ‘em in regular stores now, everyone is buying these. Look at the shoppers, bro." Gene followed the expressive line of Hammer's arm gesture.

There, behind the register, a heavily tattooed woman with wide legged pink trousers, servicing a line of teenagers with wide legged jeans. Down the aisle, two boys with enough pant space for an additional child per pant leg. The parade of horrors went on and on.

"Skinny jeans would age you a bit," Hammer said apologetically. "I am so sorry, bro. I wish it didn't have to be this way."

"No!" Gene cried. "I hate it!" He pulled out his gun, ready to kill every person in wide legged trousers and make the nightmare end by force. "I have gorgeous gams, Hammer! I can't hide them like this! Who started this? I'll end them!"

"Whoa bestie, calm down," Hammer soothed. "You don't have to update." He put a big, warm hand on Gene's shoulder. "Following trends is interesting specifically because it draws attention to outright subversion and to unique and creative use of the trend."

Gene lowered the gun. "Really?"

"Really," Hammer confirmed. He squeezed Gene's shoulder. "Come on, man. If this cesspool of cutting edge fashion doesn't have the cut you want, we can go vintage." He waggled his eyebrows. "Bro."

"Bro," Gene echoed, not sure where this was going.

"Let's go to a thrift shop, bro."

"Bro," Gene said tearfully. He sniffled. He put away the gun. "Let's go thrift shopping."

That went better. Gene left with four changes of clothes, and then he felt brave enough to venture back to another store for socks and shit like that. They took it all to Hammer’s hideout and discussed their plan.

They split up after that with different tasks. Hammer left to borrow the ice cream truck. Gene went out a few minutes later, but he left some of his boys in the hideout to help Hammer when he got back. Gene took Reginald, Archibald, Archibald 2, and King George to an eerie and weird-smelling place called the home depot. King George and Archibald 2 slipped in a metal door and came out a few minutes later riding high on success and a metal contraption. Rather, King George was walking. Archibald 2 was riding the tool that they had come to steal.

“Aww,” said Gene, who was a little disappointed that the door he had tried had been into the store itself and not the back area. He’d gotten lost inside.

They loaded up their prize and left hastily.

Hammer had beat them back to the base. He was directing as two of Gene’s boys hefted a huge white …thing out of the truck. “Hey man,” he greeted. “Freezers are too big, we can’t fit Jupiter in here with them.”

“I see,” Gene lied. He crossed his arms and watched. Them things looked heavy. “That’s where the ice cream is?”

“It is.” Hammer nodded seriously. “I gotta find something to do with these things. I only need one, you know?” He threw his hands up expressively. “I have three commercial deep fryers waiting for resale as well. It really wears on me.”

“I get that.” Gene lied again. He clapped Hammer on the back encouragingly. “You can push through anything.”

Hammer whipped to face him. “Thanks, bestie,” he said tearfully. “I’m so glad to be doing this with you. It’s gonna be great for both of us, you know? A classic supervillain move, with massive profit. Social media is gonna love it, too. You sure you don’t wanna be on?”

Gene sucked in air through his teeth. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe just not my face?”

“We’ll soft launch you.” Hammer said it encouragingly. “I’m gonna go on ahead, alright? You and your boys just come when the truck is ready.” He rolled his neck. “I’m gonna case the place, do a walk through, make sure everything is fine for you to roll up and do the extraction.”

Wait. Gene frowned. “Is there something that might not be fine?”

Hammer avoided his eyes. “No, of course not,” he said, in a very unconvincing tone.

“Bro,” Gene said disapprovingly.

His friend slumped a little when he sighed. His face might have turned a little pink. “I just have this heroic rival,” he said, still avoiding eye contact. “It’s not important. We’re just fated to clash, you know?”

“I got it,” Gene said, losing interest. One hero wasn’t going to be an issue.

It didn’t take that long for Gene and his boys to get ready and follow Hammer. The drive was nice.

Gene bounced on the seat, enjoying the view from up high as they arrived at the planet place. Reginald stopped the enormous truck next to Hammer's car and left the engine running.

"Nice," Gene said, and kicked open the door. He jumped down onto the road and strode around to the back. He unlocked it and heaved it open.

His boys spilled out of the ice cream truck in a tidal wave, 7 of them on foot and Archibald 2 atop their prize from the stocking area of a hardware store, a weird slow car with a big fork in the front. "Let's go," Gene crowed. Reginald sighed at his shoulder. Gene side-eyed him. "You should get that checked out, I think you might have assma."

Archibald 2 drove the fork thing out, down the ramp, and then across the grass to the main entrance of the planet house. Gene opened the door for him and sidled in. He didn't have to guide his boys. They all knew the layout of the place.

His footsteps echoed in the church of science. Gene paused to marvel at a painting so elaborate it looked like a fantasy rather than a depiction of the sky. "Incredible," he mused. "How'd they do it?" He ambled behind Archibald 2, shaking his head at the modern miracles. "How did they get a planet in here?"

Reginald sighed again.

"We are gonna make so much money," Gene said, pointing at his friend. He waggled his eyebrows.

"Yes, my lord," came the response.

He realized something was wrong when he got upstairs. For one, there was shouting and sounds of things breaking. "That's no good," Gene said, uneasy. He frowned towards the noise. "Let's load Jupiter up and then go find Hammer."

The room with Jupiter was a mess. Someone had been throwing chairs and breaking metal. Gene felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Hammer…"

"Jupiter, my lord," Archibald 2 urged from his mount on the forklift.

"Right, right." Gene shook off his concern and arranged his boys to lift the planet onto the fork lift. It were extremely heavy. They did it with pants and groans.

"At last," Archibald 2 hissed with glee. "I lift our prize aloft!" He did something on the lift.

Nothing happened.

Gene blinked.

The forklift began making a distressed sort of hum.

"Lift," Archibald 2 hissed. "I command you."

The forklift started beeping. The air stank like something was burning. There was a clank- and the engine of the forklift died.

Gene and his boys stood in silence for a long moment. "I think we killed the lifter," Gene marveled. He ran a hand through his hair. "Well, shit. We can't return it to the depot of homes like that." He frowned. “And we can’t use it to move Jupiter.”

They all considered the situation. King George broke the silence. "Perhaps we might roll it, my lord."

"...It is a sphere," Gene said slowly. He nodded his head. "Yeah, that oughta work, huh? Good idea!" He clapped King George on the back. "Think you boys can handle it? I want to go check on Hammer."

He didn't wait for an answer. He heard steps as some of the boys followed him, but he knew enough of them would get Jupiter out and into the truck.

It was for the best that he had checked in. Hammer had gotten himself in trouble with some hero. After Gene got him out of trouble, they jogged out of the planetarium. As they walked out the door, Gene saw the truck drive off. The back sagged with the weight of the planet inside.

“Here, use my phone to call your mechanic,” Hammer said. He was absolutely bouncy with cheer, eyes bright. Gene took the phone with a thanks and stole a rueful sideways look at his partner. Hammer was really invested in that hero.

Well. It wasn’t really his business how another man defined himself and perfected his craft.

He dialed the number he had memorized. It rang. It rang again. It rang until there was a beep and an unfriendly exhortation to leave a message.

“Hey there, it’s me, Gene.” He stopped and looked back at the planetarium. The hero inside was shouting something. He frowned and covered the bottom of the phone with his hand to muffle it. “Sorry about how late this call is. Anyway, I would certainly appreciate your time tomorrow. Message me at this number. Goodbye now.” He hung up.

Hammer took his phone back wordlessly and hopped in the car. He stole a wistful look back at the building in the little mirror. “What a night,” he said, and started the car. “How do you feel? A good first day out of prison?”

“Absofuckinlutely,” Gene assured him. “It was touch and go at some points but you really rescued me.”

“I appreciate that. Really, I’m glad to help you. You’re my best friend, bro.” Hammer revved the engine and peeled out. “Bro. Know what we should do after I list Jupiter on Cragg'sList?”

Gene thought for a moment. “Bubble baths and then a movie?”

Hammer punched him. “Hell yes, bro.”

(POSTSCRIPT: Cut to Reginald cutting the tags off of Gene's new pants and loading them into an industrial washer)

This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!

#deplorably devoted to you #Gene Colmer #short story #love interest short story #Gene's Big Day Out

5 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 8 months

Text

Update posted on itch!

Thank you for your patience- a partial update on week 3 has been released on itch.io. You can solve a kidnapping case and a few other things, and the rest of the update will be up as soon as I've figured it out.

#deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #redflagromance #update

11 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 9 months

Text

#tumblr polls #polls

10 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 9 months

Text

#tumblr polls #polls

5 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 10 months

Text

Superdim Sunday Chapter 8: Epilogue and Introduction of Moonstrike

Gene's eyebrows shot up when she knocked on the garage wall. "Sheeeeet." He cocked his head.

Ji-Min exchanged a nod with the wraith waiting next to the car. Her black eye throbbed. The bruise wrapped around her head and under her hair. Her sunglasses weren't really disguising the extent of the bruise, not this close.

"What happened to you?" Gene detached from the garage wall, frowning. "You in trouble, darling?"

Ji-Min cracked her gum. "I'm fine," she said. She avoided looking at the wraith. If he wasn't gonna say shit, neither would she. "Let's open up this beauty." She put the glasses on the top of her head.

Gene held out the keys. She took them with a nod. "You need the car today?"

The cowboy shrugged. "Nah," he said. "We're in town another couple of days."

"Yeah?" Ji-Min kept any interest out of her tone. She propped the hood open. "Where's next." She stared into the engine block.

There was a hum. "New Platopolis, I think."

Figured. That was kind of the national center of super crime. It was a great place to go if you wanted to get arrested.

She sniffed. "Sounds nice."

"Yuuuup." Gene blew out some air. "Let me know if you wanna ride, ma'am."

"In your broken car, yeah." Ji-Min shot him a wry grin before she got to work. "You're the darling."

The wraith sighed. But he didn't say shit.

______________________________________________________________

Superdim ends here, but the next installment- Moonstrike- starts where Superdim leaves off. Keep posted for Moonstrike Mondays, coming soon!

Moonstrike Preview, Chapter 1

"I need to postpone basic training," Ji Min texted. She was leaning up against the kitchen counter. "Work is sending me out of state." Somewhere outside, a child shrieked. She could hear the beeping of a crosswalk.

The response came quickly. "For how long?"

"Two weeks," she texted back. The prediction she'd been given was 1.5, but these things almost always ran long. Besides, it was best to lie. She hadn't given them her identity yet. Any accurate information was a clue.

"That's unfortunate," messaged Alejandro, the suit who was arranging her government hero training. "We had aligned your training with another new start in the program. You're sure you can't rearrange things with work?"

Ji Min snorted. Well, she was glad to miss that. "Sorry to hear that," she lied. "It's non negotiable. I'll catch up in training as best as I can." She put her burner phone away without waiting to see what the government had to say about that.

She already knew that they wanted her to be financially dependent on them. They weren’t forcing the issue, but they were very clear that she could quit her job and live on the general salary and benefits package that came from state heroism. Ji Min didn’t need to wait for Alejandro’s reply to know that he’d be doom and gloom about her chances to catch up in training. He'd probably caution that it wasn't going to be that easy, she had to expect a hard time, yada yada. If training was as hard as he kept saying, she'd be genuinely surprised. There were plenty of incompetent heroes bumbling their way through life.

Birds chirped outside. She glanced out the window to confirm that the weather looked idyllic. She wanted to feel the sun on her face, turning her hair hot and warming her shoulders.

She let out a heavy sign and went to her closet to dig out her rain gear.

Ari thumped her way down the stairs and into the living room. She gave Ji Min an amused look. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Ji Min echoed. She snapped open a plastic storage container and started lifting up winter coats in search of what she needed.

"Your rain boots are in the hall closet." Ari opened the fridge and pulled out eggs and bacon. "You start the coffee?"

Ji Min tugged out the rain coat and shoved the box back into the closet. "No, sorry."

"I'll get it, then." She heard a drawer slide open.

"No, no, it's my job." Ji Min closed the closet and followed her sister into the kitchen. "Dark roast okay today?"

The burner flicked on. Ari snickered. "Long day?" The scent of olive oil wafted over as Ari unscrewed the cap.

Ji Min sighed theatrically without pausing in measuring coffee beans. "I've gotta go out of state, do field work after that hurricane." She started the grinder.

"Better you than me." Ari checked the heat of the cast iron pan and started cracking eggs into it.

Ji Min side-eyed her and resisted the urge to tell Ari to crack them into a bowl first. Ari knew that trick, she just didn't want to do it.

"Don't." Ari put the rest of the eggs away.

Ji Min put her hands up. "I didn't say anything!" She protested.

"You were thinking about the egg bowl."

"You don't know what I was thinking," Ji Min lied, and poked her sister in the side with a finger.

Ari made a satisfying shriek and brandished the spatula at her. "I will hit you!" She threatened.

Ji Min rolled her eyes. "Is this the limit of your pacifism?"

"Older sisters are an exception," Ari snapped back. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and proceeded to ignore Ji Min.

Fair enough. Ji Min put bread into the toaster, ready for the magic of transformation. Then she got out everything they needed from the fridge, moving around Ari as she set the table. She breathed in the sweet and spicy scent of fermented kimchi and the savory smell of cream cheese.

"Stop sniffing our breakfast, weirdo," Ari complained.

"I'll sniff what I want." Ji Min scooped out what they needed and mixed them together briskly. She stuck the remainder in the fridge and was spreading the dreamy mixture on toast by the time Ari brought over eggs, ready to slide on top. Ji Min poured the coffee. They ate in silence.

Ji Min was the first to break it, once her toast was gone. "Finals are coming up, right? Three weeks out?"

Ari sighed and looked into her coffee cup. "Yeah." She stirred it unenthusiastically. "I'm going to fail my Econ final. I'll scrape a pass, I did well on the earlier work. But it's not going to be good."

"You are not going to fail," Ji Min said, appalled. "We'd never hear the end of it. What's going wrong?"

Ari shrugged. "It doesn't make sense to me, and I don't have the time to study it enough. I have to prioritize the essays I have. I really don't think I can fit it all in."

Ji Min grimaced. "How many hours are you doing at the café?"

"25 a week." Ari looked up at her. "Why?"

She pointed at her little sister. "If you promise to pass Econ, you can take the next three weeks off, or quit if they don't agree. I don't care. I'll cover you. You're almost to graduation anyway."

"No way," Ari said, but Ji Min could tell she was tempted. "I don't want to leech off of you."

"In three months you'll probably be making more money than me in some firm." Ji Min shrugged. "You can get me a good birthday gift. Do you need a tutor?" She cocked her head. "If the way the professor explained things didn't stick, you're probably not going to get it by banging your head against your books."

Ari sucked in air through her teeth.

That was answer enough. Ji Min stood up, leaving her plate. "I'll leave my blue debit card, take out what you need."

"What's the limit?" Ari asked swiftly.

Ji Min snorted. "I'd pay a lot to keep our family from demanding to know why you didn't do well in one gen ed class." She pursed her lips. "Call me if you need more than a thousand, but I'll laugh at you for getting cheated by the tutor."

"That's fair," Ari said.

"You're doing the dishes."

Ari made a sour face, but she didn't argue. She left the apartment first, en route to a class.

Ji Min had more time. She finished packing and hauled everything to the door. Then she stretched out on the sofa and turned on the T.V. to the news.

She immediately huffed a laugh at how topical the story was. They were recapping the whole alien invasion thing. Ji Min was bored enough to turn up the volume and watch a manic-eyed reporter interview Heatwave. She bit her lower lip, watching the older hero talk.

Most anonymous heroes covered their eyes: he'd taken the opposite route by covering everything else. You could see that he had long lashes, brown skin, and orange eyes. He probably just wore colored contacts in his private life and wound up anonymous.

He was actually one of the impressive ones, an international hero with the U.N. His teammates were probably still engaged with cleanup as he calmly reiterated that there had been no civilian casualties and that the invaders had been successfully repelled.

"They were repelled because they came to Norway and that's atrocious," Ji Min sniffed, and turned the T.V. back off. She knew she was being bitter, but the E.U. had all the top hero teams. It was like soccer: the USA was too stubborn to get involved early on, and now they lagged behind. If they were the top of the pile, Americans would be insufferable about it. But since they sucked, they turned their noses up at international heroism.

It could change, though, she realized. They were putting a lot of money into recruitment. Maybe that was the goal.

Hmm. Would she want to be on a comparable team, maybe for North America or just the Americas in general? Mexican heroism was stylish. She'd work with one of them, for sure.

She thought about it. She was still going back and forth on whether she was genuinely becoming a hero or if she was just grifting the government for supplies and training.

"It would be pretty cool to be a founding member of an international team," Ji Min admitted to herself, toying with the idea.

Despite what Alejandro said… she believed that she was better than the average hero recruit. Maybe what he'd said had even reinforced that, if she was honest. The physical limits he'd mentioned were news to her.

"I might just have been born better than everyone else," she mused. She got up to make another coffee. "It might be nice to show off."

When it was time, she drove to the airport and caught her flight down south. The company had a rental waiting for her. She took it straight to work, going to client homes and businesses until the end of working hours. Only then did she drive to her hotel and check in for the night.

#Superdim #Superdim Sunday #deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #redflagromance #short story

5 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 10 months

Text

#tumblr polls #polls

4 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 10 months

Text

#tumblr polls #polls

8 notes · View notes

redflagromance · 10 months

Text

Superdim Sunday: Chapter 7

"I shouldn't kill you," Gene said thoughtfully. "Hammer doesn't like it much."

Ji-Min relaxed. And then he withdrew his gun and she was a lot less relaxed. "That would kill me!" She threw her hands up. "Don't shoot."

"Naw," he said. He pointed it at her and pulled the hammer back. "Bang bang." She saw his finger pull back.

She dodged in a roll. She heard something hit the wall behind her.

"You're fast," Gene said. It wasn't a compliment. He fired again.

Ji-Min shrieked and leapt halfway across the room. She sprinted to the entry and bounced off a fast-moving wraith.

"Grab er!"

She dropped into a roll, hoping to move past the wraith below grabbing range. It was time to go, Hammer could just win this time.

It was too late for bargaining. Bony fingers dug into her shoulder and halted her motion. She tried to twist away. The world spun around her and her head hit the ground with a crack.

For a moment, she was dazed. Metal screeched and she was heaved upwards, against the wall. She didn't know what was happening but then there was a weight on her chest. That seemed…bad.

Then she heard the slow sound of footsteps toward her.

He was going to shoot her at close range.

Ji-Min struggled, trying to jerk away. The skeletal hands holding her had no give. She realized that the metal had been twisted off the wall to pin her.

“Thanks, friend,” said the cowboy. He sounded touched. “I treasure your reliability and consideration.” He pulled the gun out of his belt and pointed it at her head. “Goodbye, law woman. Awful sorry about this, but we are diametrically opposed forces.”

Fuck, what a stupid way to go.

“No!” Hammer bellowed.

Ji-Min blinked up at him. She hadn't heard him come back in the room.

Gene stopped, finger still on the hammer of his gun. “No?” He repeated. His voice was only curious. He cocked his head to the side. “Why no?”

Hammer staggered to his feet, using the wall as a brace. He pointed one huge hand at her. “That’s my rival.” He sounded scandalized. “Look- each supervillain needs a superhero. For balance. One day, one of us will kill the other.” He paused. “Or we could fall in love,” Hammer amended offhand.

Ji-Min shuddered.

“There’s only two ways for this to go,” Hammer explained passionately.

‘That’s three,’ Ji-Min thought. ‘I kill him, he kills me, romance. Three possibilities, according to his logic.’ She kept the correction inside. She wanted to live.

“Wow,” marveled Gene. He nodded slowly and holstered his weapon. “That makes a lot of sense. She’s your dramatic opposite.”

“The Ying to my yam,” Hammer said wisely. “We need each other. Our identities define the other.” He shook his head once and pulled his fingers through his hair to arrange it.

She wanted to die of mortification, just a little bit, but she wanted to live more. So she nodded along, in case her opinion had any weight.

“She agrees with me!” Hammer pointed victoriously. “Does this mean you’ll accept my help with your branding?” He made a gesture that meant nothing to Ji-Min. “The all-black thing is kinda cool, in a mean ninja way, but you could really use a public relations strategy.”

A wave of ice cold hate washed over her. She gritted her jaw shut so that she didn’t say anything.

“I bet there’s some really cool shit on the security footage.” Hammer put a hand on his hip. “I’m going to release the video of you throwing that big moon at me, that’s so awesome. That makes both of us look good.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out… a second phone. “Scoot over, would you buddy?”

Ji-Min didn’t track what was going on. She belatedly realized that she'd hit her head, like, really hard. Gene accommodated Hammer easily, moving a few steps to the left, away from her.

The phone clicked.

He…

“You took a selfie with me,” Ji-Min said. Her voice sounded haunted. It seemed to belong to someone else. Maybe this wasn't even happening to her. Maybe it wasn't her body lying on the floor. Had she double-checked?

Hammer turned around and grinned at her. “Well, yeah,” he said. “You’re going on my feed. Wanna check the photo before I post? We can retake it.”

Noooo. This couldn't be happening. Nooooo.

Ji-Min screamed again, a sad little shriek of frustration.

“Damn,” Hammer said approvingly. “That’s cool too.” He angled the phone so that she could see it. It…

It did look pretty cool. You could see the destruction behind her, and the twisted metal pinning her to the wall made it obvious that she wasn’t a total loser who had gone down easily. She wasn’t unconscious or anything, so it wasn’t that embarrassing.

‘I hate that he’s right. This will make both of us look impressive.’

He didn’t even earn it, though. Ji-Min gritted her teeth. She’d been kicking his ass until Gene and his boys showed up.

She might have lost some time. She vaguely remembered hearing Gene's voice. The next thing she registered was Hammer kneeling by her to show his phone.

She was aware he was talking. She vaguely registered his screen showed her and a caption that included "@ the Planetarium with my heroic rival Moonstrike 🌙 💥 (better luck next time 😜 🔥 🔨 to 💪!!!)"

Hammer said something that sounded like a question. She said yes, to make him go away. Her head was spinning and pounding.

They were gone, she realized.

That got her up. Ji-Min sat up-

And punished the breath out of her own ribs by using them to bend away the iron that Gene had apparently twisted in front of her. She gasped, hand to her chest, and then slid out from underneath.

She might have lost some time feeling sorry for herself. She'd lost. She'd lost to two hot dimwits.

Ji-Min sniffled, and tried to wipe away a tear. Her hand met her mask. Oh, good. That was still on. "You're not my yam!" She shouted to the empty building. "You're not my yam!"

A car door slammed.

She blinked. She got up, using the wall for balance. She tried to find a window. It took a while. When she did, that car was gone. She did see headlights, four sets of headlights. Heading for her.

"Oh, shit," she said. Her voice echoed. She stumbled towards the door, blood pounding in every vessel in her head. Someone was coming. She had to go. She was at the scene of a crime and she had to go.

"Moonstrike. I'm glad to see you up on your own."

Ji-Min would have jumped out of her own skin if she didn't feel so nauseous.

She stared. There were four people in suits coming up the stairs from the lower level.

“It’s good to see you in person. We weren’t expecting you,” the top agent said with a friendly nod at her. “We just follow Hammer around when he’s out of prison, since he’s sociable and easily found.” He surveyed the wrecked planetarium. “It’s generally a good bet that he’ll lead us to other criminals.”

Shit. They were investigating super crime. They were from the Bureau of Heroics. Feds? They seemed like Feds, not local.

Ji-Min felt her stomach twist into a knot. She didn’t say anything.

"Give us a minute, would you?" The man who seemed to be in charge waived off his subordinates and focused on her.

Ji-Min watched warily. He didn't get very close when he addressed her directly. He used the same calm tone you'd use on a wild animal. That was probably a good idea, given that all she wanted right now was her hitting stick.

"Moonstrike, is it?" The agent eyed the devastation. "I gather that you didn't expect ten opponents, but this was impressive nonetheless." He took a couple of meandering steps closer. He had a voice fit for movies, smooth and smoky. It was almost enough to make her relax. "I heard you did some good work earlier today in town." Something smug curled into the smile on his mouth.

“....Thank you,” Ji-Min said stiffly. She tried to look like she was not a criminal. Her heart was pounding. This was too many people to fight her way through. She was a sneaky type. This was bad, very bad. Any moment now, they were going to realize that she wasn’t any registered hero, that she must have been at the scene of a crime for a different reason-

The Federal agent nodded. “My superiors want you to consider getting into contact.” He produced a card.

She looked at it. After a moment, she reached out and took it. At a glance, it was his business card. She eyed him suspiciously. “Alejandro,” Ji-Min said, eyes darting between him and the card.

This was… good?

“To my friends, yes,” Alejandro the suit agreed blandly. “We understand that you seem to like your privacy. We can work with that. We want you to know that we can provide resources for your fight against crime.”

Ji-Min swallowed down a hysterical laugh. Yes. Her fight against crime. That was definitely what she was doing. “Resources?” She kept her tone neutral.

Alejandro nodded. “Federal heroes receive a competitive salary as well as a discretionary budget for crime-fighting paraphernalia.”

She realized, with a heady feeling, that she had accidentally conned her way into getting paid. Ji-Min stood stock still. The literal first thing that she’d done after getting superpowers was look up how to do crime for profit without getting caught. And the government wanted to get her on retainer.

‘This could be very useful,’ Ji-Min realized. “Thank you,” she said again. She cleared her throat. “I’ll be in touch.”

‘If I have a heroic persona, I can avoid getting in trouble. If I get caught or unmasked, I can say I’m a hero. No one is going to connect a federal retainer with larceny.’

Plus, holy shit. They’d pay her to upgrade her equipment. She liked the hitting stick, but the government could probably get her something better.

The ghost of a smile flickered over Alejandro’s face for the first time. “I look forward to your call. Now.” He indicated the room. “We can take care of this situation. You can leave, if you like.”

She took her leave, still in disbelief at how lucky she had been.

Ji-Min wasn't honestly sure how she got back to her car. She had the impression of walking a very long time. That might have meant that she got lost. It might have just meant that everything seemed very difficult with a concussion.

Her phone was in the car. Of course it was. Phones track you.

She sat in the driver's seat and picked it up. There was a notification from an account that she followed. She opened it to see Hammer's selfie with her. The next video had been ripped from the museum's security camera.

Extremely late, she realized that he'd had someone watching it live. That was how he'd snuck up on her.

Ji-Min looped a video a few times, watching herself wrench a concrete ball the size of a puffy reclining chair off of its frame and lob it at Hammer's back.

It looked pretty fucking sick, honestly. She took a screen recording.

After a while she realized that she had a voicemail from an unknown number. Her first thought was the paranoid jump that the FBH had already tracked down her information. She checked it.

"Sorry about how late this is," Gene drawled.

She shrieked and dropped the phone. The recording kept playing through her car's speakers.

"Calling in regards to your offer to help with my car. I'll send the - the gee pee ess point tomorrow. Thank you."

She listened to it again. Yeah. Ji-Min put a hand on her head. In the background she heard her own faint voice, shouting "my yam! You're not my yam!"

She deleted it.

#Superdim #Superdim Sunday #deplorably devoted to you #deplorably devoted #redflagromance #short story

5 notes · View notes