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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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poisoned rats in a pot of grain - ch. 9

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y'all i've had this planned out practically since the beginning. i've known how this battle would go for literal months. really happy to finally be here :)

cw: violence, blood, death, dehumanization

Jimmy’s awoken quite suddenly in his cell (the door opens and he’s on his knees, he’s good, he’ll go where they want him), four guards filing in. One of them unlocks his handcuffs, another tosses the Canary costume onto his bed. He understands easily enough—his master wants him out in a fight, right now.

He wonders what kind of fight. What he’ll be expected to do.

He’s murdered two people at his master’s command since the first, a woman and another man.

He heard once that killing never gets easier. It’s always just as difficult to take a human life as it was the first time.

Whoever said that was a liar.

Jimmy’s killed three people, and he thinks less and less about it with each scream he hears. His master is pleased with him, and that’s all that matters.

Jimmy knows that if Xornoth tells him to kill today, he won’t hesitate.

The suit has more buckles than his bumbling fingers can manage, so he gestures to those and is relieved when a guard steps forward, helps him buckle up the suit while he does things like sort out the harness of the glider and pull the boots on. It’s the fastest he’s ever put this on, he thinks, even though they shove his hat on without giving him the time to clip it in place.

They attach his leash to his collar, lead him out of the room and down the hall, not toward the meeting room but instead the throne room. His heart hammers in his chest—he hates it in there, but he’ll survive. He’s not in trouble if he’s in his Canary suit, his master is just wishing to meet him there.

Sure enough, they lead him straight to the throne instead of to the covered dog crate, shove him forward. His master is reclining there, takes the leash, loops it around their wrist twice.

Jimmy stands uncertainly for a moment, waiting for his master to rise. They don’t, only gesture to their knee. He drops instantly, presses his chin up to them.

Something’s happening. This isn’t a normal meeting, this isn’t an average show of intimidation. The fight must be coming this way.

Jimmy’s right, because within minutes, there’s sounds—more than the shifting of the dozen guards shifting at the other end of the room. A door in the hall opening and closing, followed by footsteps landing on all the creaky floorboards coming from the hall. Xornoth holds up a hand, stops the guards milling around the room from seeking it out. Soon the sounds cut off, and suddenly there are two people being dragged into the room who have no business being here.

One of them is Major, mouth twisted into a snarl as he shoulders the guards holding him.

The other is Lizzie.

Jimmy can’t breathe for a moment. It’s not just Lizzie, it’s the ocean villain. Lady Shadow, or whatever she’s called. She’s only been involved in one fight with him, and he’d never had the time to properly look at her, but now she’s just meters away and mask or not it’s Lizzie.

Lizzie, whom he had presumed dead.

Lizzie, who had disappeared years ago with no trace.

Lizzie, whom he’d last seen over their parents’ dead bodies, the house burning down around them.

Lizzie, his sister.

He’s missed her. He hadn’t realized until now, until here she is, right in front of him, hair longer and eyes harder and wearing a mask, but his sister all the same. He’s missed her so desperately that it aches, more than it has in years, years in which he had grieved her and moved on because moving on is all he ever does, isn’t it?

His master is playing with his hair and the familiarity of it grounds him, pulls him back into the situation at hand. Jimmy breathes, breathes through the yank of his hair, and settles back into being a pet, though his eyes never leave Lizzie’s. Hers flick from him to Xornoth and back again, paying attention to whatever his master is saying.

Then Xornoth unclips his leash and says his name and Jimmy looks up, waits for instructions. His master tells him to keep the ocean woman out of the way.

He can do that.

Jimmy dives at Lizzie and—the guards jump aside as his arms wrap around her—barrels her into the ground. They roll for a moment—an explosion of sorts from Xornoth’s battle rattles Jimmy’s teeth—he shoves himself up to his feet, sways, then runs.

He’s got to keep her distracted, and distracted means she’s not teaming up on his master with Major. And since he really doesn’t want to hurt her, he needs to pull her away from the fight.

He doesn’t even make it out of the room before water hits him in the back, sending him down. He rolls with it the best he can. It once was second nature to pull a quick kip-up to get to his feet, but now, weakened as he is, he has to pull himself up from hands and knees.

He manages to shove Lizzie to the ground, but her water tugs at his wrist in a way that chafes at the ever-present scabs there. He bites his lip hard, somehow pulls free. A wave of his other arm and a burst of power sends five guards to their knees, electrocuted by their own batons malfunctioning. Handy.

Jimmy leans against the wall for a moment, closes his eyes for the adrenaline to flow through him—

The wall collapses under him and Jimmy knows he’s going to be punished for that, but for now he just stumbles through the wreckage, out of the room and into the long hallway, his boots leaving white footprints in the wood polish. Lizzie’s following behind him, good—it’s his job to keep her away from his master.

He holds her off the best he can for as long as can, darting from place to place in the hall and slashing with the long knife pulled from the inside of his coat when she gets too close. He doesn’t want to pull out his throwing knives, he doesn’t want to lose one or give his opponent an extra weapon, usually he only uses them with plenty of room to dodge if a knife is thrown back in his direction but in this enclosed space—

Lizzie tackles him to the ground, his head knocking against the leg of an end table and his knife flying from his loose grip. He struggles, but his limbs feel like lead with her pinning them down—he hasn’t eaten in who knows how long, he can’t believe that he’s gotten more than a few hours of sleep recently—he’s not good enough, he can’t do as his master commanded—

Lizzie’s entire weight is atop him, pressing into bruises and cuts and his bad hip clunks in the socket and Jimmy can’t help but cry out. He’s not winning this fight. He squints his eyes shut, turns his head, waits for her to knock him out—

“You killed my parents,” Lizzie growls, and Jimmy’s heart crumbles into pieces.

It’s been a rough day at school, from all of Jimmy’s homework getting soaked in a freak water fountain incident to opening the gym closet to find all of the sports balls had deflated.

It’s been two months of the same, and Jimmy is sick of it.

To come into a power so late isn’t unheard of, but it’s incredibly rare, so his parents had taken him to get bloodwork done after a week of unexplainable accidents. At first, the whole family had been excited—they celebrated with a cake and streamers when the results came back positive, Lizzie leaning into the fish tank to tell Jory the good news. But soon enough, exhaustion at everything in his life going wrong sets in, and Jimmy can’t help but feel depressed. Lizzie grows moody, shuts herself in her room after school every day, yells at Jimmy when the power goes out for the sixth time that month. His parents become more and more tired, assure him that it isn’t his fault through strained smiles, start looking into powers counseling to see if maybe someone can help Jimmy learn to control it sooner than the natural course seems to be taking (which is strange, he shouldn’t be this out of control after two months of trying, but he’s even worse than when it started).

It’s all thrown out the window today, when Jimmy gets home, already stressed, to find both his parents sitting at the dining table, talking in low voices.

They’re going to send him away. He knows it before they even say anything, because his father’s been crying and his mother has a notebook before her, fond as she is of pros and cons lists.

Jimmy sits wordlessly across from them, already stressed and tired, already resigned to leaving his family and his friends and his home, when the oven bursts into flames.

His brain kicks into overdrive as his parents both shout, he can't even think of what to do—

And then they go still, mid-stride to the kitchen, faces looking funny. Without any sound other than a strangled gurgle from his father, they collapse.

Jimmy’s on his knees in a moment, searching for a pulse—nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He starts CPR, he’d learned it at camp years ago, he screams for help but no one hears and his mother’s body jerks under him with no movement of her own—

The door opens and Lizzie’s there, staring at Jimmy and their dead parents and the burning kitchen.

Lizzie runs, right back out the door, runs until Jimmy’s certain that his calls don’t reach her anymore.

Jimmy runs, too, before the fire department arrives, stopping to take nothing but his backpack.

He sees his parents’ obituaries in a newspaper four days later.

He never sees Lizzie again.

He doesn’t know what to say to her now, her eyes burning with anger as she presses him into the floor. He knows what he’s always wanted to, what he’s imagined telling her so many times, but his voice isn’t his. He can’t speak without permission, can’t speak without prompting, the words that fall from his lips belonging solely to his master.

Maybe he can steal a few words, because this is the first time ever that something actually seems worth any punishment to follow.

Lizzie presses her forearm down against Jimmy’s throat for a moment before pulling back the weight—a warning. “Say something, Solidarity,” she hisses. “Say something before I kill you.”

And Jimmy swallows, then forces himself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. It’s easier, somehow, than speaking for his master. Lizzie slaps him, hard, across the face. Jimmy winces at the burn of it, but forges on. “To you, Lizzie, and to mama, and to dad—I’m sorry.”

Lizzie freezes, arm once again pressing down on Jimmy’s throat. She stares at him, searching his eyes, even as Jimmy chokes and tries to breathe more shallowly.

“It was an accident,” she murmurs, trance-like. Jimmy nods, but forces out,

“Still—my fault.”

Lizzie opens her mouth, about to say something else, then jerks. Electricity courses through her body, shocking along Jimmy’s skin where they’re touching. Her mouth goes slack and eyes go wide with pain, then there are rough hands pulling her off and forcing Jimmy to his feet. He stumbles a bit, finds his footing, lets the guards drag him back to the ballroom.

Xornoth is watching from the other side of the room, and on the ground, Xornoth’s boot pushing into his chest, is Major.

Evidence of a fierce (if short) battle surrounds them, spikes of ice and splatters of red everywhere. Major is in rough shape—blood drips out from under his mask, his supersuit is torn in several places, his eyes are hazy and his breaths coming fast. He pushes futilely against Xornoth’s boot, but his hands fall back to his side after just a moment, worn out.

“Pet,” Xornoth commands, their voice echoing across the room. “Your opponent got the better of you, is that so? Were you not meant to keep her distracted?”

Jimmy bows his head, heart leaping in fear. He’s ready to accept his punishment. He was bad, he messed up, he needs to be corrected.

He hears the smile in his master’s voice when they say their next words. “Before your punishment: an example, for my dear brother, of what happens to those who oppose me. Pet—kill her.”

The fight is quick and bloody and wordless, despite Xornoth’s words of business to take care of. It happens so suddenly that Scott quickly becomes convinced that for all these years that they’ve been engaged in a rivalry, Xornoth has been pulling their punches. Before he knows it, he’s on the ground, breath whistling through his broken nose, trying and failing to roll out from under the boot pressed into his chest.

When Xornoth commands Solidarity to kill, Scott can’t bear to watch, but can’t tear his eyes away. He hasn’t known Lizzie for long, but long enough that he doesn’t want to see her dead.

He wonders, briefly, if Joel’s okay. What will become of him if Lizzie dies here.

The two guards shove Lizzie away from them, leaving her shaking like a newborn foal trying to stand for the first time while the forest burns around her.

Solidarity tackles her to the ground without a moment’s hesitation.

Scott chokes back a cry—somebody’s going to die here, there’s no stopping it—he’s alone and his body aches and Solidarity is going to kill Lizzie or she’s going to kill him—but—she isn’t fighting back. Lizzie isn’t fighting back.

Lizzie’s awake, she has to be awake, but she doesn’t move to defend herself, even as Solidarity slams his fist into her face again and again, even as he lifts her up by her hair and slams her back into the ground.

He wraps his hands around her neck, and Scott wants to close his eyes because he can’t watch, poor Lizzie, poor Joel, poor Solidarity, everything’s gone wrong just as he knew it would, and now that Xornoth has him they won’t ever let him go—

Solidarity freezes. Xornoth hasn’t told him to—Xornoth has done nothing to stop him, which doesn’t make sense—if he squints—blinks away the haze in his vision—

Lizzie’s saying something. So quiet that Scott can’t hear it, but she’s definitely speaking. Whatever she says, it makes Solidarity release her and stagger back, away from her. He looks down—at his hands, at the blood spattered across his knuckles.

“Kill her,” Xornoth repeats, snapping their fingers for emphasis.

Solidarity looks up at them, then to Lizzie, prone on the ground, then back to Xornoth. He raises an arm after a moment, hesitantly points at Lizzie.

Xornoth scoffs. “Yes, you idiot,” they say. “You already started the job. Kill her.”

Solidarity’s arm, still outstretched, wavers. He remains, stockstill, in the middle of everything.

Xornoth is about to speak again when Solidarity lets his arm fall.

“No.”

The word is broken, hoarse, barely audible, but it falls from Solidarity’s lips as clear as anything. Scott doesn’t know what to think. Is he breaking free of whatever mind control Xornoth has him under?

The boot presses harder against Scott’s chest and he chokes, all thoughts flying from his mind—he can actually feel his ribs bend under the pressure, that can’t be good—

When Xornoth speaks again, their voice is low, serious.

“What did you say to me, pet?”

Solidarity flinches, but his next words are stronger, louder. “That’s my sister.”

Scott blinks. She—what?

“Pet—”

“That's my sister,” Solidarity repeats, voice shaking as he takes a tentative step forward. “I’m not going to kill her. I’m not. You can’t make me.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Xornoth says, their voice shaking as well—but theirs is barely repressed rage, rather than the fear that colors Solidarity’s. “Kill her now, or spend a week in the cage.”

Solidarity’s eyes flick to the side, to a sheet-covered rectangle up on the dais, but instead of acquiescing to Xornoth’s command, a horrible, unsmiling laugh tears from his throat.

“The cage,” he spits, taking another step forward, then another. “You made me into exactly what you said, you know that? I’m just a mutt, a mutt that whines for your forgiveness—” his voice is frantic and fast and rising with every word, his eyes wild, the air is veritably crackling around Solidarity and Scott’s breath is stolen from his chest as all he can muster is fear— “you took everything from me to turn me into your loyal pet—my voice, my face—do you want my name, master? Or is pet my name now, no more Jimmy, nothing but your little bird—”

“Pet—”

“You took everything from me!” Solidarity screams, and Xornoth—Xornoth flinches. “I had nothing and you took that too, and now you want my sister and you can’t have her!”

Tentacles whip up from the floor, reaching for Solidarity, but they shrivel before they can touch him as he keeps stalking forward. The lackeys who are still in the room double over, clutching at their heads. Scott can hardly breathe, can barely feel anything but Solidarity’s utter rage.

Solidarity is close now, mere feet from Xornoth and blearily—the pressure on his chest increasing with each passing moment—Scott realizes that they’re the same height.

“You made me like this, master,” Solidarity mocks, one hand raised. “You broke me! You know what happens when you beat a dog past its breaking point? It bites.”

Solidarity hurls forward, but before he can collide with Xornoth, the villain collapses, falling forward and off of Scott.

Scott rolls to the side, coughs and coughs as he gasps for air, each cough sending throbbing pulses through his broken nose. He hadn’t—what?—nothing today has gone the way he’d expected.

He catches his breath, pinches his nose, spits up a little blood that had dripped down the back of his throat. He can call an ambulance, probably should . . . his nose has been broken too many times to count, he needs to get it set and preferably professionally or else it’ll heal crooked—

What on earth is he doing? Solidarity is right here, Xornoth is right here—the fight is still going on, he can’t just check out like this—

He looks up, head sending a fierce burst of pain coursing through it at the movement. Sure enough, Xornoth is right beside him—on the ground, limp, eyes closed. Solidarity is kneeling beside them, masked expression unreadable, two fingers pressed to Xornoth’s neck, waiting . . . waiting. . . .

It’s still a fight. He still has to be ready to take Xornoth down at any moment. So, instead of resting his head back and closing his eyes and just breathing like he wants to, Scott sits up, body protesting, and crawls on his hands and knees to be at Solidarity’s side.

He reaches around him, takes one of Xornoth’s wrists in his hand and tugs up the sleeve, presses two of his fingers to it—Now that he’s looking, though, he knows. Their body is too still, eyes shut too loose. He isn’t going to find a pulse.

Xornoth has dropped dead.

The thugs are gone. Lizzie, somehow, is standing, leaning against the wall.

It’s quiet.

Scott releases Xornoth, watches their arm flop back to their body. Solidarity doesn’t move.

Xornoth is dead. They’re really, truly dead.

Scott makes a mental note to schedule a therapy appointment as soon as he can. He’s going to need it after this.

It takes him a long moment (and almost all of his strength) to gather himself to rise to his feet, but Scott does it, placing a light hand on Solidarity’s shoulder.

“They’re dead,” he murmurs, tugging gently when Solidarity doesn’t react. He doesn’t know how, but Xornoth is spontaneously dead. “It's okay. You’re free.”

He’s not sure what he expects Solidarity to do, how he expects him to react. He does not expect Solidarity to scream, to beat on Xornoth’s chest, to shove Scott away.

“No!” the man shrieks, and after a frantic moment of what may be CPR and may be simply attacking the body, he looks up at Scott, eyes bloodshot and wild. “They weren’t supposed to—it was supposed to hurt! It was—it was supposed to be long! I wanted to kill them and make them feel every bit of pain I did—”

Solidarity’s body trembles as he tears at Xornoth, as if trying to force them to wake. A literal bolt of lightning flies off his suit, one that Scott dodges narrowly.

“Wake up,” Solidarity sobs, lifting Xornoth by the shoulders and shaking them before dropping them back to the floor. “Please. Please, master, don’t leave . . . please. . . .”

Scott can’t do anything. He doesn’t even have a clue as to what might be okay for him to do. The sight before him is so disturbing that he just wants to turn away, leave it and help Lizzie to stand on her own and find Joel and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

He can’t do that, though. He owes this to Solidarity.

So Scott stays. He can’t do anything, can’t touch Solidarity, can’t hold him. Nothing that he says calms him, his cries echoing around the now-silent room.

So he sits with him and waits, waits while an exhausted Joel stumbles in and agrees to contact law enforcement and call several ambulances. Waits while officers arrive and take Graceffa into custody. Waits while Solidarity rocks back and forth beside Xornoth’s body, gloved hands frantically pulling at his own hair.

Scott sits there, providing what silent comfort he can, until an EMT wipes a patch of Solidarity’s neck with antiseptic and gently presses down the plunger of a vial of something. Solidarity goes limp quickly, and they carry him off on a stretcher.

“Make sure the Canary gets help,” Scott mumbles as the same EMT helps him stand. “He was under some kind of mind control. Nothing was his fault.”

“It’ll all be sorted,” the EMT tells him, and Scott casts one last glance at Xornoth (and whatever they are to him) before he lets himself be helped out of the building.