Paresthesia Pt. 04

I blink the spots from my eyes. The mask was supposed to be glare protected, but camera flash is still apparently a dagger that slices through any and all forms of shielding. Bastard things.

"Do you need one more or are we good?" I ask. My scalp itches. I want to scratch it. I cannot scratch it. The wig is in the way.

"One sec," says the photographer, "I'm looking through the shots now Adagio. Good, good, touch up that one, but good. And good. Yep. We got enough. Merch drafts should be done sometime early next week. Jenny's usually pretty fast about stuff, but there's a big push for the Captain Solar shirts coming from the big wigs."

"My man, I'm the big wig around here."

I think it goes over his head, because he doesn't laugh. I'm hilarious. I know this. The world knows this. But he has given me the okay, so said big wig is currently off my head and my nails are running through the stubble that I have to keep so it sits correctly. I don't like the stubble. There's nothing I can do with it. Apparently, my natural hair isn't curly enough to pull off this gimmick.

Mr. Cameraman gives me a mean look as I brush past the equipment. I think I nudge a tripod. To be fair, one leg on that thing is worth more than a month's pay for me. The Hall of Righteousness' halls shine and glimmer and I almost slip on them. Janitor forgot the sacred wet floor sign, it seems, and the pointed loafers don't have the best grip. It's fine. It's completely fine. I have a few moments to myself, so I might as well go to the lounge and see if Kieran is up for another round of venting. They should pay her more. She's the closest thing to a therapist any of us have. But the latest round of budget cuts has seen that everything good and wonderful is gone. Not for the wig, though. That has to be something with a comma in it.

The lounge is empty and all the thoughts in my head have to just keep swimming in the gray matter. They gel and move and shift and collide. I can't line them up. Snatches of feeling, half formed words that don't quite convey the clench in my gut. The TV on the far wall shows the news. And it's Captain Solar, smiling with a reporter's mic shoved in his face. There are words he says and I can't quite bring myself to parse them. I'm sure he's practiced them well.

My cuffs keep digging into my wrists, leaving red marks on my skin. I stretch out the fabric. It does not help. The inseam creeps up and suddenly my legs don't feel quite right. A little bit of pride at how tight it feels, but that's not really the context I want to think about right now. Shoes are laced too tight as well, now that I think about it.

"Adagio to the Sunroom. Adagio to the Sunroom," says the canned voice from the walls. I never could find the speakers. The words are not comforting in any sense of the word. I am now about to be chewed out for something I probably did but have no memory of. And that means that I am absolved of all guilt.

Each step gets a little harder to take. Each moment I draw closer to the door is one I dread. But I keep moving forward, still blinking the remnants of camera flash from my vision. Sharp flash and many lights. With some luck, I might actually have damaged the eyes. I could probably get something from that. It'd be interesting to see the lawyers duke it out. I can't stop running my hand over my stubble. I don't like it. It's still fresh, still sharp. But it was an order and apparently those are absolute.

One hand knocks on the light wood paneling while the other holds the wig. Unfortunately, I cannot scratch anything in the meanwhile. It's a long, long moment before I get a response.

"Come in," says the voice beyond the door. I do not want to obey, but it's an order.

So, I do. The light wood swings open easy and I see more spots. Glass and lights and blinding porcelain. The sunroom is baking in the light from the sun on high. It's brilliant. It's magnificent. It's absolutely terrible. Trophies and clippings, all bleached clean with golden sun. That light hangs somewhat high. Getting close to midday and I'm getting hungry. I hope this doesn't take too long. I'd like to sit down with Hannah for a bit, let her bitch about morning patrol while I bitch about afternoon duty. At least she was along with Windstep.

"What's up, Tom," I say.

"Solar," says the man who refuses to look away from the window, "You are in the kit. You call me Captain Solar."

He is not in the kit. He is dressed simply, but I know for a fact the simply is also expensive. That shirt that looks like it comes in a pack of five for less than an hour at the batting cages, probably costs at least $500. I can't even begin to guess at the jeans. The belt and the watch probably push it past needing a comma, and I feel my skin start to itch just looking at him.

Tall, muscular, blond, jawline strong enough to take a sledgehammer and have the handle break. Distinguished, certainly, holding himself up by bootstraps and will, every bone, every joint, every muscle locked into place, right where it was. Think he's military, or at least police. Trained and disciplined more than I ever could hope to be. Clean shaven and every single hair on his head placed and cut with a ruler and a protractor. I move to sit on the one decent chair in his office. The good one is reserved for behind the desk.

"I did not say you could sit," he says, still looking at the window.

"Weird. It's like my body moved on its own. Do you think The Mindtaker is in town again?"

I can feel his temper start to rise. I've already pissed him off and that's enough.

He watches the city vigilantly. Each scurrying pedestrian, each hurrying automobile, constant scrutiny, constant attention. Tom does not take the courtesy of a deep breath to settle the blood pressure. He simply turns and walks to the desk and sits behind it. I know what he is going to say. I know what he is going to talk to me about. Maybe not the exact incidents, but the general flavor of the words.

"I've been receiving reports, Adagio, about your conduct," he starts as he folds his hands and interlocked the fingers. He's pointing at me, trying to affix me with a steely gaze to make me whither.

"Really? From who?"

"Confidential. Considering your upcoming transfer out of the Junior League, I feel that it should be brought to your attention to remedy before any major issues occur."

He waits for a moment, but he doesn't want a response. I give him the sought-after nod and attention.

"First and foremost," he says, "The squad car radio is not for personal use during patrols. It is to be off or tuned to one of the approved stations."

The urge to hit him hits me surprisingly strong. I thought for sure, for sure, he'd be talking about me and Blast and all the inter-rank fraternizing that has been going on. Nothing's happened, as much as I want it to, but I'm pretty sure we've broken a few rules in the big book of things not to do.

But I don't. I play the part and sit in my chair, maybe a bit too slack for his tastes, but straight enough to be called as much. I don't say anything. It's not my first call out, and it won't be my last. Never mind that Kieran said I could and Hugh almost crashed trying to sing along. At least he was dressed for the casket.

"Minor mark, I know, but image matters in this game. It always matters. We all have to be the image on the poster. We all have to be what they think we should be. "

"They, Captain?"

"The public. John and Jane Q. Citizen. People on the street, Adagio."

I stop the moment and look at him. His eyes, I don't trust his eyes when he says that, and I can't quite figure out what it is. They're following me. He's fast, very fast, but the time is mine and he cannot stop me, only slow me down. I do not move. I do not budge.

"We are their shield, Adagio," he continues, "We are their shield and their sword. Chasing away the dark. Every move we make is pristine. Every act we take is perfect. Each and everything we are has to be perfect. What they hear when we come rolling in has to fit the image."

"And you're saying punk isn't inspiring?"

The hands come to rest flat on the table as the eyes try to burn into me. It's the rage in them, the anger and the fury, directed at me from those words. I want to laugh at him. I really, really do. But I am apparently the one that has to do this with civility and grace.

"Understood," I say.

"Do you mean that, Adagio? I can't quite tell. I've seen you're type come before, and believe you me, I've seen it go more often than I've seen it come."

"I bet you don't see a lot of other things come, though."

I can't help it. I try, not too hard, but I try. And he doesn't appreciate that I've tried. He doesn't understand. He never understands. That rage again, that fury and hate at words he walked into.

"There are bigger stakes, Adagio," he says, "And this type of behavior doesn't align with the image. Put your wig back on."

"Why should I care about this image, Solar," I say, "I fought against this every step of the way. I told you that this was a bad idea. No one is going to go for this. Metronome looked better than this. Everyone else said so."

"I was hoping to build up to this, but since you insist on challenging me, here we are. Those outbursts in front of the whole team were unbecoming. Suddenly, everyone thought that they could just make their grievances known at any time. And if you must know, Metronome was too relaxed, and the headphones were a liability. Too easy to grab."

"And this wig isn't? It itches like crazy, man. Look, I get it, and it's not the worst idea. Hell, I even like it, with someone else."

I'm ranting. I know I'm ranting and I know I'm not helping. But I have to. There was no release value. Kieran wasn't there with her sarcastic barbs that stung and pricked but still left me feeling better. These are just ugly words that I have to say. They've been building up and my feet are starting to hurt.

"And while we're here, what's up with Blast Wave? I understand if you don't want that sapper thing I suggested, cause that might not get over, but what she is know is just uninspired. Every team across the country, across the world has someone like her. Let her be different."

"Blast Wave took her new image in stride, Adagio. Unlike you. This is not what we're here for. The squad car, the meetings, the constant challenges, those are problems. And as the leader of this chapter, the final word comes down to me. You are wearing the wig. That is final."

"What's final is I'm not wearing the damn wig. Get me a hat. The other side just got a girl with a hat. We need someone with a hat. Otherwise, I'll go out as Minuteman. That kit works. That kit has a hat. The people like that kit."

I can actually see the vein rise on his forehead when a hand goes to his temple. It happens every single time.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about. You make everything difficult. Disrespectful, disobedient- "

I stop listening. It's a skill I've learned very well. Perhaps a bit too well, as he stops and goes silent. I feel it coming, but that world of mine is just a moment too slow to come forth.

A fist hits my nose and I only see stars.

"You will pay attention. You will obey. You will go out in the wig."

Guy has a very good punch on him, I will give him that. Anything going that fast has to have some force behind it. My fingers come away bloody. Thumb to nostril and a snort, I make sure that I stain the white carpet. He's the one that wants to do it like this, then he has to deal with the repercussions. He raises another hand and the world goes gray. I start walking.

I have better things to do with my time.

---

I stole the bottle in my hand. I stole the bottles lined up beside me. I'm only on the first one. I had to steal them. Outside of the mask and the jacket and the wig, I am not notable enough to get away with asking for free stuff. Also, I am not old enough. I can get past the door at the Roulette Club, but not order anything fun. Terrible. Someone should change that law. That girl with the hat bought me something though. I like her.

And I guess steal is a bit of a strong word. I did take it and I did so without the bodega man's knowledge. However, there was the proper amount of payment put in the register. I didn't even take my change. It's all more or less equal in the grand scheme of things. My conscience is clear. I do not dwell on the nonexistent guilt. Money given and goods taken.

I am not drinking the beer for any sort of experience. I am drinking it for the burn and the slow fading of rational thought. I am drinking because I have decided that I am not doing anything else this evening. There is a nice sunset that complements my beverages and the similarly 'stolen' lawn chair.

My bottle is empty and I decide that I should throw it behind me, for no other reason than to hear the sound of it breaking. It's nice. I like it. I will do it with the next one when I have finished it.

I watch the sky. I watch the clouds and the dimming lights, the rising sliver of moon, the squares of glass slowly clicking dark. The ones at the top go out first. The ones at the bottom turn to midnight oil. They should leave. No one up above is there to watch the lights stay on. They should go home, turn the lights on there and do important things that do not require an office chair. I am down another bottle. I flies through the air and I wait for the shatter.

It does not. The air in the world does instead.

"Hey Blast," I say, "I'm kind of having a moment here."

"I can see that," she says.

She's wearing heels. I don't know why. It doesn't make sense. Practically speaking, if that even matters, there are a million things that can go wrong with that. But no, the wig is good, the headphones are bad, and the heels stay clickity-clacking over the warehouse roof.

Blast Wave moves slowly, drawing out the steps and trying not to fall. To her credit, she has gotten used to them. It took a lot of wobbling and falling down to get to smooth steady strides. I think graceful and elegant will come later. Despite my distaste for the kit, it does hit me and send a clench in my stomach.

I like it. Tone and tight body, long hair, long legs, classic, tested and it is wonderful to look at. Might not have the chest to pull it off in the wider perception of the public, and I think it's actually padded, but it is to my taste. The makeup is an interesting touch. Orange lipstick to complement the highlights of the suit, the flow of the cape, going against the deep reds and light yellows. Her hair is a shimmery blonde. I know for a fact that it has been dyed like that. It is appealing and I certainly get said appeal but there is still a bit of disgust, rage, guilt, shame, some unnamable black feeling in my stomach when she stands before me. I should have stolen another chair. I knew she would be coming by at some point.

"You didn't show up for patrol," she states, "Or the nightly debrief. Or your monitoring duty."

"I did not," I say. All simple facts of what has transpired, no judgement, no question.

"And your nose looks like a tomato. Tomato Nose. Is that the new kit? You look good as Minuteman but you can't be him forever."

"Got into a scuffle on the way over. Made a bad call and I got this. Been off all day. Nothing important."

She sees through the lie immediately, but she lets it stand. The door is not opened and she does not want to open it.

"Wanna talk?" she asks. Her heels do an alright job of clearing the roof and getting a smooth place to sit. I get to see her bend and the leotard does a good job of showing it. I can't stop looking, those thoughts in the back of my mind poking through the dark clouds. I take another bottle.

"Not really," I say, "I think I have it all figured out. Just have to do it."

"And what are you going to do?"

Third bottle is half empty and I set it down. I do not want to drink anything for a bit. I sit with the bitter in my mouth and just let it stagnate, drip down the throat and let it taint the words for me.

"I'm switching sides," I say.

And she doesn't say anything for a long, long moment.

"I'll miss you," she says. I don't think I've ever heard her say anything that softly.

"I'll still be in the city. I'm not moving. I just don't want to be a good guy anymore."

"Yeah, but I'll have to hit you."

"You hit me anyway. We spar all the time. And you kick my ass all the time. I need a weapon or something."

"It'll be different though."

"Yeah, yeah it will be."

I'm surprisingly calm, all things considered. I thought I would be a little more shaken with the words actually manifested. But they came out smooth and even.

I want different. And I am getting it. I am sort of in the Minuteman kit with the jacket open and no mask. The hat's on the ground though, the squashed thing with a short bill. Kind of odd to go with the same while veering off the course so meticulously planned.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm sure. More or less. Some details to hammer out, but I'll manage."

She takes a really, really deep breath before letting it slowly flow out.

"Then OK. OK. That's good. That's really good. I'm happy for you. Really. Really, really. We should drink or something."

A little bit of me doesn't want to forego my resources, but its Hannah. She can have them. It's probably for the best. My head is starting to turn fuzzy and I'm not quite sure I like it. First time drinking, really. It just felt like the right thing to do.

I hand her a bottle which she opens with a sharp twist. She holds it up and I clink the glass. It's a nice sound. Not quite as good as a shatter, but still nice.

"So," she says after a deep pull, "Are you joining Bloody Sunday? Or going on your own?"

"That's one of the details I'm working on. Don't think I want to have a crew. Want to be hands on, that type of thing."

"Of course, you do. You always get handsy."

"The game was your idea, remember?"

Hannah pretends that she doesn't recall, but she does. She asked me and now she is sad that I'm leaving. I'm not. I'm sad to be leaving her company, but I also don't see a reason why we still can't talk, at least like this. I'm not in full kit, so I can be whatever I want. My bottle is empty and I think that's a good enough sign to stop for now. There will be more bottles to drink and more time to drink them. There will be more rooftops and more evenings and they will be calm and quiet.

I straighten a little in my seat. I no longer have to go on night patrols with Captain Solar. I no longer have to go on any night patrols ever. I am now the reason for the night patrols. I am the reason for pearl clutching and street crossing. I am a bad guy and that simply feels amazing. Freedom, complete and utter freedom.

I slink back down in my stolen seat and decide that I want to do nothing at all.

"You know, I'm off tonight," Hannah says, "Serpentor is covering for me. I'm not technically on patrol."

"Did we have plans? I don't think we have plans. We don't really do plans."

"Not really. But I'm just saying. We could go a round of Phantom Limbs. If you want. I got nothing better to do."

I suddenly wish I did not share my bottles with her. I need them all for myself. It might have given me enough courage to actually say yes without hesitation. But I hem and haw the single word back and forth and come to the conclusion that has no real teeth to it.

"I mean," I say, "We can play, if you want to play."

"Well, I want to play, if you want to play."

"So, I think that means we both want to play."

"I guess. If you're OK with it."

She cracks the bottle open with the same sharp twist, drinking deeply. Every time, every time we play, there is always that moment where we wait for the other to back down for the excuse to not go through with it. And every time, every single time, we keep going forward. She takes off the cape and she tries to hide her body in some pocket of the world where no one else can see her. But I can see her. And I want to see her.