Sidestory:
Aftermath
by Angie, Jenny~Pie, and Sky
Oh. Oh, my. Rayya stared at her hands in fascination. The smooth olive skin was already darkening with bruises. Thoughtfully, she ran a light finger over the back of her left hand, brushing over and between her knuckles, rearranging the faint trickles of blood. Now why did I do that, she wondered. It won't bring Acacia back. I won't absolve me. Absolution. Funny word. Pain for penance. Rayya closed her eyes tightly, biting back more tears. Damn. Catholic thinking. I'm going to hell anyway so who cares? So many inherent sins. Likes boys. A lot. Never goes to church. Doesn't say prayers. Uses the Lord's name in vain. Drinks. Is the Reincarnation of a pagan god. Mother died on me. Killed someone...
Spinning in frustration, Rayya slammed her much-abused fists into the wall again. The jolt of pain cleared her head temporarily and she grimaced. Clarity is not necessarily a good thing when you're hurting, she thought. Clarity meant her rational side could point out the risk of infection she was running, making arguments on the futility of this behavior. It wouldn't make a bit of difference to Acacia whether she laughed or cried.
A tear slid down her cheek nonetheless. Nothing could fix this mess. Suddenly, with a wrenching sob, Rayya fell to her knees and covered her face with her injured hands. As her tears escalated, her thin shoulders began to shake violently. A small moan of pain escaped her trembling lips, the salt of her tears burning into the bloody scratches. Acacia... Mother... Acacia... My fault...
A half hour later, Rayya raised her head wearily, completely spent from crying and confusion. Carefully, she tottered unsteadily to her feet and made her way to a small cabinet near her makeshift washbasin. Opening it, she smiled grimly, eyes roving over the military rank and file of bottles within. Rum. Scotch. Tequila. Bourbon. Whisky. Not all of it was hers, of course. She was just the keeper for most of it but she knew she had unspoken permission to make free with any of it. Her thin fingers slid over the smooth glass until she reached an appealing bottle, her hand wrapping around its neck and pulling it towards her. Whisky. Good for what ails you... Deliberately, she unscrewed the cap, put it to her lips, and drank deeply. After two more generous shots, quickly done in succession, she turned to the basin. She took a deep breath, compressed her lips in a determined line, and upended the bottle over her left hand. She hissed in pain as the alcohol burned into her scrapes, sending jets of molten fire through her veins.
Shaking her hand off, she took another hit from the bottle. Good, clean pain, she thought distractedly. Alternative to building that Rapunzel tower in her head again. As she switched the bottle to her left hand, though, she hesitated. Finally, she raised it again and drank deeply. Then she brought the bottle over her right hand and poured the rest of the clear fire over it. A hiss and a sob and she released the empty bottle into the basin with a tinkling crash.
Two hours later, Julius managed to make a sweetly pleading enough face that one of Rayya's floor mates unlatched the room's door for him. Pushing it open with his snout, he was immediately stunned by the hot, stale air in the silent, darkened room. Rayya, he thought in alarm. Gods, let her be all right. I never should have left her. Never... Quickly, he moved into the room, searching for his charge. After a few seconds, he found her curled in a miserable ball on the far side of the room. "Rayya," he whispered as he crossed to her. With relief, he noted her steady if shallow breathing. Thank the Gods. She hadn't done anything too stupid. Sniffing her mouth gingerly, he grimaced. Whisky. He hadn't thought she had drunk the stuff. Obviously, he had been wrong. She stank of the strong brew. How childish, he thought, piqued. Get drunk when you couldn't handle something. Typical of... A glimpse of white from the corner of his eye changed his mind, however. With a soft grunt, he shifted to inspect her hands, partially obscured in makeshift bandages, smelling of whisky. Whisky? What on earth had she done now? Gently as he could, Julius poked one of the coverings aside with a hoof. Revealed to him was a network of broken blood vessels and lost skin. Oh, Rayya, he thought sadly. How could you do this to yourself? My beautiful, innocent girl...
Once again regretting his current form, Julius looked around the room helplessly. He knew where she kept everything, the antiseptic, the real bandages; he just couldn't get at them. Finally, gently, he nudged Rayya's shoulder. "Rayya," he murmured, his voice gruff. "Come on, girl. Wake up." She shifted, moaning softly, and he nudged her again. "We've got to do something about you."
"Yeah," came the soft, miserable response. "Put me out of everyone's way."
Julius ground his teeth in frustration. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. He rubbed his head against her shoulder, holding his breath against the whisky smell. At this point, he realized that she couldn't have drunk that much; she seemed to be wearing at least half of the bottle on her hands and forearms. Good gods, he realized. That's what she used as an antiseptic on her cuts. The crazy girl. It must have burned awfully. He regarded the brunette with new eyes. A self-punisher, he thought. Masochistic even? Even more concerned, he toddled over to the telephone quickly. Stretching, he peered at the phone, working out the best way to use it. A pencil in the moth should let me push the buttons, he figured. Now to get the numbers. "Rayya," he called gently. "Who should I call? Neptune? Fortuna? Tisiphone?"
A whimper answered him as Rayya curled up tighter, balling her fists over her ears and grimacing as if in great pain. "Those aren't their names, dammit," she whispered. "Don't call them that."
Julius stared at her in disbelief and concern. She was breaking right before his eyes, shattering into a thousand Rayya-like pieces, none of them really her. Last time she had been this affected by a death, it had taken a year to put her back together, he recalled from her dropped comments about her mother's passing. He couldn't risk that time frame. Quickly, he amended, "Fine, of course, my dear. Should I call Gwyn or Theresa?"
"None." Rayya sat up carefully and hugged her knees, rocking back and forth slightly. "No one can know about this," she whispered.
This? Julius shook his head. If she meant the death, Gwyn and Theresa probably already knew. If she meant the whisky and the self-flagellation... Well, he understood why she wouldn't want that to be common knowledge. "But, Rayya, you need help. I can't do it for you," he argued.
Suddenly, she looked right at him for the first time since he had entered the room. With her violet eyes so wide, he could easily read the flashes of emotions spinning through her. The sheen of still more tears nearly broke his heart. She looked so lost and afraid. Afraid of herself, her power, what she had done. Forgetting the phone entirely, he trotted over to his charge and rested his head on her raised knees. "Please," she whispered, startling him. "I'm not a bad person, right? You know I didn't mean for that to happen. I never meant to hurt anyone."
Understanding even more now, Julius rubbed his head against her knees comfortingly. "I know that," he replied softly. "And I'm sure that girl knows it, too... Sometimes things just happen, Rayya. In a fight, you worry about yourself and your teammates first. You did the right thing protecting them. And you." He shifted to her side, looking up at her sympathetically. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he added softly. "And it looks like I still could... Rayya, you've got to figure out how to deal with this. Pray, scream, write. Hell, you can kick me around if it helps you. Just don't punish yourself." He nudged the nearest bandage-covered hand. "I don't want to see any more of this, okay?" Rayya nodded mutely and Julius met her eyes tenderly. "You're a wonderful young woman, my dear. I'm proud to know you and I'm sure others are, too. You did what was needed. You're forgiven."
With a noisy sob of release, Rayya pulled her guardian close, her head dropping to his, her rich hair cascading over the both of them. "Thank you," she whispered through the new tears. Thank you, Julius." Convulsively, she hugged him to her.
She'll be fine, he thought. She has to be. We can't lose her to guilt. I'll just have to protect her until she gets over this... Keep her from tearing herself apart over the guilt and misery that now seemed to have a home behind her clear violet eyes. She's mine. Forever.
Everything was blurry. The coffee mug lay on its side, all forlorn, the last few trickles of warm brown liquid ran out of it and joined the dark pool on the low wooden coffee table. Poor table. No hand moved to clean the mess; it just wallowed in its highly caffeinated sauna and sighed at its fate.
Gwyn sunk to her knees, with a sound stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She stared at the TV with wide eyes, touching her forehead with two trembling fingers. No way. It wasn't possible. It was too weird. Too well timed. She laughed to herself weakly, and got up to get a paper towel from the kitchen. She clamped a hand over the bandage on her neck, as if to check that it was still there. It was. Crazy.
She returned from the kitchen as the news report continued its story. A girl had simply chucked herself off a building. Just another person driven nuts by the world. Nothing new. Trying to ignore the program (she couldn't bring herself to turn it off, since we all know that if the TV isn't on, something is terribly, terribly wrong), Gwyn finally wiped up the spill on the long-suffering table. Nothing new, she thought to herself as she picked up the mug, and turned it over to check for cracks. She had a sick feeling for a second, as if she'd slipped from her specific life and fallen ass-first into Life, as the rest of the world knows it. Or at least she thought she had.
Thank God it passed.
The real world. Flat. Unyielding. Dull. It seemed that honestly nothing in it ever affected Gwyn much anymore. It had kicked her in the ass, and banished her to Roanoke, so she said 'fuck it' and did whatever the hell she felt like. Then, go figure, reality decided to join her. She found out that she was a juiced up soldier, on this planet to kill others like herself. Sweet. Cool. Something to kill the time in her Virginian purgatory. Plus, it was nice to do something productive. Rather than just supporting her local pub as all good Irish girls should.
She'd abandoned most of the things she'd learned so far in life. Once animals start talking to you, logic and sense pretty much lose their credibility. (And if logic and sense aren't credible, what the fuck is? Ah, yes. Booze.) Content with all of her lovely new distractions, Gwyn let the outside world do what it wanted. It couldn't affect her.
Until that news report popped up on the TV. About a young girl dying.
"Suicide. Happens all the time." She reminded herself, almost convincingly.
So a young girl just happened to launch herself off a building last night. Gwyn reached up and ran her thumbnail across the bandage on her neck again. Who cares, really? All that bothered her was the timing. She'd just been remembering, or trying to remember, what had happened last night. The only thing that seemed to stick in her head was the feeling after getting hit. The immediate shock of it. The pain of the strike, cutting into her neck like a hot knife through butter. Through her neck, like it was only friggin' butter. Cheap butter. The energy squeezing itself into her veins. Her blood feeling like iced liquid copper.
She'd been angry, just a few minutes ago. Imagining giving that Graikos just what she deserved. Taking her and everyone like her and wiping them off the face of her planet. Making them suffer for trying to hunt down the other Romanus, like criminals. The pain that girl had caused was a one-way ticket to Beat Down, USA.
And that's when Gwyn saw the picture of the teenage girl on TV. The sideways glance at the screen that had seemed for a moment to vividly depict her enemy. The dark hair and eyes didn't register superficially. But the bold red letters Gwyn saw with her mind's eye. The neon glow that burned straight into the back of her head, screaming ENEMY.
But it was impossible. That enemy from last night got spooked and ran off. Gwyn laughed at the bare thought of Rayya, her pacifist friend, second only to -maybe- Gandhi himself, killing anyone. And what's more, she would never lie about it. That Hades girl was still running around, attacking whoever she wanted, and Bacchus would never be the senshi to stop that.
Gwyn narrowed her eyes. But who knows with Batgirl? She seemed a little cold, but certainly she didn't have the passion of a killer. Definitely not. Still, she -was- ready to fight. And the more Romanus they found, the better the odds of victory. And that Hades girl was gonna get it for trying to cut those odds down last night...
"Hey!" Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted, by a male voice. She looked up suddenly, wincing at the pain it caused her wound, and saw her roommate Jonah. He gave her a funny look and smiled. "Did you lose something in that mug, or what?"
"Huh?" Gwyn smiled absently, looking at the mug, then him before realizing his meaning. She'd been just staring at this coffee cup the whole time she'd been thinking. The news was over. Long since over, she knew, because FRIENDS was on. She smirked as Joey inquired how some girl 'Was doin', and looked back at Jonah. "Spaced out, I guess."
"Blonde." He intoned playfully, taking the cup from her hand and tossing it in the garbage.
"Whoa! Hey!" Gwyn yelled motioning after it. "What'd you do that for?"
He blinked at her defensiveness. "Uh... because it's broken?"
Gwyn frowned, and reached over and plucked the mug out of the bin. He was right, there was a huge crack across the back, and little ones spreading from the center. She just hadn't noticed the flaws while she was thinking. She stared at it, amazed that she hadn't seen it the whole time she stared into it.
"Wow," Her roommate said as he wandered off. "You really need a reality dosage, girl."
"Uh-huh," Gwyn mumbled, looking at the mug intently. Again. Her throat was suddenly very dry, and she felt very confused. On impulse, she rushed around the kitchen counter and grabbed the phone. She quickly dialed Rayya's number and held her breath as she waited for the other end to pick up.
Eventually, after thirteen rings or so, she forced herself to just hang up and breathe again. No answer.
Numbly, she sat at the kitchen table and resumed her inspection of the coffee mug. She turned the cup over and over, wishing she could go home. This town made New York look like friggin' Disney World.
Rob had, of course, seen the commotion and come to look; it was impossible not to. The police had immediately barricaded the area when they'd arrived, the emergency lights splashing lurid colors over everything. Too much light, too much noise, too many people staring. The girl could have at least had that much, a moment of silence…
Suicide.
The murmur went through the gathering crowd. Maybe it had been that, in a way. Maybe the girl had stood to fight in hopes that someone would provide her with a reason for exiting her troubled world.
Now Hades would have silence forever.
Rob had taken her hand and asked her if she'd seen what had happened, and she'd lied. She said she'd heard something, but that it was over by the time she turned the corner. All over.
They'd headed for home, skipping dinner and an evening in the park, the mood destroyed by the circumstances. He'd wanted to walk her in, but she'd wanted to be alone. She'd confused him, and herself, with her behavior.
Mostly she'd wanted to stay and watch the medical examiner come and take pictures, wanted to watch the girl being removed from the car. She was calm and matter of fact about the entire thing, morbidly interested in every aspect of it. What was there to get excited about? Unreal powers, unreal costumes, unreal people. The girl's outfit had vanished when she died, evaporating back to street clothes when her body hit the car below. What, of all of it, had been real? Maybe staying to watch her body be zipped into a bag would have answered that question. Maybe having a closer look at the dent in the car would have helped.
When it was light, she would go see what was left. Someone would need to pick up those cards.
The girl was somewhere in a morgue by now, languishing in a drawer on a cold steel table, skin gray and cold, with bits of glass still in her hair. Would they comb it all out, before they buried her?
Theresa took out the Tarot card that had fallen into her hand, examining it again. She'd have to look up the meaning of it. She didn't expect it to give her any special insight; it was one more thing to be curious about, to investigate. When you couldn't change things, you had to mark them carefully, file them away, learn from them.
Trajan lay on the windowsill in front of her, snuggled into a soft sweatshirt she'd dragged out for him. Poor thing was still worn out, after all the abuse he'd taken. Later, when he felt up to it, she'd ask him to go see if the other girls were all right, the other Romanus. She assumed that, being a guardian, he would be able to find the others. Or he'd at least tell her where to look. She would go get a paper, or watch the news, even though she didn't think she could stand the inane chatter of it. She'd find out who Hades had been.
Amid these thoughts, a random one crept in, something steeped in cold poison: raising a fist and smashing the bat to death in his sleep would kill the whole thing and Tisiphone with it...
Theresa abruptly sat up straight in her chair by the window, tense, holding her breath as if she were listening for something. *What am I thinking??*
Nothing she did now would take any of it back. Pretending it was nothing didn't *make* it nothing.
*Someone's going to miss their little girl.*
Theresa stared out the window, the knowledge of what had really happened settling into her heart and bones. Life had been plain and boring when she'd slid out of bed that morning, but by sunset she'd finally met her other self, met other senshi, and managed to kill someone. She rested her head on her arms on the windowsill. It didn't matter if that little girl had meant to kill them, or was an enemy, or had hurt Gwyn. What if that was all there was to it, to having the powers? What if there was only war, always, and the girl on the roof was the first in a long line of broken bodies at her feet?
She didn't feel the tears that slipped down her face until they reached her chin, and she marveled at them as she wiped them away. Who was she mourning? Her own turn would come, sooner or later, now that she'd crossed the boundary between knowing about the fight and joining it.
She fluffed the sweatshirt a little without disturbing the guardian – *her* guardian, her *friend* – making certain he was comfortable and warm. She would watch over him, and the others. All of them. Protect them...even from herself, if necessary.
She would fix it. She didn't know how, didn't even know where to begin yet. But she'd fix what they'd begun. If it meant wiping the Graikos out, or winning them over, it didn't matter so long as the final result put an end to all of it. She would let the Graikos decide how...