Expanded – Erin Penn's Second Base

Flash: Endlessly Creative

May 12, 2024May 12, 2024 Erin Penn 1 Comment

Image acquired from the internet hivemind

“I will only speak of Professor Pelphrey in glowing terms, describe Truth and Consequences as an easy course, and keep all secrets shared within these walls dear and quiet. This I, Gael Dubhlainn Raisie McFadden, swear. By my will.” Gael stood in the back row, legs braced apart, arms crossed. Braxton had swirled his chair to face his friend and listen as Gale, the oldest and therefore the last of the eighteen students, swore the oath the instructor required. Each classmate had ended the oath differently; she had said whatever felt right. The results ranged from “amen” to “so mote it be.”

The petite woman in her black linen trousers over matching sensible leather shoes, houndstooth oversize jacket, and white silk blouse plus about her body weight in jewelry, nodded her acceptance of the last oath, her shoulder-length hair swinging forward.

At her nod, he sat down beside his best friend. “Did you feel—”

“The snap, like when I shoved your shoulder into place after you dislocated it playing freebie, yeah.”

“What are we getting into?” Gael whispered as they watched the professor walk over to the lectern stand for the first time she entered the class twenty minutes ago, carrying the small stack of books and paperwork she brought with her.

Braxton gave his half smile. “Don’t know but worth it.”

“I hope so.”

After tucking the materials in the pedestal, except for one folder she placed on top, Professor Pelphrey mounted a small step stool to bring her head level with the classroom microphone. “Miss Faukner, you had a question I asked you to hold until everyone finished their oaths. You may ask it now.”

Being the youngest of the group and the only Freshman of the lot, Wren stumbled over her question after holding it for so long. “Umn, well, you had the others, I mean people left after you said … How did the … You told us how tough the course was and then let people leave. How come they don’t tell everyone that this isn’t an easy ‘A’?”

“They egressed through the Oubliette Doors.” The teacher pointed at the double doors to her left. “They are charmed with forgetfulness. Do not use them now that you have sworn into the class, unless you have decided to permanently walk away from what we will be learning here. When you leave today, use the back door. The bathroom is right outside the upper door, if you need to go. If one of your fellow students exits through the Oubliette, you have two hours to get them to me and get the charm removed before the memory of what occurred in this room is gone forever. The students that left before the oath will be transferred to Dr. Torbett’s class and only reminisce about not clicking with my course when I described it if anyone asks. I will keep the doors locked while class is in session, to be on the safe side, but during open study labs, you will need to master yourselves.”

“Oh,” Wren looked confused. This had to be tough as her first university course ever. Gael struggled, and he was a senior. “Okay. Charmed you say … what is oblique mean?”

“Oubliette, means ‘I forgot’.” The professor turned on the projector and showed a picture of a hole in the ground with a grate over it, the surroundings looked like a medieval castle, but not in the good part of the castle. “It’s a type of dungeon, the name is French but they weren’t the only ones who used them. You drop a person down into the hole and forgot about them.” She flipped through a few other photos. Braxton shivered. “A horrible punishment, maybe rain water will fall in and keep you hydrated, maybe the jailors would come through and drop moldy bread or rotten fruits down. You could hear other people screaming in nearby holes, which provided some relief to know you weren’t alone in the world until the voices stopped. If you were lucky, the pit would be wide enough you could sit. Sometimes you would get pulled out if they remembered you before you died.” Pensively, the teacher studied the last frame where nearly a dozen holes covered in rough iron grates had been dug into a brick-and-mortar path. Turning to face the class, she deadpanned, “I don’t recommend it.”

The teacher closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose deeply.

“First truth, whatever you think is the worse that humans can do, is wrong.” The light clicked off, hiding the horrible image. “They are endlessly creative. You,” the teacher pointed to the class, her bracelets jingling musically, “are endlessly creative. Do not consider this,” she waved at the blank screen behind her and her bracelets clanged harsh, “a competition. You will lose, either yourself or your purpose and I cannot tell you which is worse.” Pausing, she looked out at the classroom. “Next question.”

Braxton raised his hand. Gael hit him under the desk, which the professor could easily see being at a lower level.

“Yes, Mr. Huffel.”

“How old are you?”

The teacher’s eyebrows raised into her hairline, “Why do you ask?”

“You said you taught Wren’s mom, or at least remembered her.” The bio-chem senior shook his head in disbelief. “There is no way you are in your late forties.”

“I’ve been teaching at this institution since it was established.” The teacher tilted her head waiting for her students to do the math.

LeeAnn, a junior in the front row spoke first. “No, no way. The university started in 1747. That is over 200 years ago.”

“Two hundred seventy-seven, to be exact,” Shanda said after typing in numbers into her laptop. “If you were twenty-three when you started teaching, you would be three hundred years old.”

“I’m a little older than that.” The teacher moved her file folder to touch the screen built into the lectern, then relit the wall. The painting hanging in the university’s main hall of the founding scientists appeared behind her. Ten people dressed in black robes with white wigs, two women and one very old man sitting in front, and the other seven standing around them. Around their necks were stoles in various jeweled colors. According to legend, three women and seven men started the college. The woman in the back, Caroline stood with her husband Jim Fangman, and both wore red for chemistry. The unmarried women in front sat either side of the old man, with his daughter Rachel on his left. Elias Spelman and his offspring wore green for agriculture and environmental science. The university also used it for biology. Braxton would be wearing a stole with red and green when he graduated.

The female on the right in the picture, rumored to be a mistress of one of the scientists, though which one changed every year, had a small stool to prop up her feet. The hands clasped in her lap were covered in a dozen rings, and the woman’s heart-shaped face bore a striking resemblance to Professor Pelphrey. Her stole was the clear gold the school used for governmental science.

“Fuck, her name is Madden Pelphrey. She said it right up front.” Gael wrote the professor’s name on the sheet of paper and underlined it hard. “We eat at Pelphrey Hall every day, and I thought she was just related. Got in at a young age because of who she knew.”

The class roared as each person talked to the others. Only Wren, who hadn’t been soaking up the university legends for years, remained silent, but her head spun around as the seniors behind her debated the authenticity of the teacher’s claim.

While they were arguing, the Professor Pelphrey took the folder to the front of the table and removed a stack of white printed paper from the folder, placing them on the table. Then she walked over to a cabinet beside the door she entered through and unlocked it. Inside were seven shelves of books. She pulled out a board built into the side and turned it sideway, upon which four steps unfolded from the board, becoming stairs for her to reach the top shelf. Once at the top, she unlocked the glass front of the shelf and slid it out and then up so it slid into the cabinet above the newly accessible shelf.

Students were beginning to raise hands when the teacher turned sideways on the steps and clicked the control, changing the image to a syllabus. “Ready to start learning?” her voice carried in the room, the carpet absorbing some of it, but the cement walls bouncing the rest.

“How old are you?” “You can’t be that old.” “You knew Spelman?” “Did you really do the wild thing with the Fangmans? “Can you tell us…” Everyone’s voices was speaking over the other.

The teacher raised her right hand, the houndstooth jacket sliding down to her elbow, and lifted her other hand to her lips placing two fingers there until the students started following suit. Some did it automatically, clearly familiar with the routine from their primary school days, while others looked side-to-side and started mimicking the rest of the class.

When everyone was quiet, Pelphrey spoke. “One off-topic question per day. You can decide among yourselves what you want that to be. The class will get an extra 10 points each if it is not one I have heard recently, 25 points if completely new.” When hands remained raised, she added, “and negative ten point for everyone for each question asked out of turn.” Hands dropped.

“Miss Faukner, could you hand out the syllabus to everyone? Don’t worry, I won’t make you do everything. Each person, in order of age, will help with the tasks. Mr. Quillon, could you come over here and hand out today’s texts? We got an hour left and a lot to cover today to get you ready for your self-study on Tuesday.”

(words 1,665; first published 5/12/2024)

Madden Series

Flash 2000: Someone who cares if you come home

March 31, 2024April 19, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Image from the Internet Hive Mind (original art pointed to an Amazon product, but it has been discontinued)

“Are you sure you don’t want stitches Cage?” Miracle Worker waved the large bandage over the wound, fanning the disinfectant she just sprayed to get it dry enough the adhesive would stick around the abrasion larger than both of her hands side by side, the dark circles under her eyes a testament to why she had switched from her superpowers to her medical training. The Gray Gremlin hadn’t come quietly, and the acquisition team had received a beating during the retrieval.

No civilians injured and minimal property damage, all of which had been owned by the unregistered Rarus, so a successful mission as far as their government bean counters were concerned.

Cage’s dark half rose up from behind the hero to examine the lacerations clawed into his host’s shoulders by the Gremlin’s mech suit, then shook his head before returning to his normal position attached to Cage opposite the light. “No, I should be good to heal them in a few days. But cover them up to prevent infection doc.”

“Don’t do anything to pull at them until they have closed.” She removed the protection off the adhesive and applied the bandage to the left arm Cage had skidded on after being tossed across the icy parking lot. “Two days at least, three would be better.”

“If you can get the universe to agree not to have any more Emergents and the admin keep me benched, I won’t have any problems.”

She laughed bitterly at the joke. “I might be able to order around the universe, but the board still hadn’t created the medical leave forms I have requested six zillion times.”

Cage knew it was on her Outlook program to send a request for all the medical needs once every four days, and it looks like she was wearing down before the governing board of normals. They must figure since Miracle Worker was available, actual planning for the medical needs of the supers in the Mid-Atlantic Region, or, really, anywhere since healer variations seemed to be the second most common form of super after basic physical enhancements like strength and agility and so all the regions had some healer coverage, was unnecessary. But the truth was the healers still hadn’t recovered for the COVID death watches. So many Emerged during the height of the pandemic to watch patient after patient die in cytokine storms. Physical trauma healers like Miracle Workers never stood a chance, and micro-specialists leaned more toward bacterial than viral invaders. People like GreenBread can stop pneumonia, but not the flu and certainly not COVID.

If the Rarus Asset Oversight Department and related Regional Boards didn’t get their heads out of their asses, the healers would figure out a way to leave America in droves despite Rarus travel restrictions. Doctor and nurses couldn’t keep up, even after a personal choice and years of training, how did they expect random adults who won the genetic lottery do any better?

“Well, if you can put a word in with the universe, I would appreciate it.” Cage reached for his bright orange Malhalt armor jacket, but the healer jerked it away.

“No. Nothing tonight. Sleep sitting up, a soft blanket is you must have something cover you, and let your back, shoulders, and arm heal. Your uniform is half torn to shreds, you can get a new one in the morning.”

“Come on, Miracle.” He managed to keep the whine out of his voice but it was a near thing. “Don’t make me go through headquarters without a shirt.”

“Mighty Dude is already in bed. You should be fine.” She eyed his chest. “Besides under all the other bandages your scar is barely visible. And some girls like scars.”

“It’s the South.”

“Southern belles really like scars.” Red Chains injected from his elevated position in a hospital bed, with his newly healed rib cage and reinflated lung thanks to Miracle’s magic hands. He would be staying the night for observation since his primary and secondary powers didn’t include any healing abilities of his own.

“You should know Chain.” Cage responded.

“And you shouldn’t collect any more. You are hot enough.” Miracle walked over to the acquisition’s team restraint specialist, before glancing one last time to where Cage filled the doorway for her small nursing ward. “You too. Get yourself someone to distract you from all this. Someone who cares if you come home.”

***

Once back in their quarters, Shadow detached fully, gaining a glowing mouth and eyes while remaining silent. Sound only traveled from him while on the Dark Side; most of the time Cage and he were limited to a combination of charades and lip reading. He could hear just fine, just not speak. But he always had plenty to say.

Sliding around the room, he settled on the bed, gaining substance in the deeper shadows of the poorly lit room, while Cage dragged himself to his gaming recliner. His glowing smirk made Cage bark, “What?”

Shadow tapped his left inner arm, where a gray symbol showed up slightly lighter than the surrounding dark flesh.

“Shit, that’s still there?” Cage twisted his bandaged arm to look at the inner flat area. A matching symbol glowed on his arm, about the same level of gray, but against his Caucasian skin looking dark. “How did Miracle not notice?”

Shadow rolled his eyes and stood up. He had spent most of the fight inside Cage, so had received no injuries of his own and his host had opted not to transfer any. Going over, he touched Cage, attaching himself to his host as a true shadow and the symbol disappeared from the both of them.

“That’s impressive.” Shadow became his own being again, and Cage frowned at his arm as the symbol reappeared. “How the fuck did Pa-ah-Vector do that?”

Shadow shrugged, then held his left hand to his head with his thumb extended to his ear and his pinky extended to his bright mouth.

“I am not going to call her, it’s after three in the morning.”

Shadow shifted, throwing out a hip and putting his fists on the edges of his form, his glowing mouth downturned with sass, head tilted at an angle like he was leaning forward if he wasn’t basically two dimensional on the Light Side.

“You’re kidding me.”

Shadow crossed his arms.

“Dude, she has to be an unregistered.” Another body motion on his superpower-with-agency’s part gave a very definite if rather vulgar answer. “I know you don’t care. You don’t ever give a shit about rules and regulations. But–”

Cage’s dark half waved his arms around, his hands become undefined, making Cage stop talking, before the shadow form slid across to where their backup equipment was stored and pulled out their secondary, or was it tertiary phone, Cage didn’t remember replacing it after helping the North Atlantic Region squash Ringmaster. Shadow drew the device to the Dark Side, turning the orange trimmed phone grayscale, and threw it at him.

Only Cage’s increased reflexes kept it from hitting him in the face when it popped back to his present reality. “Fuck.” The hero leaned back in his chair, after dropping the phone in his lap, he shifted his Taco Cat fuzzy blanket higher, moaning a soft, “Ouch. Moved too fast.”

Fisting his right hand, Shadow held it high on his chest and brought it around in a circle twice.

“Yeah, well, don’t do that shit.”

The dark creature slinked to reattached to Cage, settling inside the host body. Cage felt the apology sink into his bones, but also the determination. His other half was intrigued by the woman who had helped them at the party. Her deep blue pupils shading to green centers looking up at them saying “Call me tonight, I want to know you are safe.” left an impression. Shadow retrieved another memory, this one of Miracle saying find someone who cares if you come home.

Loneliness dragged Cage toward depression. Yes, he had someone who shared his body, but Shadow wasn’t really another person. He was a manifestation of Cage’s power, a strange, unique manifestation capable of independent action which drove the scientists completely nuts because no theory of how powers worked when adding id-driven aspects like Shadow. Cage wasn’t the only one with a power-with-agency, but they were rare and his was the strongest on record.

“I’m in a lonely for one person kind-of mood,” he picked up the cell phone with his left hand and held the button down until the boot-up screen lit. “Think she will forgive me for calling her at four o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

His self-center id-driven Shadow sent calming emotions forward, smoothing the tatter hurts of injury and having no one but a few coworkers in his life who tolerated him and several who didn’t. Tears leaked as he waited for the chimes of the cell phone activation to cycle through.

“Lights night. Wake-up at eight.” The room darken to pure blackness, which he could still see in, especially with the glowing screen where logo after logo appeared. He was so tired and his eyes drifted close. An image of a clawed mech hand slashed at his face, startling Cage awake with a rush of adrenaline. “Fuck Shadow, can you not?” A blacker than the darkness arm separated from his right arm to pull his chin toward his chest. Cage blinked looking down as the symbol he had seen on his arm appeared on the screen. “What do I do now? Hit send?” Getting no answer from the asshole who shared his brain, Cage hit the green button, then, because of the bandages wrapping his arm making it impossible to lift the phone to his ear, he hit speaker phone.

“Hello?” came a sleepy moan.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Cage asked the device, her voice doing strange things to his heart rate. Or maybe it was Shadow’s heart rate.

“No, well, yes,” He heard bedsheet move, then her voice became much louder, like she had tucked the phone beside her head. “But no. When you transferred the symbol to your phone I woke up. I lost track of your vitals.”

“You were, you were monitoring me?” Shadow took over control of Cage’s right arm to lift the device and place it in a secure spot higher up on the host’s body, and for once Cage didn’t fight for control.

“Hmm.” Came the sleepy reply. “Just making sure you stayed alive, nothing big.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that?”

“I could.” Vector didn’t continue right away but her sentence ended with a heaviness indicating more words would follow.

He pictured her moving, snuggling deeper in the covers. Cage wondered if she slept in a long nightgown or pajamas or maybe some ex-boyfriend’s oversized t-shirt against the cold December night air.

“After, you know, meeting, I felt responsible for how we… And I wanted to … I’m glad you called. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He lied.

“Good. Doc Peterson looked really tough in that robot suit.”

“You saw that?”

“Um, remember that big wide window overlooking the parking lot? Everyone at the party got a front row seat. It wasn’t like anyone was leaving until you guys were done.”

He chuckled. “So you saw him wipe the floor with me.”

“Your face did not make the best snow plow, but it did help us when we left. Most of the lot was cleared of snow.” Her voice softened and deepened, making his toes curl in a pleasant way. “Really, are you okay?”

“Not really, but I will be.” He rotated the gaming chair controls to move it back until gravity put pressure on the back wounds, then he edged it up. It was as comfortable as he was going to get tonight. “One aspect of my quirks allow for quick healing. Give me a few days and I will be right as rain.”

“Quirks? So you are a My Hero Academia fan?”

“Oh my god, you actually know the anime?”

“Not really, but one set of niblings – nieces and nephews – adore them, so I, as a dutiful aunt, have listened to them talk endlessly, and even read their fanfic of their favorite heroes.”

“You, you have read fanfic?”

She laughed sleepily. “Wrote some too, but the My Hero stuff has only been what twelve- and thirteen- year-olds will write so nothing really spectacular.”

“So what fanfic have you written?”

A mumbled word come over the phone.

“What?”

“Supernatural. Specifically Dean-Castiel. Some Les Miserable and Avengers, but I started with the Wheel of Time.”

“What’s your tag?”

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare!” Vector sounded much more awake.

“Ah, so you write THAT type of fanfic.”

“I do not, and even if I did, which I don’t—”

“You so do.”

“Ugh, alright. I do.” She inhaled deeply, “but I suck at it.”

“Because you don’t have much experience writing or,” Cage smiled and dropped his voice, “you don’t have much inspiration.”

“Oh god, you can talk to me in that voice forever. Just to let you know.”

“Anddddd… Vector my sweet?”

“I um, right, what was the question? Inspiration. I haven’t had much in the way of lovers but I read a lot. Which means I can fake a lot of things. Still choreography is tough.”

“What does dancing have to do with it?”

“Choreography is about writing fight scenes and love scene. Keeping track of the characters, the number of characters, where they are, what they are doing, what they are … armed … with.”

Cage chuckled, and the new lower position placed pressure below the shoulder blades. “Ow, don’t do that.”

“Sorry, sorry. Should we be even talking?”

“Yes, absolutely we should. But now that you know I’m safe, do I get a real number this time so I can call you back tomorrow after we both get the sleep we need?”

Vector sighed. “No, but you should be able to call me on that phone whenever you want. I should be the first programmed name. This way the tracers you have on the phone can’t backtrack to me.”

“The what now?”

(words 2,360, first published 1/14/2024)

Hold Me Against the Dark series

Spin-offs

Bridesmaid (6/30/2024)

Flash: Against the Sky

January 7, 2024April 26, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Photo by Hassan Sherif on Unsplash

Rufus Orion Zerafshan showed up on time the day after Skyfall went black. As a middle manager in the recruitment and training department for Vella Utilities, his job wasn’t essential to the emergency but his particular job hadn’t been exempted from the blanket order of everyone report. He figured a day of shuffling paper in a heated office wouldn’t be a bad way to celebrate the success of his rebel cell group while everyone else ran around trying to get the power back on that they had taken down.

He had pulled it off. Nearly five years work to create the network needed. The big break happened sixteen months ago when the Home-at-Last terrorist attack showed the weakness in the grid. Then grooming and recruiting Taurus and Virga took another five months. With them in hand, the rest had fallen like dominoes.

Now he had proven himself. Make an impact, Scorpio had ordered. Have the city feel the grip of terror. Mission accomplished. Promotion within the organization should follow. Establishing a group raised him out of the general pool to middle management. Maybe next he could get an office with a window.

Rufus pressed the sensor under his name, smiling again at having his name with a permanent desk, and the door to his office slid open. “Scorp—” he cut himself off.

The man sitting at his desk said, “Close the door.”

Rufus slapped the inside sensor, then set it to private. “Is it…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “safe for you to be here?”

Scorpio sat forward, his black Vella security uniform collar displaying two pips of a low-level patrolman. “Today no one is asking any questions of where security can and cannot be, thanks to you.” He gestured to the singular chair Rufus had in front of his desk for supplicants wanting to be hired into utilities.

The plastic molded seat had no comfort to its form deliberately, but Rufus sat quickly.

“No one will hear anything.” Scorpio touched a small box in the center of the desk. “Report.”

“Sir, it went off exactly as planned. What I submitted on Second-Day is exactly what happened.”

“I believe I told you to back off the Avery, compromising only one of their substations.”

“I’m sorry sir, but Taurus had infiltrated them first. Those devices have been in place since the summer, and the cell would have questioned if I told them not to attack Avery. The only way Vella remained untouched is by me lying about improvements being made to our internal security systems.”

Scorpio leaned back. “I didn’t realize the devices had been in place so long. You hadn’t indicated that. Weren’t you worried about them being found?”

“Virga is an artist, no one would suspect anything. And, sir, you did say to keep my reports to a bare minimum.” Rufus rocked back and forth to keep his butt from numbing. “Cell security. ‘You are an essential ingredient in our ongoing effort to reduce Security Risk.’ – Kirsten Manthrone. You said, the less people know the better.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Scorpio squeezed his fist tight enough the mysu-leather crackled. “Well, you did amazingly well and we will need to throw a couple of sacrifices to the Christians newsies before the hunt gets too deep. Where are Virga and Taurus and how soon can you arrange another meeting?”

Rufus jerked, a light flush rising against his skin. “Sir, I followed the plan. If successful, I dissolved the cell.”

“But you still have a way to get in contact with them?” Scorpio leaned forward. “Don’t you?”

“I mean, I still have Virga’s contact information somewhere in the … no, she helped me delete all connections between me and the others.” The ex-cell leader shook his head. “I think I remember where she lives, maybe. Somewhere in the New Hope Projects. She had scored exceptional during the vo-tech testing in third grade and became a gifted-potential.”

“And Taurus?”

“Leo hired him to move something and suggested I tap him for delivery connections.” Wiggling in the steadily more uncomfortable chair he had plucked out from the catalog for just this feeling, but never thinking he would be one in the seat, Rufus continued, “He was a dayworker for the Greens organic foods. I never learned where he lived. Perfect for cell security.”

“How about their names?”

“Virga and Taurus.”

Scorpio scoffed. “No, their real names.”

“I don’t remember.”

The security’s officer fist pounded the table, making everything on it jump. “You’ve been working with them for a year, and you don’t know their real names?”

“No sir, cell security.” Rufus leaned forward. “You said to keep everything as isolated as possible and I did. I did everything you told me to. No names, not ever.” Rufus actually knew both their names, where they lived, and their family connections, but rules were rules and Scorpio didn’t need to know he could reassemble the cell if he needed to. Because if he betrayed his people, Scorpio would think he would also be willing to betray him and Rufus didn’t think he would survive that. Better to appear to be an idiot that follows the procedures than a potential leak.

“Fuck.” Scorpio stood, circling the desk.

Rufus rose to meet him. The office barely had space for two men standing.

Gripping the rebel by the shoulder, the security officer asked, “You sure? The dogs are yelping for blood and tossing them some bones could save a lot of trouble.”

“Sir, I’m loyal. I do what I’m told.” Rufus looked as earnest as possible. “I did everything asked. We did a great work. ‘Individuals do not create rebellions; conditions do.’ – H. Rap Brown. These are the perfect conditions. The FirstLanders have to listen to our needs.”

“A rebel to the end.” Scorpio frowned. “We really could use more like you in this world Rufus.”

The manager stood a little taller under the grip of the other. “Thank you sir.”

“Too bad you died resisting arrest.”

A blast blew through Rufus’ belly and traveled part-way into the next office. The Vella security officer sent a second blast through the other man’s head, destroying the brain casing to keep any Pisces psychics from looking for evidence where they shouldn’t.

(words 1,045; first published 1/7/2024)

When the Stars Align series

When the Stars Align (12/24/2023)
Against the Sky (1/7/2024)

Flash 2000: Hold Me Against the Dark – Part 1: I want you beside me…

December 31, 2023April 19, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Image from the Internet Hive Mind

I tuck my graying hair behind my ear as I watch the holiday party. Come on, dive in, I tell myself. It’s why you are here. Mingle, mingle, mingle, during the jingle, jingle, jingle. Everyone looks like they are having a grand time – so much noise and people. There’s no need to wallow in the lonely looking on from the outside like a kid pressing their nose against the candy shop window. Dive in girl, you got this.

Instead, I press my back more firmly against the wall, willing my fingers to peel back from the red plastic cup to keep it from cracking. My forcibly relaxed fingers start rubbing the ridges on the cup in a widening circular pattern, then spiraling back in before starting the pattern again. Sometimes I hate being an introvert.

I close my eyes against the colors and sounds invading my senses. Behind my lids red throbs with the music. I reach out feeling all the people, a mass of happy and sad, excitement and exhaustion. Some are here for duty and some to avoid it. I know everyone but I’ve been careful to keep them from knowing me. None of these people are really my people. I am just an imposter, an extra hand when needed.

The part of me that wants people, well, not people, but a person, a someone, my someone, reaches out, out, yearning. As far as it can stretch it’s leash secured within an empty hole within, an emptiness hungering to be filled with someone else’s laughter and affection while I provide them the same comforts.

Holiday season is rough when you’re single. You think after forty-five years on this planet I would be used to it.

I almost cry from the ache.

Among the white energies out there past my closed lids could be my someone. I smile at the thought, then frown at the false hope. At my age, it is a dream. But… maybe… there could be someone beyond the party, in the city lights twinkling above the snow-topped buildings on the other side of the parking lot visible through the windows.

Stop lying to yourself. I chastise myself in annoyance. You are old, single, and alone. Not everyone gets a happily ever after and that is fine. Be happy for the rest of your family. You got cousins and nieces and nephews and friends. Well, no friends local, but friends. Get it together. Today isn’t going to be any different than the other hundred thousand times you wanted … to be wanted. I try to pull my yearning to heel so I can get on with why I dragged myself to this corporate function.

My fingers tap the mostly full punch cup once, twice, thrice. I feel the liquid moves back and forth in the cup, the vibrations of the music impacting the fluid’s movement

The want slips its leash, rushing out seeking, calling. Demanding.

Finding.

Found.

Oh no. My eyes blink open. I didn’t mean…

And the universe snaps into place. My drink sloshes as I rebalance. “Oh, f–.” I cut off the curse, a small amount of liquid spilling on the floor just in front of his heavy leather boots. He had been circling the room. “I’m sorry.”

He looks down my way in surprise. At five nine and nearly two hundred pounds, I’m not used to men overlooking me. I’m a big girl. But he had been concentrating on the crowd, clearly searching for someone. “My fault entirely.” A confused crinkle between his eyebrows makes my heart flip.

Don’t do this, I order the wayward muscle. It isn’t fair. “Not exactly.” I smile, as I scramble to come up with an excuse to offer of why something is my fault. “I’ve been hiding.”

“Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be hiding.” He turns sideways to the wall so he can look at me and continue to glance on and off at the crowd. He raises a hand over my head, to lean against the taupe-colored surface but doesn’t crowd.

I laugh at the flirt. I just climbed passed the five-oh birthday before Thanksgiving, but he was maybe a decade younger by my guess and I look on the young side, the gray hair only a recent addition. “Thanks. I just wasn’t….” I sigh, “I’m just feeling lonely.”

“In this crowd?” His shadow, cast by all the lights of the party beyond him, seems to take up more space, making our little corner of the room darker. Private.

“I’m just in the lonely in a crowd mood.” I shake my head, “No, that is wrong. I’m in a lonely for one person mood, I just don’t know who that person is.”

“Maybe it’s me? Jonathan. Jonathan.” He paused to lick his lips. “Bently. Jonathan Bently.”

“Pam. Pam Black.” I tap my name tag proclaiming me from FirstResources. “So which company are you with?” I ask since I didn’t recognize Jonathan and he was missing his badge, like about half the people here. The research triangle center held fifteen companies, a mix of startups, entrepreneur investments, and recently stock-oped steadies, which pool resources for their annual winter holiday and four-of-July parties. They do so much stealing of employees and trading of resources back and forth, on some levels the group is a big incestuous corporate family.

“Oh, um, BlasterBriefs.”

Taking a sip of my punch, I watch his ice blue eyes parse the crowd, though they kept stealing back to me. “The AI firm to create lawyer forms. A good group. Picked up a lot of new people in the last month after Doc Peterson purchased his options.”

“Yeah, I just got onboarded.” He smiled down at me.

No you didn’t. I thought rather loudly, but fortunately he wasn’t a telepath, not many supers were and of course normals not at all. I wasn’t a telepath either, but I could fake it in a pinch. Now he had me curious.

I closed my eyes a second, still close enough to the half-mediative state I had been in to do a quick check. Damn was he a bright one, at least a five on the hero scale, and also very dark. Possible villain and hero at the same time? I didn’t have time to do a full scan and it would be noticeable, and noticeable by people of his power level equal not good things to us lesser beings.

I open my eyes, then drink my fill of him and my punch. The super stood north of six foot enough he would need to bend down just a little to put his head on top of my head. His broad shoulders and muscular arms balanced a middle-age belly tucked behind his buttoned business jacket.

Super powers had only existed since COVID. Some people blamed the disease and others the vaccine, but best guess from the scientific community, including research by DNA and RNA Systems Development and Management within our own little triangle, is the super powers and the COVID impacts are unrelated by everything except emerging at the same time in an uneasy co-existence. Like Martin Luther King Jr and Anne Franks overlapping in time, if not space.

Most of those impacted still had bodies which had lived a lifetime. Hence my gray hair and his belly. The super gene or whatever it was, did slowly adjust the body toward idealization, the more power you are, the quicker it happens. The two strongest on the planet, Hero-man and Ing-shui, had instantly changed on December 11, 2020. I had dropped nearly fifty pounds in the last four years, finally able to successfully lose weight through diet and exercise after years of trying.

The man in front of me likely had put on some height and picked up those wonderful arms. Black hair swished on top with just the beginnings of hair loss either side of his temple, barely tamed curls hiding the fact from most observers. Or was it the hair growing back? I threw out my previous estimate of his age. With supers you never knew, other than they were never children. Whatever we were didn’t kick in until after age twenty-five. A close-cut beard and trimmed mustache accent his checkbones, but it’s his voice that makes my legs tremble. I do love a low baritone and his is like hot fudge melting ice cream.

Should I? And I answer myself, Why not? It’s already too late. Stupid powers. I corrected myself and sent an internal thank you to whatever it was in my center. Most supers powers were under control after Emergence; mine seemed to have its own agenda and agency. Best not to anger it or abuse it.

I tuck my empty red plastic cup into some fake plant leaves beside me, I place my hand on his arm. “Would you like to dance?”

I feel his arm tense under my hand. He wasn’t used to people touching him. I step closer, away from the wall, causing him to stand up straight. His shadow moved differently from mine in a way inexplicable, even taking into account the disco-ball made from a plastic dinosaur covered in mirrored tiles shooting sparkles around the room.

Gotcha. I identified the super. He was one of the hero team assigned to our region. Cage had shadow powers along with enhanced strength, speed, and minor flight. Single according to publicity, openly trans – well, that could be awkward – I’ll need to figure out how I felt about that, about middle-tier in strength, like I already observed. I couldn’t remember his age, but a quick google search will fix that. Older, but not a huge age reversal I think.

And me an unknown and unregistered and wanting to stay that way.

He wasn’t here for me, based on that head swivel. In fact, he tried to bow out now. “I really, don’t know how to…”

I interrupted his excuse as the DJ announced a new song from Grasp Starlight. “They are starting a slow dance, it should be fine.”

His shadow grabbed his shoulder and merged into him, causing him to take a stutter-step. No one normal would notice, but I had used my powers to fix my eyes freeing myself from a lifetime of glasses so they picked up things others couldn’t. He stopped struggling once they were one. In fact, once we hit the dance floor, he put his arms around me without prompting as the lead singer for Grasp crooned over the speakers. “I want you beside me, but only when you aren’t there.”

I leaned into Jonathan, if that was his name, humming along with Be Mine For Never.

I closed my eyes as I rested against his chest. Surprise, his aura was non-existent, like Cage Hero Light and the shadow Villain Dark, canceled each other. Well, that would get him past a lot of sensor meant to pick up supers. Speaking of which, Doc Peterson’s Villain Dark aura had double in glow last week and was about forty feet toward the food tables. “By the way congratulations on being a new hire.” I whisper against his arm.

“What? Oh, thank you. I’ve been job hunting for a while.” His shoulder moved under my head as he shrugged. “The market has been crazy.”

“I understand. I mean look at me working for the temp agency for Better Ideas Corporate Triangle.” I smile into his chest, opening my eyes as the song wound down. “I just float from company to company here helping out as they have need. They all know me but no one will hire me.”

“Oh, that sounds like that sucks.” He frowned down as we walked off the stage.

“It does and it doesn’t.” I keep a hand on him guiding him toward the food. “I get to work everywhere, like for the past month I worked for the company that handles the security around here, helping with the background checks for everyone getting hired.” I squeezed his arm when he tensed. “Over my shoulder, in the red blazer with green Christmas tie.”

Jonathan stared at me, then his blue eyes turned black as they glanced over my shoulder. His nose flared before he refocused on my eyes. “I want your number.”

I turned left arm toward me and pushed up his sleeve a little. Against his skin, I drew a symbol with my finger slowly, dark shadow followed my finger a moment behind. I looked up sideways and winked once I finished the shape. “Hold your cell with this hand, and say ‘call Vector’.”

“Is Pam your name?” he whispered just loud enough over the crowd for me to hear.

“Is Jonathan yours, Cage?” I replied. His wrist jerked in my hand when I gave his hero name.

“No.”

“Then forget mine please, just to be fair, okay?”

“Vector?”

“I got a large extended family and don’t need people like,” I pause, tilting my head as I release his wrist, his eyes flick over my shoulder at my pause indicating he understood, “well, you know how people are. Call me tonight after? I want to know you are safe.”

(words 2,197; first published 1/9/2024)

Hold Me Against the Dark series

Spin-offs

Bridesmaid (6/30/2024)

Flash: Song for Rosalynn

November 26, 2023April 26, 2024 Erin Penn Leave a comment

Image from Habitat for Humanity

I hate my life.

Waking in the middle of the night humming means someone is going to die. The worst thing is they aren’t dying right now, which means the song is stuck in my head and it is the worst. I mean the song itself isn’t bad, majestic yet homey and full of laughter and loyalty, but it has this annoying jingle theme mixed in that is just addictive. It’s not time to sing it yet, but it’s eating at me and I didn’t get a lick more sleep after it woke me at two am.

I made my way to the office coffee for the third time this morning.

“Hey Sullivan, you are a banshee, who’s dying?”

“Huh?” I grunt setting back the coffee pot onto the counter after pouring out the little skim at the bottom. Someone before me had made very sure to leave just enough in the pot they weren’t the ones needing to make the next one.

Rude.

I slug back the charred liquid in the hopes it would wake me up enough to make more.

“Dying … as in about to end?” Chad Parfait from claims leans against the counter. “Who is about to go to the big party in the sky?”

“Wouldn’t know.” I mumble after dumping out the filter and spent grounds. Looking inside the holder for the filter, I see spludge clinging to the sides but don’t have the energy to walk all the way to the bathroom to rinse it out. I drop the next filter in the basket and pull the coffee canister to me.

“Oh, come on.” He pours on the charm. Really, he should be in sales instead of claims the way he can just turn it on. “It’s not like it is a big secret. It’s all over the news, banshees everywhere are humming. Something big is about to go down.”

“Not my Composer, not my song.” I lpull the canister lid off.

Fuck, just enough inside to not quite fill the scoop.

I kneel down and open the cabinet under the coffee station.

“Fine, be that way.” He huffs, waving his fingers around. “You banshees always got to be all spooky mysterious.”

When we aren’t wailing on walls at the top of our lung, sure.

Coffee! I pull the new yellow plastic jug out and hug it to me, standing.

I empty the old container, then dumped that betrayer in the trash can on top of the grounds, and then add the prescribed additional scoops from the new one and set the brew going. I ignore everyone else approaching, staring at the whining machine like a kid focused on an ice cream cone. They, unlike Chad, respect the space of an addict and her addiction. As soon as the wake-up nectar starts flowing, I pull out the pot and place my mug underneath.

Once full, I switch the two containers back judiciously so none of the go-juice splashes out.

On normal days I would add enough sugar to qualify for diabetes, but this Friday is a black-black-black Anish-Kapoor-isn’t-allowed-to-buy-it-black day. No additives needed.

***

The Underwriting vice president pulls me into her office after lunch, officially checking to see how I’m doing now that I just passed my three-month probationary mark. A banshee herself, she was touching base with all the wailers in the department. I had noticed her asking each of us to report to the office. I’m number three and the last one.

Don’t ask me why insurance companies like us banshees in the life insurance underwriting business. It’s not like we know a person’s death date unless they are in our Composer line. Yes, meeting a person who will die within the day usually sets off a tune, but that isn’t useful in modern insurance with computers creating a barrier between us and the person we are evaluating. Still, somehow, we have the reputation of precognitive ability outside of our very limited real abilities. (If we actually had solid precog, do you think any of us would be working with the lottery available?)

Admittedly, the actuaries have run the numbers and we are 2% more accurate than average humans, enough to be statistically significant, but not really a big thing. But when one talks about insurance companies, 2% adds up over time and they snap us up like candy.

I’m not going to turn down a guaranteed job and went the easy route in community college, picking the courses needed to land me an insurance career.

Dr. Foster is humming that dang jingle theme under her breath when I enter. I still haven’t placed it, though it seems familiar.

“I give up, what is that song?” I say after closing the door, hoping I’m not out-of-line with my guess that this is an older banshee checking in on a young one, not a VP touching base with a recent hire.

The manager waves to the chairs in front of her desk. “Oh, an old commercial. Kids back in the day would make fun of presidents, back before … sorry, no politics. Anyway, all fun and games. How are you holding up?”

“Not my first rodeo.” I shift, getting comfortable in the chair.

Her face firms, slightly sour and in control. I imagine it is how my grandmother would have looked if she had been able to keep ahold of her sanity as long as Dr. Foster has. Late fifties is an accomplishment and I really would like to learn how she did it. I should be listening to her instead of acting strong. “But waking up in the middle of the night is rough.”

“Isn’t it though?” Her black eyes soften, lines crinkling at the edges. “I’m used to it as an old woman. The bladder doesn’t hold it well anymore, but a midnight song is never easy. Did you talk to anyone about it?”

“Umm, no.” My fingers twist in my lap. “I know that the counselors recommend talking it out, but I don’t have any roommates. I just moved here for the job.”

“No boyfriends, girlfriends?”

I shake my head.

“Could you call your parents? Your mom likely would have been up with this one.”

“Dad is the line and so it skipped a generation.” I shrug. “And it was 2 am.”

She didn’t ask about the previous generation, grandma. Banshees rarely live long.

The VP taps a beautiful blue and white decorated almond shaped nail against her wooden desk. “You need to get someone. A banshee buddy or other supernatural, even a human … boyfriend?” The last word raising in a question.

I nod. “Guilty, straight as an arrow.”

“No shame in that.” Dr. Foster smiles at me. “We got enough to deal with, adding anything out of the ordinary just makes life exhausting.” She should know, being the only black VP in the company, and the only woman VP, though the female thing is fairly common in life insurance underwriting departments. Banshees getting special attention and all that.

I mean, look at me, three months in and getting a one-on-one with the Vice President of my department, skipping right over my supervisor. I know Kelly is Dr. Foster’s special choice to replace her when she retires, but if I do things right, and don’t go mad before Kelly takes the seat, I could be Kelly’s protegee.

“I’ll think about it. Do you think one of the other banshees here could buddy with me?”

“Sadly, all of them are in committed relationships and depend on that person for their support system. Besides, it’s usually better when it is someone other than another banshee, that is only a last resort.” She rotates her chair sideways and stands. I stand with her. “When it is two banshees, they end up talking over each other when they get the same song, instead of listening.” Dr. Foster places her hand on the doorknob of her office door. “Better to find someone else, but if you can’t link up with the Banshee Wall. A great community, you can get some really helpful hints there.”

She opens the door. “Keep up the good work and welcome to the team.”

“Thank you, I really am enjoying working for Jackson and Prior.”

***

Mr. Lincoln, my direct supervisor, gave me a delivery to take up to the fifth floor soon after my meeting with the VP. Nothing really out of the ordinary. The owners of the company are vampires and prefer to do things the paper way. Usually Mr. Lincoln delivers the end-of-week report for our group upstairs after emailing Dr. Foster her copy, but he wanted to serendipitously find out what happened behind closed doors.

I lied, saying she was just welcoming me to the team, and he lied saying how he loved how our department is a family and Dr. Foster inspires him with her teambuilding. He really is a good manager, but the glass ceiling in underwriting clearly makes him bitter. Mr. Lincoln should transfer to a different department if he couldn’t handle banshees jumping past him in the hierarchy.

Women have to deal with it everywhere else. Suffer.

The Chorus hit while I was upstairs.

Normally I already be in the bathroom hoping no one needed a big shit until the song completed, but company policy allowed us to take over any conference room, as they all had soundproofing, even shutting down a meeting if needed and kicking everyone out when a wail takes over. I manage to shove open the door to the executive meeting room, Crone-blessed empty at fifteen of five on a Friday, before the opening notes hit.

The room is amazing. As an insurance company we have pretty nice things, but top floor rooms take it to the next level. Brown carpet soft under the feet, unmarred wood table with an audio call-station in the center and room for eight large ergonomic chairs around it. Wood paneling instead of obvious acoustic tiles. No beat-up chairs line the wall, like they do in underwriting for when we had to get everyone in the room. I cross to the window overlooking the city as the evening lights start to flicker on under the setting November sun. Lugh was showing off with a display of red, orange, and yellow.

Tapping the glass, I confirmed the sound of shatterproof, bulletproof material. I can blow out my lungs, and the glass wouldn’t end up on the street five stories below.

Music flows, filling the large space. I can hear my sisters sing of hope and love. Determination. The woman we sing of isn’t dead yet, but her final coda has started. Two days and our predictions will become reality and the rest of America will mourn with us.

May your melody be heard and your memory bless those that know you Rosalynn Carter. You did amazing things.

Sometimes I love my life.

(words 1,818; first published 11/26/2023)

Ymir’s Songs series

Fifteen Minutes (10/09/2022)
Song for Rosalyn (11/26/2023)