The Satisfaction of Things Unknown
satisfaction
At En’s behest, I leapt into ‘Genesis Brothers: First Final Reunion’ to have a ‘chat’ with Mrs. Tork--in En’s AU she is abusive of her ‘dumb’ son, a situation that, to say the least, didn’t sit well with me. At first this started out as another one of my exercises in the release of frustration, but somewhere along the way my fictional self took control. It is written from ‘my’ POV.
I shouldn’t do this.
I really shouldn’t.
But who am I to stand in the way of my nature?
It can be a bit tiring, really, it can. I was known for my intemperate nature long before the Femmes—it is as inseparable from my self than my own skin. After I got my powers . . . my temper went from ‘known’ to ‘notorious’.
People have written songs about it. No lie.
So I have to. Maintaining one’s reputation is a powerful motivation.
It’s late and I know for a fact that the other Femmes—and their clones—are in Trotondown attending one of BB and Nezi’s concerts. In fact, right now I’m supposed to be on my way to join them.
Instead I sneak into Femme headquarters and immediately head for the long bank of computers, which silently monitor the thousands upon thousands of fanfic dimensions. I have never ceased to be—nor likely ever will cease to be—amazed by the diversity and complexity of the various fanfic dimensions. Some are long, stretching beyond the reaches of the screen; some are so short they are barely visible. The long-standing, well known series’—the Soap Series and the Power Monkees among them—have thick, trunklike strands that branch off in many places—the result of fics by various authors that take place in those universes. If I were, for example, to write a story in the PM universe, then the corresponding strand would branch off, and a new fiber, which represents my little AU, would twist and spiral away merrily from the massive trunk of En’s little world.
Impressive, no?
I’m no expert with computers. Alouycious and Camille and Ungerret and Higgs are much better at this stuff than I am, but for safety’s sake the computers aren’t THAT hard to operate. I tell the computer to search for a particular fic by inputing the author and title, and it obediently homes in on the desired fic. I watch the stream of words and corresponding images until I fix on a particular spot.
It’s a heartbreaking sight. Peter, exhuasted, thin, and dirty, falling into Mike’s arms.
My teeth clench with fury and I struggle to keep from punching the screen. I feed a location and a particular person into the computer, and within seconds my target is in sight.
Peter’s mom.
I swallow a bitter volley of curse words. “You’re mine,” I mutter, programming her location into the transporter.
She doesn’t know what’s about to hit her.
But when I’m involved, people rarely do.
~*~
I materialize outside a small, nondescript house. It’s nothing to write home about. The mere sight of it makes me sick.
I track my way across the front lawn to the back of the house, where unluckily for Mrs. Tork, the back door is open. I ease the creaky porch door open and slip inside.
A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair sits at the small kitchen table, papers and letters spread across the checked tablecloth. She doesn’t see me approach—indeed, doesn’t notice me at all until my hand snakes out and seizes a pile of paper, hurling it at this most offensive person.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demands in a shrill voice that sets my teeth on edge.
“Mich. Here to . . . ” I paused. My original intention had been to see how far I could drive the broken shards of her nose up into her skull, but now that I’m here, things have abruptly changed.
The rage, much to my surprise, is now gone. Completely. In its place is a profound sense of coldness . . . and pity.
“I came here to do to you what you did to your son.”
“What do you know about my son? Where is he?” she demands, rising from her chair. Ordinarily I would draw my sword and use the point to force her back, but right now my sword is peacefully reposing on its stand back in my room in the Library.
Now the only sword I have is my voice, and to my wonder it’s just as effective; when I speak she freezes and sinks back into her chair.
“He’s safe,” I say. My voice is quiet but for some reason it seems to resonate—it sure sounds a lot louder to MY ears. “He is somewhere where you are never going to find him. He’s with people who will love him more than you ever could. YOU . . . will NEVER hurt him AGAIN. Understand?”
She sits in stunned silence, her mouth hanging open. At length, after I have spent a requisite amount of time trying to burn holes into her eyes with my own, her jaw begins to move in preparation to make an articulate sound. But I beat her to the punch.
“You have no idea what you’ve lost, do you? A heart like yours cannot love, and now you’ve lost something SO precious and SO special . . . and you don’t even KNOW what it is you’ve lost.”
“What?” she says, her voice a strangled whisper. I’m not sure if it’s because of who I am, or the look on my face, or the possibility that I’ve awakened some sense of loss in her.
“Your SON!” I bark. “Why do I even bother?” I snarl, giving her a contemptuous snort. “He’s in better hands now. And if you ever bother him again, I’ll be back. Next time you won’t be nearly as lucky.”
It’s a hard lesson to learn that sometimes you have to just leave some people be. They’ll never learn, never get it. And there’s nothing you can do except turn your back, which I do, escaping out the back door as quickly as I can before the wild urge to destroy something overtakes me completely.
Once outside I draw in great breaths of air, trying to rid myself of the poison I’d been keeping inside. I keep my back to the house for fear that just the sight of it would make me lose control. Gradually I bring my breathing back to a normal level and I reach for my communicator. With it I ‘speak’ to the Library computer, asking it to bring me not back to the safety of my world, but to another location in this one.
There’s one more thing I have to do.
~*~
I find myself outside another house, even smaller than the first. It speaks of poverty and hardship, and yet I can feel the love radiating from it, and it brings a small smile to my face.
I knock hesitantly on the front door, and a teenage boy with dark hair and chocolate brown eyes answers. I bite my lower lip to keep from grinning.
“Yeah?” he says, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“Is Peter here?” I ask.
“What do you want with Peter?” he demands in that peculiarly Nesmithian way that makes me suppress a giggle.
“Nothing, Mike. Nothing. I just want to tell him something, that’s all.”
Apparently Mike doesn’t even notice that I miraculously know his name; instead he just stares at me long and hard, giving me the kind of scrutiny that, had he been about ten years older, would have made me squirm.
“Okay . . . I’ll get him,” he says at length, apparently satisfied that I intend neither he nor Peter any harm.
When Peter appears I am quite frankly amazed by the transformation. His clean face and hair gleam with a healthy, contented glow, and I find hot, stinging tears leaping to my eyes.
“Who’s this?” he asks Mike.
“My name is Mich,” I say. “I . . . I came from your mom’s house, Peter.”
Peter’s face instantly turns white and Mike shoves him behind his back, shielding the blond from my view. “You’re not takin’ him anywhere!” he snaps.
“No, I’m not,” I say. “Peter, I just came to tell you that your mom won’t bother you again. You’re safe here, and you’re going to be okay.”
Peter peeks out from behind Mike. “Really?”
I nod.
“How do you know?” Mike asks suspiciously, but there’s something akin to hope in his eyes.
“I just do,” I say simply. I lift my gaze and catch a glimpse of Mike’s mom.
For a moment I consider telling Mike what’s going to happen, but as much as I want to, I know I can’t. Even if he DID believe me, the chance that her death would be prevented would change this world, perhaps making it so the four never get together, and that is a risk I’m not going to take.
Perhaps . . . it’s better to let things happen as they will.
“I believe her,” Peter says, stepping cautiously out from behind Mike. “She’s telling the truth.”
I take a step toward him, marveling at the fact that, for the moment, I’m slightly taller than he is. I pause, gauging the situation before placing my arms around him and hugging him. “Just stay with Mike, Peter. He’ll take good care of you.” Disengaging myself gently from his grasp, I take a few steps back.
“Actually, you’ll take good care of each other,” I say as I disappear around the house, activating my communicator as soon as I’m out of their sight.
The hot Texas sunlight vanishes, and I find myself back in Femme headquarters on the darkened transporter pad.
My work here is done.
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