Each throb of Waylon's heart plucks a nerve — a drum unheard yet felt inside his temple. Tears rolling, muscles screaming, Barclay's breath. Sensations coalesce: an orchestra to underpin the villain's fall from grace. His own fall.
Trying to stay ahead of the static creeping through his joints, Waylon pitches his next ball. Is this really all my fault? Could I have done something different?
The ball clips a single bottle at the pyramid's edge. Pleather glances off glass, strikes the backing curtain a foot to the right, and skids down, rolling to a stop near a counter overloaded with stuffed animals.
Gritting his teeth, he scoops up the last ball and whips it; a wild, unplanned throw. If I didn't stay at home while Phil worked, maybe I'd have had enough... Or someone would have been willing to hire me again. Was five years really enough to make me worthless?
Almost forgotten amid thoughts, the ball thwacks against the pyramid's pedestal. Barclay drops three more onto the empty platter.
No. That's just an excuse.
Waylon hefts one up, now heavy as a grapefruit. He squeezes; he tries to crush it in his grasp. Beans shift inside, forcing the pleather to deform — slight bulges of fabric that inch their way through the gaps between his fingers. Pain. Nerves tweak within his wrist and he gives up.
If only he had the will — the strength — to crush it; to make it explode into a rainbow of pleather ribbons.
He readies his next throw and glares at Barclay. Excuses for a system perpetuated by heroes like him.
Thwack — a miss into the backing curtain.
He claws up and flings another ball. By insurance companies.
Plink — off a bottle near the pyramid's top.
By every so-called healer.
Plonk — center left.
What did I do to get on this side of it all? When did it start?
A memory plays, fresh and raw and real as any recent second. A glance toward Phil. Headlights past his window, growing larger. Faster. Screeching breaks. Crunching.
Nothing.
The thought interrupts Waylon's series of wild throws. A sudden, metaphorical jerk of a rug underfoot. He stands there, hovering his hand inches from one of three new balls. Yes. That's where all of this started. Since then, they've all took from me. Took me from my comfort and forced me into society's underside.
Shouldn't a hero like Barclay put a stop to a system like this? Can't he see? Can't he look and see how much I've lost? How far I've been driven?
With a shake of his head, tears gathered at his jaw break free to splatter over the wooden counter. Waylon picks up another ball. Of course he can: he's chosen not to care. I'm here, shattered in front of him. But he's ignoring it like everyone else. Ignoring my reality in favor of his own. Whatever it is; however he lets his world paint me.
It's straight forward with everything else. Life insurance denying Gina's claim; the healers. Both driven by greed. But... what's Barclay's reason? Joy in the cruelty? Indifference? Or is he desperately clinging to his own comfort? Aware, but unwilling to jeopardize it by working against what got him here.
Would there be a difference?
It continues like that for hours — literal or not, it doesn't matter. Three tries, three failures, and more questions. Three more tries and it repeats. Whether the balls hit the bottles or not, nothing new happens. Nothing besides Waylon's ligaments and muscles discovering new ways to scream.
Through it all, he feels his newfound anger slipping away — fading into the background. Unending pain to dull his mind and resolve. To break him.
Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They thud against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a midweight bowling ball now.
Waylon's eyes drift over the next one: it hangs in his mind just as heavy as it would from his hand. I can't keep going...
Static builds; sirens blare in his mind. A warning against the coming storm that'll tear through his resistance. Force him to continue on, leaving scars upon his body and mind.
He wraps his fingers around the pleather and lifts. Everything hurts. His legs, his arms, his back. Groaning, he hefts the ball above his shoulder. Set to throw.
A spasm strikes his elbow like a bolt of lighting. Electric pain hums through his bones, arcing between nerves and neurons. He gives his arm to gravity's influence.
But the rules don't let him. His arm refuses to fall, left holding the ball aloft — flash-frozen in a timeless agony. "Argh! Ah!" He yells.
"What is this, exactly?"
The voice is new, high pitched and tinny. Far away. Somewhere behind Waylon; near the visitor's entrance to the dome, maybe.
Any perverse joy in Barclay's eyes freezes over at the person's words. Glaring at Waylon, he speaks in a dark, chesty tone. "Did you find her, Scrypher?"
"And more." She says. "Had a priest looking after her. Avery is in rough shape, but she's with the EMTs now. They've probably left for the hospital already."
A flash of anger incinerates sludge drooling over Waylon's mind. He clamps teeth down on his bottom lip, staunching the flow of involuntary screams. Thea — they don't know? Could I get him to stop by— no. No, don't. She doesn't deserve this.
Pain flares: his bones feel as if they're searing him from the inside out. Grunts slip past his teeth; he bites down harder, drawing the taste of iron. That's a change I can make. A difference. All they're allowed to have is me.
Scrypher strides into view on his left: green-tinted trench coat, chrome scales for a helmet, and a blonde ponytail snaking out the back of it. She stops beside him, stiff as a board. "How long have you had him like this?"
Barclay's face contorts, his brain visibly churning through his memory. "Thirty minutes?" He snaps and everything dissolves in slow-drifting sparkles: the crowd, the booth, the bottles.
Waylon's body collapses to the ground, strings cut. He doesn't feel relief: only exhaustion and his body's screaming — damage already done. He kneels there, hands limp against the carpet on either side of himself. Mind a mess of anger and questions.
Who is she? Another hero, but why is she here? Why wasn't I told about her?
Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They thud against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a mid-weight bowling ball now.way. Again. Did you even take the time to establish risk level or did you let all that under-cooked meat in your head tell you what to do?"
A cringe rattles the monstrous man's frame and he lets his eyes drift to the surroundings. "Well— uh, I— this was a small time heist, so there was never going to be—"
"Licensee Field Manual Section 2, Subsection 1. You remember it, right?"
"Of course I do."
"So you established what his power was?"
"No, I didn't. Is this really—"
"Necessary? Yes." She twists her eyeless helmet to face Waylon head-on. "You."
Ice permeates Waylon's chest — freezes his breath in his throat. Then something happens: a kind of hitch, as if he blinked out of turn. Scrypher clasps her hands behind her back. "You can make temporary holes by rubbing away condensation left behind by your breath."
Waylon's eyes go wide. How does she know?
She nods, as if confirming something. "Are you able to demonstrate?"
He tries to raise an arm, but it's numb. Not there. "I— I can't move my arms or legs."
She whips her head back toward Barclay, her voice coming sharp. "Of course he's not. Don't you understand? If I wasn't here to confirm his power, you could have had a ticking time bomb on your hands."
Barclay glances at Scrypher like a scolded dog. "Well, he still could have lied when—"
"He didn't, and you're arguing my point for me."
Are they still talking about me?
"Maybe this is why they put me here: to teach you how to do your job. Given what we know, what would you classify the risk as?" Scrypher says.
Barclay raises his head, some measure of confidence returning brassy timbre to his words. "A mix. They were here to steal the refrigeration unit for the penguin enclosure. 2.7.3 for risk to civilian property. 2.2.2 for—"
"No. Not 2.2.2. 2.2.3."
Barclay scoffs. "Low? Isn't that a little conservative? You said it yourself, he could be a time bomb!"
"He's not. Assumptions aren't valid for risk classifications. 2.2.3 fits this situation perfectly. One person's life was in danger, Barclay. One. You don't get to inflate risk assessments just because you're fond of the victim.
"2.2.3.1 is very clear on what force is acceptable and you exceeded it. I'm filing a BH 5d about your conduct tonight: I'd rather you didn't keep adding to my notes with weak justifications, so please don't argue with me. We're an hour and a half over our shift as it is; I have things to do tonight that aren't babysitting."
Emotions flit over Barclay's face: anger-tinted cheeks, brow-furrowing disbelief, and — finally — acceptance. Recognition that, like Waylon, he has no way out of his failure. His resistance falls with his brow.
"You're right." Barclay says. "I overstepped. If there is anything I can provide for your excessive force report, ask. I'll make myself available."
Waylon shifts his eyes between the two heroes, chest burning and mind turning. That's it? A form?
Scrypher reaches into her trench coat and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. She tosses them at Barclay. "Cuff him and carry him out. He'll probably need a trip to the hospital, so we'll leave him with the EMTs. If there are any still here."
Each throb of Waylon's heart plucks a nerve — a drum unheard yet felt inside his temple. Tears rolling, muscles screaming, Barclay's breath. Sensations coalesce: an orchestra to underpin the villain's fall from grace. His own fall.
Trying to stay ahead of the static creeping through his joints, Waylon pitches his next ball. Is this really all my fault? Could I have done something different?
The ball clips a single bottle at the pyramid's edge. Pleather glances off glass, strikes the backing curtain a foot to the right, and skids down, rolling to a stop near a counter overloaded with stuffed animals.
Gritting his teeth, he scoops up the last ball and whips it; a wild, unplanned throw. If I didn't stay at home while Phil worked, maybe I'd have had enough... Or someone would have been willing to hire me again. Was five years really enough to make me worthless?
Almost forgotten amid thoughts, the ball thwacks against the pyramid's pedestal. Barclay drops three more onto the empty platter.
No. That's just an excuse.
Waylon hefts one up, now heavy as a grapefruit. He squeezes; he tries to crush it in his grasp. Beans shift inside, forcing the pleather to deform — slight bulges of fabric that inch their way through the gaps between his fingers. Pain. Nerves tweak within his wrist and he gives up.
If only he had the will — the strength — to crush it; to make it explode into a rainbow of pleather ribbons.
He readies his next throw and glares at Barclay. Excuses for a system perpetuated by heroes like him.
Thwack — a miss into the backing curtain.
He claws up and flings another ball. By insurance companies.
Plink — off a bottle near the pyramid's top.
By every so-called healer.
Plonk — center left.
What did I do to get on this side of it all? When did it start?
A memory plays, fresh and raw and real as any recent second. A glance toward Phil. Headlights past his window, growing larger. Faster. Screeching breaks. Crunching.
Nothing.
The thought interrupts Waylon's series of wild throws. A sudden, metaphorical jerk of a rug underfoot. He stands there, hovering his hand inches from one of three new balls. Yes. That's where all of this started. Since then, they've all took from me. Took me from my comfort and forced me into society's underside.
Shouldn't a hero like Barclay put a stop to a system like this? Can't he see? Can't he look and see how much I've lost? How far I've been driven?
With a shake of his head, tears gathered at his jaw break free to splatter over the wooden counter. Waylon picks up another ball. Of course he can: he's chosen not to care. I'm here, shattered in front of him. But he's ignoring it like everyone else. Ignoring my reality in favor of his own. Whatever it is; however he lets his world paint me.
It's straight forward with everything else. Life insurance denying Gina's claim; the healers. Both driven by greed. But... what's Barclay's reason? Joy in the cruelty? Indifference? Or is he desperately clinging to his own comfort? Aware, but unwilling to jeopardize it by working against what got him here.
Would there be a difference?
It continues like that for hours — literal or not, it doesn't matter. Three tries, three failures, and more questions. Three more tries and it repeats. Whether the balls hit the bottles or not, nothing new happens. Nothing besides Waylon's ligaments and muscles discovering new ways to scream.
Through it all, he feels his newfound anger slipping away — fading into the background. Unending pain to dull his mind and resolve. To break him.
Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They thud against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a midweight bowling ball now.
Waylon's eyes drift over the next one: it hangs in his mind just as heavy as it would from his hand. I can't keep going...
Static builds; sirens blare in his mind. A warning against the coming storm that'll tear through his resistance. Force him to continue on, leaving scars upon his body and mind.
He wraps his fingers around the pleather and lifts. Everything hurts. His legs, his arms, his back. Groaning, he hefts the ball above his shoulder. Set to throw.
A spasm strikes his elbow like a bolt of lighting. Electric pain hums through his bones, arcing between nerves and neurons. He gives his arm to gravity's influence.
But the rules don't let him. His arm refuses to fall, left holding the ball aloft — flash-frozen in a timeless agony. "Argh! Ah!" He yells.
"What is this, exactly?"
The voice is new, high pitched and tinny. Far away. Somewhere behind Waylon; near the visitor's entrance to the dome, maybe.
Any perverse joy in Barclay's eyes freezes over at the person's words. Glaring at Waylon, he speaks in a dark, chesty tone. "Did you find her, Scrypher?"
"And more." She says. "Had a priest looking after her. Avery is in rough shape, but she's with the EMTs now. They've probably left for the hospital already."
A flash of anger incinerates sludge drooling over Waylon's mind. He clamps teeth down on his bottom lip, staunching the flow of involuntary screams. Thea — they don't know? Could I get him to stop by— no. No, don't. She doesn't deserve this.
Pain flares: his bones feel as if they're searing him from the inside out. Grunts slip past his teeth; he bites down harder, drawing the taste of iron. That's a change I can make. A difference. All they're allowed to have is me.
Scrypher strides into view on his left: green-tinted trench coat, chrome scales for a helmet, and a blonde ponytail snaking out the back of it. She stops beside him, stiff as a board. "How long have you had him like this?"
Barclay's face contorts, his brain visibly churning through his memory. "Thirty minutes?" He snaps and everything dissolves in slow-drifting sparkles: the crowd, the booth, the bottles.
Waylon's body collapses to the ground, strings cut. He doesn't feel relief: only exhaustion and his body's screaming — damage already done. He kneels there, hands limp against the carpet on either side of himself. Mind a mess of anger and questions.
Who is she? Another hero, but why is she here? Why wasn't I told about her?
Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They thud against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a mid-weight bowling ball now.way. Again. Did you even take the time to establish risk level or did you let all that under-cooked meat in your head tell you what to do?"
A cringe rattles the monstrous man's frame and he lets his eyes drift to the surroundings. "Well— uh, I— this was a small time heist, so there was never going to be—"
"Licensee Field Manual Section 2, Subsection 1. You remember it, right?"
"Of course I do."
"So you established what his power was?"
"No, I didn't. Is this really—"
"Necessary? Yes." She twists her eyeless helmet to face Waylon head-on. "You."
Ice permeates Waylon's chest — freezes his breath in his throat. Then something happens: a kind of hitch, as if he blinked out of turn. Scrypher clasps her hands behind her back. "You can make temporary holes by rubbing away condensation left behind by your breath."
Waylon's eyes go wide. How does she know?
She nods, as if confirming something. "Are you able to demonstrate?"
He tries to raise an arm, but it's numb. Not there. "I— I can't move my arms or legs."
She whips her head back toward Barclay, her voice coming sharp. "Of course he's not. Don't you understand? If I wasn't here to confirm his power, you could have had a ticking time bomb on your hands."
Barclay glances at Scrypher like a scolded dog. "Well, he still could have lied when—"
"He didn't, and you're arguing my point for me."
Are they still talking about me?
"Maybe this is why they put me here: to teach you how to do your job. Given what we know, what would you classify the risk as?" Scrypher says.
Barclay raises his head, some measure of confidence returning brassy timbre to his words. "A mix. They were here to steal the refrigeration unit for the penguin enclosure. 2.7.3 for risk to civilian property. 2.2.2 for—"
"No. Not 2.2.2. 2.2.3."
Barclay scoffs. "Low? Isn't that a little conservative? You said it yourself, he could be a time bomb!"
"He's not. Assumptions aren't valid for risk classifications. 2.2.3 fits this situation perfectly. One person's life was in danger, Barclay. One. You don't get to inflate risk assessments just because you're fond of the victim.
"2.2.3.1 is very clear on what force is acceptable and you exceeded it. I'm filing a BH 5d about your conduct tonight: I'd rather you didn't keep adding to my notes with weak justifications, so please don't argue with me. We're an hour and a half over our shift as it is; I have things to do tonight that aren't babysitting."
Emotions flit over Barclay's face: anger-tinted cheeks, brow-furrowing disbelief, and — finally — acceptance. Recognition that, like Waylon, he has no way out of his failure. His resistance falls with his brow.
"You're right." Barclay says. "I overstepped. If there is anything I can provide for your excessive force report, ask. I'll make myself available."
Waylon shifts his eyes between the two heroes, chest burning and mind turning. That's it? A form?
Scrypher reaches into her trench coat and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. She tosses them at Barclay. "Cuff him and carry him out. He'll probably need a trip to the hospital, so we'll leave him with the EMTs. If there are any still here."
