I should have joined the Hawaiian Branch.
They didn't have to put up with this bullshit--their mountains are nice and hot and filled with comfy magma, and they've got all manner of hunky guys to spend off time with, and drink coconut milk straight from the hairy glass like nature decided early on they'd be her favorites
Me? Me, I end up in the Siberian Branch, and yes, that odd crinkling sound you're hearing is my outer extremities preparing to fall off like blocks of ice.
The call from the Twins came from one of the lower cave systems of the tundra regions. I'll cause a fuss whenever I feel like it, but pointing out the obvious--that it was some two hundred miles away from where it ought to be transmitting, not to mention a solid fortnight late--meant big trouble. Before I could, Ashley gave me a look--a look that said "God placed you on this Earth to teach me patience, and this is the final exam". So I dropped it.
I'm good at that.
Leaving immediately meant that I only had time to grab the essentials--two magma-coated, diamond laced blades that were beyond awesome until you worked with them sixteen hours a day (I won't soon forget the disappointment on Ashley's face when, upon asking me to think of a name for them for the press releases, I responded with Bob and Jimbo), a bit of rope for reasons, my uniform (complete with two plastered volcanoes on my chest--Tech must have laughed themselves shitty with that little innovation), my transponder and, for luck alone, a little iron cross. I kept it hidden under my collar; I didn't want an inopportune photo stirring up the Jesus freaks, but I have little enough from my mother as it is, and besides, given what early suspicions suggested we'd be up against, it couldn't hurt.
The flight was an hour and a half, and the HyperJet was ruled too great a distraction, so through the bitter air we find ourselves, leaving behind a commtrail of supersonic wind chill and a steady stream of curses courtesy of yours truly.
The wind is a razor, slicing me into invisible ribbons as I mush forward, one fist extended in a heroic pose that's lost its heroism about forty minutes back. Trying to keep blood flowing through my hot veins, I flex my muscles, doing as little as possible to disturb the air rushing past my slim form. I blow my brown stringy hair out of my face as effectively as I can--which is to stay not at all. I just need a distraction--we're still eight minutes away.
I'm the last one on the left of our little five person chevron--ahead to my right is the beefiest of our number. Penny--a far more fitting name for her bubbly, airheaded personality than Impenetrable--cuts an imposing figure, frequently stuttering out of formation but blowing right back in with a sudden burst of strained speed. I don't know how she isn't freezing her tight buns off--the suit they have her wear wouldn't be fit for wrestling, let alone international crime fighting. Still, I can't complain about the results. Blonde hair billows over a tanned, smooth complexion, and blue Prince Rupert's drops for eyes make up a charming, open gaze that makes me want to melt. Or melt something. I melt a lot of things. What do you expect from Madam Magma?
To my far right, Listener directs her entire focus to her form. She's a sly, slim woman, mousy hair and a wan complexion, like a kid queasy from shopping all day. Her eyes lean into her path, staying away from darting about. The voices and whispers in her mind must have been maddening, even out in the middle of the Siberian tundra, but she managed to tune most of it out some years ago; insanity was the alternative if she hadn't. Listener was the one in the team I kept my distance from most assiduously--ooh, look at me and the big words. There's something off about people that can reach into your most secret mind's eye, and share the film of your life from within. Bad juju.
Elogia fills the middle right spot and--
...goddamn it, not again.
It's one thing to be naturally gifted with the flying mechanic that all of us are provided. It's another to read a damn book at close to a hundred miles an hour, pages blowing and all, just because you can. But that was Elogia for you--a dark complexion that yearned for the sun was tightly wrapped with cloth and microfiber armor, a spitting image of some science fiction warrior princess that was rather spoiled in the end zone by the large, bookish glasses she had... well, the only appropriate word here would be installed--to her face. For someone who naturally remembered every fact she was exposed to, it's funny how she never encountered, in all her readings, a technique that would allow her to see without attaching twin Hubble telescopes on her face. The lenses worked both ways though, making her naturally hazy eyes the focus of her facial features--a wide, dutiful eternity of hazel that seemed to go on forever and ever no matter how hard I avoided looking...
And then, at the front, is our fearless leader. Thundress earned her name like any oncoming storm. I could handle the bright, and the hot, and the flames of anything this Earth could create, but there's only so much fear you can instill with a flood of slowly oozing rock liquid. None of us knew just what Thundress was actually capable of, and that was just fine by us, because when we crossed the mark, she'd look, and somewhere far away, the subtlest grumble of thunder would echo in our minds, and slate grey eyes would darken. I've experienced it twice. The first time was an accident. Both times sent electricity arcing all throughout my...
Well, suffice to say, it's a lot. She's a lot. But as I observe her well-toned body carving a path through the blistering winds, I realize I'd follow that cute ass into just about anything.
Except the ocean. Fuck the ocean.
