Paresthesia

Half kit, I had time to get the half kit on. Mask, jacket, boots, but the hair is limp and tied back. Sunday's the only one in his best, but his best is just the suit and a hat pulled low over his eyes. The cigar isn't technically a part of it, but might as well be, and I think the full formal has a pair of brass knucks, but that's splitting hairs. It's the poster we need to be. Riot's the same, Hairs done up, but no jacket. If anything, she appreciates the chance to be casual and still do business.

Violence has her hat, but the suspenders are hanging down from her waist. She's drumming her fingers. Bored, she is bored and tired and probably a bit hungover from something. Or just tired. Probably just tired.

If anything, Doppel's the normal one. Casual blazer, jeans, he even has his glasses on. But the smile looks odd on him. Especially considering the power point behind him. I've never seen a natural smile on someone who's doing a power point. It just doesn't happen. This one is and the whole situation just doesn't sit right with me.

"So, what," says Violence, "So sunshine was stealing. We steal. It's kind of what we do. Not a big deal."

"It is when you're not supposed to," Doppel says, "We're supposed to steal. The casino's just a legal way to do it. Solar isn't supposed to, and I'm starting to wonder if this is why he didn't put up too much of a fuss over the Vegas thing. Nice chance to slip away from all this. All the files slowly fade and the numbers gel back into something nice and clean. He gets off Scott free and starts again."

"So let him. Not our deal. He's gone. We're good. We're making money. We don't need to do this."

"And on that point, I still agree."

"Then we're done. Thanks for lunch, but you also wasted my time. I have other things to do."

"We would be done, but something's changed."

He pauses for a moment. He's having fun. It must get tiresome explaining a plan to a gaggle that already knows every step. We are not in the hive. Unblemished souls, ripe for the corrupting. Terrible knowledge, gleaned from the heavens.

"I want to do this now."

"So, what," sighs Violence, "It's still a dumb idea. Riot, I know you're all gung-ho about it but at least Beat still has some sense in him."

"How dare you imply that I make rational decisions," I say, "I'm in. We already hit the Solarium, so why wouldn't we do something a bit bigger."

"Of course. Of course, you are, you stupid idiot. Of course."

"Violence, I get it. I get it. You don't want to do this. But you don't have to be so confrontational about it."

"Yes, I do. Because I don't want this all to slip into some grand circle jerk where we just do whatever the other says."

"I was against this as well, Violence, but some information has come out that will benefit me."

"How? How does this benefit you in any way? You're the only one of us that pays taxes. How does your money going towards Solar's jerk off machine benefit you?'

Somehow, his smile gets wider. The trap has been sprung and Doppel gets his moment to shine. He clicks the thing and the slide goes one forward.

It's him. It's just him. Smiling, much warmer than the one he has on now, looking forward to a brighter tomorrow, a flag waving behind him and sunny days overhead. Below it, in simple block text, reads 'Mayor Abbot Billiken.'

"Still working a bit on the logo," he says, "but it's something."

Bloody Sunday is an old man. That is a fact. That is a fact he cannot ignore. That is a fact none of us can ignore. But he does not act his age. His laughter is for a man half my age. It is high and cackling, laced with sugar highs and flashing lights. He is stamping his feet and thumping the table. To his credit, Doppel takes it in stride.

"You have my vote," he howls, "Oh, sonny. You have my vote. Haven't bothered in 20 years, but you finally got me off my ass."

"I demand a button," I say, "I demand a sticker. I demand a hat. I demand every single bit of merch you are going to make, because I will hit every corner I can think of and spread this. I will hand out flyers in a mascot costume for this."

"Policy," Riot says, "I have to know your policy promises before I can do anything."

"Thank you, Riot," sighs mayoral candidate Doppel, "for trying to be a responsible citizen. I will send you a pamphlet later. But they also prove my point. People don't really vote on policy decisions. They vote for dumb, fun things. And what's more dumb fun than some good old fashioned yellow journalism."

"But what does Solar have to do with Mayor Hearst," sighs Violence, "Stop wasting my time."

"Nothing on the surface. But there were some fun notes I saw from Solar when I did my perusing when we hit his mansion. Something that requires a bit more digging."

With another little motion, he goes to the next slide. A picture of columns, and behind those columns is a marble arch. I steeple my fingers and lean forward in ripe anticipation. I am surprised at his forethought. If the next slide is a picture from Solar's private alone time fun stash, he might actually be a mind reader as well.

"So, I propose, we hit city hall," he says. He politely sits down and lets us all mull the proposition. Riot barely takes the time to let the echo fade.

"Done. Done. So, done. We doing this now? Today's laundry day, but that can wait."

"Riot, my dear," Sunday says, "Old timer wisdom. Never postpone laundry day. It just piles up and then it never gets done."

"We can do it tomorrow. It's not a big deal."

Sunday shakes his head and imparts disappointment, the worst feeling that can be imparted from an elder.

"Not now," Doppel says, "Tonight. Figured we might as well slip through when there less people. Which is why I wanted you here, Violence. I believe the phrase you used was 'high wire like.' And that's what I am thinking about."

"Again, why me?" she sighs, "Not a part of it. Not really interested. Not really my shtick. And besides, Cobra Ruby is coming down tomorrow night. The boys and I need to prep. Can't be all galivanting the night before a job. Not good form. Makes everything sloppy."

"Violence," says Sunday, "You're not thinking big picture. We have one of us in office, that's something incredible. A lot of the news says that is only the feds that do anything important. But the day to day, that happens local."

"Before you get too ahead of yourself, I'm not going to be a tyrant. Short version, restructure some of the zoning laws, tax breaks to small businesses, while hiking up some on corporations, and see about expanding some of the train systems. Mainly about getting a tunnel under the river built, even if it's just one line. I still think most things we do should be illegal, but we should still do them. Every system needs someone with a hammer on the outside trying to take it down. Helps shore up the blind spots in the long run."

"Still, still. You're already in the prisons, Doppel. And that's done wonders for both the Troubles and the Droogs. Violence, don't tell me it hasn't."

"Sure, sure. A lot of the guys that get nabbed end up with a GED. Thank you for that, Doppel. Sunday now has slightly smarter thugs to throw at the cops."

"For the record, I know for a fact that three of your friends ended up actually getting a PhD from prison with my help. That is a little bit more than slightly smarter. Point stands, someone in the civics sector could help with other things. Maybe that river tunnel has a second, smaller tunnel for exclusive use. Some of that restructuring gives our hideouts more access to more amenities. Some of those tax breaks affect Torogoz, and your boutique. Shamrock Security might be a bit too big, but with a little vaugeish wording, it can probably fit. Point is, game the system, but game it for everyone. That's why Riot, Beat, and Alizarin hit the Solarium. That's why we hit city hall. That's why we hit the capital 'h' Hall."

"Thank you. Thank you, Abbott," Sunday sighs, "For finally starting to think big."

"I'm down," I say, "I down for the city hall. I'm not the high wire guy, but I can smash and grab. Would that work?"

"In theory. Still, some of the security might be a bit more active than an abandoned sanctum. With Riot along, then you should be able to smash and grab enough. And no offense, bugging isn't really your MO. Might work a bit better if you do something unexpected, now that I think about it. And if Riot's along, it should be fine."

Violence sighs and almost collapses into the table.

"You're really going to let her do it. Then fine. Fine. I'll do it. I'll even let them tag along. With one condition."

She turns to me and points to Riot and I's side of the table. I feel accused. Of what, I'm not sure. I'm the baby face of the group.

"You're helping me with the ruby tomorrow. No exceptions."

"Sure," says Riot, "I haven't been to the museum since- "

"Not you. Just Beat."

And Riot goes quiet. Violence glares at me through her kaleidoscope mask. I just shrug.

"If that's what it takes."

---

We take a nap together. Nothing handsy, other than the soft press of chest to back, but nothing more. It's nice. It's comforting. There is weight beside me and it does wonders for the soul to have that presence there. It has nothing to be. It has nothing to do. It just lives there and sits quietly for a long moment before slipping into a deep rumbling snore. It took me a bit, but it's comforting in a way. White noise and a reminder that I am not alone. It is her and there is nothing else she can be, so it is perfect. If a little obnoxious.

I exist in that malformed dream between sleep and wakefulness. One foot on one side of the veil, one on the other, and the body in neither. There is weight next to me and that is enough.

We didn't talk about the meeting. We saw no reason to. Or Hannah saw no reason to. I feel like she should have, but that's not my business, in the strictest sense. I will do the necessary prying later. Not now, later. I feel that is a fair compromise. She has her chance to process and take into account Sylvia's hostility. I can come up with reasons. Not excuses, reasons. And that may or may not mollify her and make them friends. I do not know. That is not up to me. I would like them to be friends, in some capacity. The potential threesome with them is certainly a factor, but even without the dangling carrot of spiritually exhaustive sexual encounters, I would like for two of my friends to be friends. I like it when people get along. Simple as that.

Hannah murmurs a bit and the snoring stops for a second. Oddly enough, that is the thing that rouses me more into the waking world. My eyes are still closed. I do not want to open them. I would see Hannah, but right now I just want to feel her.

I did not make her like she is. She did all of that herself. And every time, every single time, I marvel at its construction. Nothing wasted, nothing excess, honed down to simple perfection. And even if it was different, if all the choices she made led down a path where she had a different shape, she would still be her. She would still be something vast and infinite and overwhelming. I hug her tighter and she makes a pained little grunt. Mostly faked. Mostly. She mumbles and shifts a little until I let go and take my arm down a little, across her stomach. For once, I have nothing devious planned. Just a simple embrace and a quiet, lazy afternoon. We are all deserving of that.

She mumbles again and yawns. Unfortunately, for her, she is awake. She now has to deal with the fake that she is awake and conscious and in my arms while nothing is happening. More movement and I finally open my eyes. She is facing me, but her eyes are closed. I kiss the bridge of her noise and all the wrinkles collect and scrunch in some distorted shape of pleased Hannah.

"Time to get up?" she mumbles.

"Soon," I murmur, "but not now. I'm not really awake either."

"Good. Good."

More movement and she presses into my sternum, bare skin to bare skin. She's picked up that habit of mine, it seems. It's a good habit. I don't mind at all. And I'm pretty sure I've picked up some from her. Something dings and that means the washing machine is done. That's probably one of them. Never did that with any set pattern before. Good habits, they are all good habits.

"Violence is a bitch," she sighs.

"Yeah, yeah. Little bit. Have to defend her a bit, since she's my friend, but yeah."

"Fair. Why though? I didn't do anything."

"It's her. I don't know why. She was nice to me when I came in. Don't know about Alessandra, but yeah. It's weird. Period?"

She thumps my chest and I feel it in my soul. She is annoyed with me and that means she loves me and everything I am. Nothing is meant other than a slightly slower descent of one into the other's arms.

"What? that's a thing. That's totally a thing. Don't tell me it's not."

"It's not. And shut up. That's mean."

"Fine. Sylvia is just a bitch and no one likes her and she smells real bad."

"I thought she was your friend. Those are mean things to say to your friend."

"But I can feel you smile, so it's worth it."

She smiles wider and presses in even closer. I hold her closer. Skin on skin, smooth on smooth, toned on toned, she is pressing into me and she is still warm and cuddly and sleepy. I don't want to get up. I don't want her to get up. We belong here in the bed, under the blankets, in each other's arms forever and ever.

"How can you feel it," she says, "you can't even see my face."

"Am I smiling?"

"Yes. Because you're holding me."

"And you're holding me. I think that's a good reason to smile. I would smile if I was holding me."

She has moved on to crushing me and I think I may have overdone it. There is such a thing as too affectionate. But I don't mind. I like it. It's her. And it's all she needs to be.

"What was she like," Hannah mutters, "Before I came along. I mean, I fought her a couple of times, but mask on, mask off. Y'know? A lot can change about a person when they're not all dolled up."

---

I am nervous. I should not be nervous, but I am. It's always a bit nerve wracking, crossing this threshold. But I'm going to do it. I am going to do it and see it through. Sunday said it was a good idea, and he seems to know what's up. Surprisingly chill about the whole thing really. Trusting, open, smells a bit too much like tobacco, but knows a lot about baseball. Mostly pros. And I get to meet the Doppel. The real Doppel, the one that's actually a body and not something that shatters and laughs.

But I have to go through the door. I have to go through the door that says-

"Dude," says the woman through the glass, "Come in. Kind of weird for you to just stand out there."

She has her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, apron over her front. I do not look at the way it flows down her chest, how tight it can go, how round and full she makes the sheet of fabric. But I still look. Her name tag is there. It says Sylvia and she opens the door for me. It is weird to stay out here, staring dumbfounded at the fact that she also wears glasses.

"Katie," she calls to the receptionist, "Special customer. Anyone needs me, I'm not here. I'll be back in like an hour. Get the bells and whistles going."

The woman behind the desk with the blonde curls gives a sharp 'kk' and looks back to the screen. There are important things to do on the screen. Much more important things than who I am and what I do and what I want to do.

"Ben said that you already had a gimmick more or less picked out," Silvia says, "Just some odds and ends left. So, name, theme, vibe, costume, whatever you want to call it, what is it?"

"Kit, it's called a kit," I finally manage to say.

The place is more or less empty. One old lady getting some dye put in, but empty chairs and another woman smoking near a set of aerosol cans. That doesn't seem safe, but I don't make any mention of it. Seems in poor taste really. And it's not my job to make sure people are safe anymore. I am no longer a hero.

The thought hits me and it is like all the weight from all the stars in the sky is lifted from my shoulders. I am not a hero. Finally.

"Whatever, man," Sylvia says, "If that's what the good guys call it, then that's what it is. So, what is it?"

"Beat Down."

"Alright. Not the worst one I've heard. But the style, the flavor, what are you going for?"

"Mohawk, dyed green, really, really sharp."

Sylvia laughs and it is beautiful. It is ugly and sarcastic and barbed, but the dripping neon venom in the noise trills the psychedelia parts of my anxious mind. Despite everything, it makes me laugh too. I should not. It's my idea, so it's a good one and that means no one can laugh at it. But we both are.

"Ok, so, not long enough for what you're wanting. It's just not. If I had to guess, it was shaved down to the scalp at some point. Your hair is growing back really strong, but it needs time. So, for now, we'll just trim you up and shape it a bit. Nothing too crazy, but we can certainly dye it. I'll check what greens we have, but we should have something you'll like."

"Good. Good."

"Now, for the boring part. And just like everywhere else, you have to wear a cape. Bet it feels like the old times, right?"

With a lazy flair, she drapes the thick fabric down my front and fastens it behind my neck with a feather touch. I shudder a bit. She lingers. She lingers a bit and sends a little spark down my spine.

"Solar's the only one with a cape. Maybe Serpentor counts. Her cloak is really flappy."

Sylvia lets another venomous laugh slip through her lips. I can hear the scissors in her hand. I can feel the sharpness cut the air with their mirror sheen. Just like her touch, it sends a spark down my spinal column. Glinting and mirror, just like the one I'm in front of, just like the gleam in her eyes, in the flash of her teeth. Sharp, she is sharp and lazy. The scissors twirl and spin and do all the things that a finger can do to a whole with lackadaisical shapes. There is no effort in any of it. She lets it go and it spins high in the air for a long, long moment, before neatly settling into a holster on her waist.

"Is it that different," she asks, "to be on the other side? I saw you run as a Trouble for a bit. That must have been humiliating."

"Honestly, not really. The vests were a bit heavy, but everyone was really nice. And the helmets don't really fit, but I don't think they're supposed to."

"Really? I would have been livid. All that power, and suddenly at the bottom. That can't have been nice."

"I don't know what you're trying to do. Ben's nice. Doppel's nice. Ian's nice. Shame he got grabbed."

"It happens. Don't worry about it. The prisons are a joke anyway. I'm glad you're having a good time. Doesn't seem like you came from a good place."

I stiffen a bit and let the hackles rise. She still has the sharp things at her waist, and her back is to me. Bent over, she is bent over, rummaging through a drawer, looking for goo or clippers or combs, or some secret tool of the hairdresser that I am not privy to. I do not let my gaze linger on the swell of her hips, the rise and tone of her leg. I Just keep my eyes on a point in space, that just happens to have a wonderous body occupying it. And it happens to move and sway and dance in hypnotic, enthralling circles. I look away from my perfectly innocent point in space when the body moves. Back to standing. There is nothing to see anymore anyway.

"Don't act so shocked," she says with a deep hum, "And I'm not guessing at anything. You just seemed like you were unhappy on the other side from what I gathered. I know we didn't meet like that, but still. Vibes and all that. You can just feel some things sometimes, y'know? And you feel really nice right now."

Her hands are on my scalp, running through my hair in slow waves. She has good hands, soft and nimble slipping through the strands. More sparks, more rolling thunder down my spine. I do not shiver. I do not shudder and moan. I am stone. I am calm. I simply am with the pressure from the hands on my head, And something soft on my neck. But I do not think about that.