No, I did not find more. I wrote more. Yay!
Catch up with the last chapter before this entry.
Sara spotted them the instant she finished securing Marie’s scooter to the stand. Duncan’s crew, but no Duncan. There was Graydon, and Brent; watching from near the closest entrances and preparing to move in. Which meant that Paul Greaves had to be… Sara casually turned, making it look as if she were double-checking the bike. There. Behind her and right where it was difficult to keep an eye on him without looking anxious. The slimy little weasel.
Sara ignored him - he’d never strike first - and watched Graydon and Brent watching her.
She faked going for the further entrance before swinging towards the nearer one. They were wise to that. Drat.
_Remember what Logan said. Act casual and prepare to kick ass._
They were moving in typical triangle formation. Isolate the target and let them know they’re being isolated. Increase the panic and therefore the hunter’s pleasure.
Sara did not panic. She maintained a mien of icy calm and subtly-withheld rage. She also crept a hand into her pocket to activate the trace-caller device that Xavier insisted she carry at all times. Then she snuck it inside the little hole so it would be between her pocket and the coat lining. Effectively lost to her enemies’ control.
_Jean…? I’m about to have some trouble, here…_
No reply. Typical. All up in one’s face right up until the moment she was needed.
_Professor? Little help?_
Silence there, and nothing more.
Sara stopped and let them close in the last few paces. “Graydon Trent, Brent Derby and Paul Greaves. I thought you didn’t go anywhere without your keeper. Where is Duncan? Is he feeling unwell?”
“He’s around,” said Paul in his typical sleazy manner. His voice always made her want to wash the air. “Somewhere.”
“Or is he?” added Brent in a way he probably thought was menacing. Poor lamb.
“Is there something you believe I can help you with? Bathing? Abandoning pre-conceived gender roles? Basic hygiene?”
To a man, all three checked their armpits and breath. Only Graydon’s face went red. He covered it well, but Sara could read the subtle indications of shame.
“Shaddup freak!”
“Yeah shaddup.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Do you gentlemen -and I use the term lightly- have any awareness of the laws you’re breaking right now? On camera?”
“Don’t matter.”
“Them rentacops can’t do nothing to us.”
“Ah, so you came to me for English tutoring,” said Sara. Goad them. Get them angry. When they’re angry, they make mistakes. “I charge five dollars an hour plus a dollar for every grammatical mistake.”
“Losersayswhut?”
“You owe me a dollar,” chirped Sara. “Enunciation is key. Pour example; Your putrid perfume has a peripatetic penumbra.”
“What?” said Graydon.
“Ladies,” announced Sara with a flourish, “I give you your loser.”
Duncan swung. Badly.
Sara ducked and sent him over her shoulder into Paul, who was doubtless trying to grab her backpack.
Keep in camera range. Keep them in sight. If they swing, make sure they miss. Use everything. Even the rage inside for ‘Piggy’ Stiye.
Except… she was still learning how to control that part of her.
Sara didn’t want to come out of the other side of the red mist to discover she’d hospitalized someone’s grandmother. Or even killed one of these three idiots.
They couldn’t learn once they were dead.
Right. Keep 'Piggy’ for desperate, last-ditch methods.
The three of them charged, Paul a beat behind because he was the sort of fellow to make sure the others were kicking the enemy before he got in to shove his boot in after said enemy was down.
Elbows, knees, head. Kicking, scratching and even her high-torque Favisham’s Swing got into play.
She was doing quite well for herself until Duncan approached from a seemingly-casual vector with a cloth he held over her mouth and nose.
_Absent Gods, no…_ Instincts and training fought in one vertiginous moment. The elbow she got into him was too weak to make a difference. Her feet could not find his. His grip too fast to even try for the nose.
By the time she thought of digging her fingers into a fistful of groin, it was too late.
Her body would not obey. It went lax. Slumped onto the ground in a heap. Barely breathing. Hard to focus.
Can. Not. Move!
_PROFESSOR! JEAN!_
In the drawing room of Xavier’s Institute for Gifted Children, Jean felt a desperate tickle against her shields. Then a harder 'sting’ from Xavier.
“OW!”
“Concentrate, Jean.”
Jean filled her head with some of Sara’s cyclical nonsense songs. If he got through, he’d have a head-full.
They’d slung her between Duncan and Brent. Each holding a beer bottle in their inside arms. The outer arms helped her 'walk’ by puppeteering her legs. Graydon and Paul mock-staggered behind, also carrying decorative beer bottles.
They didn’t smell like they’d emptied them. And Sara knew every smell of alcohol there was.
A little old lady, much like the one she’d briefly imagined in her horror/fantasy of emerging from the red mist, stopped and watched them pass by.
Sara tried to say, “Help, I’m being kidnapped,” but all that came out was a breathless, unintelligible slur.
“C'mon, buddy,” Duncan re-shouldered Sara’s arm, 'co-incidentally’ knocking some air out of her. “We’re nearly at the car. Gonna get you home.”
“Dude,” whispered Brent, “this tranny don’ look so good.”
“Since when do they ever look good?” he whispered back.
They came to an SUV and, since the little old lady had toddled on, dumped her on the ground again.
Someone she couldn’t see undid her jeans and wrestled a hand inside her panties.
“Fuck. It *is* a girl,” said Paul. “GAH! And it’s bleeding!”
“Prolly post-op,” laughed Graydon. “Musta busted its stitches.”
Think. Think loud. _JEAN! PROFESSOR! HELP!_
“Euwwie euwwie euwwie… 'Nybody got wet wipes? Disinfectant? Oh Jesus what if it has AIDS? Whaddaya do if you touch tranny AIDS blood? Do you pee on it?”
“Naw, that’s jellyfish,” said Brent.
“…the fuck did I put my keys…?” pondered Duncan.
“You didn’t put them in your jacket, didja? 'Cause you put your jacket in the car so that thing,” Boot to Sara’s shoulders, “wouldn’t spot you so easy.”
“…omigodomigodomigodomigod… I’m'a get AIDS!”
_Help. I’m being abducted by morons…_
“If I pee on that hand, are you gonna tell nobody?”
“But you just said not to pee on it.”
“Don’t listen to me. I don’t know nothing!”
_Two dollars,_ thought Sara. Then she got back to concentrating on Jean and the Professor.
“Fuck, I did put my jacket in the car.” Duncan must have been leaning against an SUV window.
“Does anyone remember if you’re s'posed'a pee on AIDS blood?” pleaded Paul.
“Do we call the boss?” asked Brent.
“I think I heard something about baking soda and soy sauce?” Graydon contributed. “Or was it baking soda and ketchup. I’m pretty sure it was baking soda and *something* you put on fries…”
“I left my phone in my jacket, too,” Duncan lamented.
“Anybody got the boss’ number on their phone?” asked Brent. “He didn’t give it to me…”
“I GOT AIDS BLOOD ON MY HAND! AIDS! BLOOD! SOMEBODY PEE ON IT OR SOMETHING!”
If she were capable of getting a proper breath, she would have been laughing. But she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Her whole body felt as if it were under severe gravity. And, to be honest, she had to wonder if the whole telepathic element was functioning, right now.
_I wish Daddy was here._
Daddy!
He always knew when she was scared.
Still trying to 'broadcast’ to Jean and the Professor, Sara let the fear ride her. _Daddy, come find me._
Sharing time with Todd, watching Sara’s latest cartoons, Sam Adrien stopped laughing and turned away from the screen as if trying to listen to an inner voice.
Todd, too, faced the same direction.
Both said the same thing at once.
“Sara’s in trouble.”
“Aw, geez. Smart keys!”
“Whut?”
“Smart car. Smart keys.” A door opened. “It won’t let you lock it with the keys inside.”
“I'mgonnadieofAIDS, Idon'wannadieofAIDS, I'llcatchgaynessorsomething!”
“Shut. Up. PAUL!”
Paul just kind of whimpered in place.
“Okay. Wrap that hand in Wet Ones and stick it in a plastic bag and hold it on with the duct tape, okay? The boss’ll know what to do.”
“…idon'wannadieofAIDS… 'swaytoogay…”
“And shove the thing in the trunk. Nobody wants to share seat space with it.”
Hands gripping her wrists. Hands gripping her ankles. Two more gripped her backpack and helped her wholesale into the trunk.
Spacious, yes, but no space is spacious enough on fractions of breath. If she really concentrated on punching them, she could twitch a random finger on her hand.
Useless. Completely useless.
She only started to cry when the engine started.
