Chapter Text
MARCH, 1969
She does not know what time it is when she wakes, and, quite frankly, it is not a detail that feels all that important to her. What details are presently important are as follows: her hair is slicked against her bare back from a thin layer of sweat coating her entirety; it is as if she does not remember how to breathe; there is an elusive image at the back of her mind, chased away by the suddenness of awakening and now tantalizingly out of reach.
It is an image she is well acquainted with, although she could not put a name nor a face to it. She has not known it for long; it has been a stranger in her life for less than she has known Michael. Well, Matthew , she supposes.
Matthew had said that Michael was his middle name, one which he occasionally went by whenever it may have struck his fancy, but there is a very distinct likelihood that his statement was a lie. She had only become cognizant of that likelihood after he had left and the betrayal still stings fresh after almost an entire season between the event and now.
She extricates herself from the bed, which was Matthew’s and then it was hers as well as Matthew’s and now it is just hers. The door to the balcony is almost always open, as her, for lack of a better word, roommate is domesticated in only the basest sense of the world. And now she stands in front of it, not daring to step out onto the balcony proper.
She is undressed entirely and it is a state she would not allow herself to be in were it any other person she shared this room with. Matthew, before he had left, was also an exception to that rule.
The early morning wind blows her hair back behind her shoulders, leaving her bared to the world. But the sky is still dark and though it is the first thaw of the season, it is still too soon for anyone to be out tending to the gardens. It is a biting cold, one which serves its purpose: to force her entirely awake and present in the current moment.
Were it another time, perhaps, she would be leaning against the wrought iron railing of the balcony with a lit cigarette between her fingers and thinking about whatever beautiful nameless thing she had spent the evening with. However, that is a life that feels unbearably far behind her.
It is when she is entirely certain that she is awake and aware of the world and is of a sound mind that she decides she will leave as well.
She has been thinking over this course of action for most of the winter season; the idea came to her as soon as everyone realized that the prodigal son would not return. And she is determined to illustrate to dear Matthew that she is more than competent and is, in fact, better than him.
Elektra already knows how to accomplish this. After all, her darling Archangel was in such a hurry to get away from the mess he had created that he completely forgot about his dear little brother.
It is the brother who now sleeps fitfully in the bed adjacent to her own and often cries out for “ Matty” in his sleep and seems utterly unaware that he does it come morning. He is simple, and for once Elektra is grateful of that fact. That makes it all the more easy to accomplish what she intends to.
She does not allow her nerve to wane as she dresses herself. It is a quick and efficient process, only expedited by the fact that none of the clothing currently in her possession are articles that have ever belonged to her. She is unsure of what she was wearing the day that she took up residence here, nor does she know where the items of hers have been taken.
After she is reasonably presentable, she kneels down next to the brother’s bed. At times, she knows how to be gentle and this is currently a situation that calls for a touch of finesse. She rests a hand against the brother’s shoulder and jostles him with great care so as not to startle him awake.
His hair is nearly as unmanageable as hers, but she does not get the sense that he assigns any care to the task of maintaining it. It is straw-like, as it always has been, and thin, another appalling constant. It is fanned out across both the bedspread and his person and the only hint that there is a body beneath it comes with the addition of two half-lidded eyes peering between string-like strands.
“Matty?” He does not make it through the single word he is attempting to utter before beginning to rub at his eyes, “Y’didn’t have t’wake me up, you know that.”
“As I have told you ceaselessly, ” she does not allow her voice to raise above a mere whisper, “Matthew is not here. Come now, get up.”
She does not have the time nor the patience to walk him through the entire process. Instead, she diverts her attention to collecting what few things she bears any attachment to. In the meantime, the brother sits up on his bed; his legs are crossed at the ankles and he does nothing outside of yawning and stretching.
“What’re you doin’?”
According to Matthew, although she will concede that the validity of the statement may be… suspect, the childish little thing sitting on the bed is somewhere in the realm of twenty-four. He is small and sickly and achingly juvenile, but she is compelled to admit that she does see some echoes of man-hood within him.
“We are going to find Matthew, as he is obviously not returning to us.”
The brother stands up, finally, though he does so in a way that suggests aimlessness, “Like a mission?”
Elektra turns back to her work, which now includes collecting his possessions as well, so as to not let him see the smile stretching across her face. It is a sardonic one, though she does not believe that the man behind her could spell ‘sardonic’, much less define it or identify it in another person’s look.
“Oh yes ,” she does not bother disguising the derision her words hold, there is no purpose it serves, “A mission from God.”
Perhaps she is being mean, but she has never cared much one way or another. It is the right thing to say, animosity aside, because the brother moves to her side. He is almost hanging over her, though he has sense enough to realize that she does not often allow people to touch her unless her express machinations are leading them to the act.
“Where are we goin’? How long’s it gonna take?”
“I do not know ,” she growls, more a wolf than a woman.
She catches herself immediately after she allows her composure to slip. It is counterintuitive to allow her frustrations with her companion to cause any issues with her plan of action. She knows this to be a legitimate risk; Matthew’s brother stands beside her, tense as if prepared to flee.
“I do not know,” she repeats and does so softer this time, “He could have gone any number of places.”
“ Oh .”
It is a pathetic, hollow reply and it is underscored by the sense that he is, perhaps, on the verge of tears. She would not care to remain this near to him if he were to cry; thusly, she hopes that it does not reach that point.
He does not offer to make himself useful, nor does he back away, so Elektra continues to decide what is worth taking. She intends to get new clothing as soon as possible; the standard of this commune appears to be as drab as it is functional and twice as formless.
Accordingly, she brings two sets of clothing for each of them, as well as her portable camera--a Kodak Brownie she bought mostly in order to say that she could--and the carton of cigarettes she keeps tucked away beneath the mattress.
With that, she is entirely prepared to leave. Mercifully, the doors within the main house never seem to be locked and so long as Bullseye can manage to behave himself, there should be no issue with leaving.
She stops with a hand on the door knob when she realizes that Bullseye is still standing by the bed as if he did not manage to comprehend any of the proceeding conversation.
“Bullseye,” she speaks slowly and carefully, it appears the best way to get through to him, “We are leaving now.”
“It’s the middle of the night, ” he is often inclined to whine and now is not an exception, “ Why do we have to leave now ?”
“It is early morning,” she says, though she does not have a watch to confirm, “And we are leaving now because this mission is a secret. ”
Perhaps she should be saddened by the fact that he appears more often to be an eternal child than a man, but it is overshadowed by how much it galls her to use such juvenile tactics to coerce him into complying.
There is little satisfaction in how well it works. But it does allow her to open the door without so much as a sound and once she is past the threshold, she turns back to face Bullseye in order to impress upon him that it is of the utmost importance that they stay quiet, lest this “mission” ceases to be a secret.
However, he is not, in fact, behind her.
She does not want to set foot back into that wretched bedroom, as if merely passing the threshold has set an irrevocable chain of events into motion. She has never been one for superstition, but she supposes it must be contagious in these parts. Instead, she waits for him to carry out whatever odd compulsion must have struck him, as he is wont to do.
It is a surprise to see him return to the doorway cradling two blades ever so gently in his arms, as if he has learned how best to do it without getting cut.
“See I was ready to go an’ all and I was right behind you, I swear,” it appears that he is awake enough to slip into his incessant rambling and he has a disgusting tendency to completely forgo enunciating in any form, “But then I was thinkin’ that this could be dangerous ‘cos missions really aren’t all that fun and sometimes they’re awful scary, so I had to go back an’ grab ‘em ‘cos they’re Matty’s.”
Elektra needs him to remain compliant, so she restrains herself from turning on her heels and expecting him to follow. Instead, she waits to see if he has worn himself out with all his blathering.
“Matty doesn’t like it when I touch ‘em, but he’s never said nothin’ about you.”
He is holding out the blades, two beautiful and, more importantly, exotic pieces of work. They are a type of craftsmanship and style that are extremely out of place in a commune that reads as an attempted parody at a fae court. If she finds Matthew, she may just have to ask about the sais before she runs him through with them.
She has not admitted it before now, but this is as much about revenge as it is about leaving this infuriating place. She resolves herself to never mention as much aloud when she takes the swords from Bullseye.
Her Beetle has not moved from the location at which she parked it at the start of the Fall. It has been a challenge to keep track of how long it has been since she began her more permanent residence within the commune, but she knows that the entirety of the Fall and the majority of the Winter have passed.
She sets the twin swords down, allowing them to rest against the side of her vehicle, and then she turns to face Bullseye. She is already tall and it does not help that the man in front of her seems to be small in a way informed by self-consciousness. Thus, she is forced to lean down in order to look him directly in the eye.
For emphasis, she places her palms on each of his shoulders, and speaks softly, “Bullseye, do you know how the gates work?”
“Of course,” he smiles, crooked in a way that would have been cute a decade ago, “Lemme show you!”
“No, that is not necessary. I trust you; you can open them for us.”
He nods, an almost manic action, and heads off towards the gate mechanism.
With Bullseye distracted, it allows her time to work. Her spare key is still attached via magnet to the underside of her back left wheel well and she retrieves it with ease. Following that, she unlocks the driver side door and places her bag as well as the swords in the back seat.
It is still merely superstition getting the best of her, but she feels more comfortable with the idea of having easy access to their things. And, she must admit, the swords feel distinctly comfortable in her hands, as though they were made for her to wield them.
Afterwards, she takes a seat and puts the key in the ignition. The car starts and it works wonders for easing the knot of dread resting at the pit of her stomach. Bullseye returns soon after that and she leans across the front seat to unlock his door.
He sits next to her and shuts the door behind himself and whispers, almost reverently, “I’ve never rode up in the front before.”
Elektra does not deign the statement a response; she finds that Bullseye has not managed to open the gate entirely, but it is still sufficient to fit her vehicle through. Once she has passed the boundary of the commune, she stops the car.
“Stay here. Do not touch anything.”
She strides back to the gate and forces it closed with her bare hands. It is not locked, but it will look untouched from a distance and perhaps award them some extra time for a head start. Then, she gets back into the vehicle and starts the engine once again.
Bullseye has followed her command quite sufficiently; the keys are still in the ignition and he has not turned on the radio or passed the time by playing with the windows or the glovebox or the mirrors. He is, instead, almost uncharacteristically quiet.
The moon overhead provides enough light to offer a cold comfort, and the car continues to move as it is intended to. She does not remember how long the rough, gravel path up to the property is, nor does she remember what road it connects to. But she does find it far easier to breathe when she reaches asphalt yet again.
The sun is just beginning to rise when she realizes that in all likelihood, it will not be long before they need more gasoline. Additionally, she is unsure of where they are in any exact sense. The roads have all appeared to be identical and she has shied away from highways and interstates thus far, choosing instead to travel down the backroads. At the very least, she knows that they are still within the state of New York.
Bullseye is asleep; he sits in the passenger’s seat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head resting against the window. The sight of him out of the corner of her eyes elicits a terrible wave of panic, threatening to drag her out into its metaphorical undertow.
It is enough to force her to pull over, as she does not believe she can drive in a state such as this.
She barely manages the act of turning off the vehicle before completely losing her composure. It is an undignified state to be in; she rests her forehead against the steering wheel of the car and against her will, she finds her face contorted as though she is screaming, but there is not any noise escaping her aside from the incessant repetition of her quick, frantic breaths. She sounds like an animal, a creature panting and prepared to attack.
Bullseye, who is the only remaining son of the leader of the commune she has just fled from in the night like a prisoner, remains asleep off to her side.
She is crying, even though she has not cried in years. She did not deign it fit to cry at her father’s funeral, and yet she cannot stop now. It is a silent act and her tears end up tracking down her face, leaving droplets on the skirt of her dress, against her will.
She does not like the state she is in, but she can tolerate it. That is, up until she makes a disgustingly animalistic noise, one that sounds like she has been dealt with a fatal blow. Bullseye startles awake shortly afterwards; she does not see it happen but it is an easy enough conclusion to draw from the racket he makes, as if he kicked the dashboard in his panic.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Did something happen?” He sounds as small as he is scared, but he does not cross the line and touch her, for which she is grateful.
She attempts to move her mouth so as to speak, but she ends up doing something akin to gnashing her teeth.
“What happened, ‘Lektra? Are we safe?”
“Bullseye,” her voice is hoarse and stiff, as if she has not spoken before this moment, “Go back to sleep.”
She supposes he is watching her; he often stares and stares and stares, though she cannot bear to look at him in order to confirm. He remains quiet, although restless, and leaves her to choke down her sorrow in near perfect silence.