Work Text:
Stolen
by dkgwrites
Cruising down the highway in a convertible with the top down, Love is Love by Starley playing on the radio, and Grace at her side, Anissa was on the top of the world. If there was anything better than time away with your girl, she couldn’t recall it right now. Anissa’s life was a series of responsibilities: responsible to her family, responsible to her patients, and responsible to her community as both a proud woman, outspoken for social justice, and as a superhero. In this moment though, all of that melted away, and what was left was freedom and love.
She reached over and took Grace’s hand, and the smile she glimpsed was everything right about this world. The struggles of Freeland, problems with the A.S.A., they just became background noise when Grace squeezed her hand, and those kissable lips curled up. All she could see was a future, no matter how unrealistic, where she could have it all; where the color of her skin and her sexual orientation weren’t a subject of discussion from across the street and didn’t remain a topic of conversation after she’d left the room. When the chorus started in, and Grace turned up the volume, Anissa was sure she wasn’t the only one lost in this moment.
We've got to hold one another
We've got to hold on real tight
You know we only have each other
So long you open up your eyes
'Cause love is love, oh
'Cause love is love
Their path here wasn’t a straight one… but when had anything about them been straight? When they met, the attraction was instantaneous. If Anissa was being honest with herself, and she tried to be, it was like nothing she’d felt before. Anissa had attempted to push down her initial reaction since at the time she was dating Chenoa, a relationship that was destined to fail. However, some friendly - okay flirty - conversation had stirred in her more feeling than her relationship had evoked in months if ever. Later, dancing in the club with Grace, albeit overtly innocent, was a wakeup call.
From there, it should have been easy for Grace and her to move ahead together, but instead they both spent more time sidestepping each other than gaining any forward momentum. Faced with the reality of superpowers, Anissa had ghosted Grace and even taken up with Zoe (who was nothing more than an attractive distraction) someone she knew would never be serious and would therefore be safe. Thankfully, Jennifer had called her on her shit and reminded her that she needed emotional sustenance: soul food.
Grace was certainly that. Grace touched parts of Anissa that had been unexplored in every other relationship to date, and that wasn’t just a sexual euphemism. It was love, the kind of love that inspired poetry, the kind that the cynic - she called it a realist - in Anissa didn’t know existed until she held Grace Choi in her arms. It was the reason forever existed.
Then, as quickly as Anissa’s world had flipped and settled, it flipped again. Grace was gone, her quickly shifting emotions for Anissa proving too much for her shifting form. Anissa perhaps overreacted, becoming a bit stalkerish in attempts to find Grace and instead uncovering Grace’s history of abuse. It was a lot. Ultimately, it was Grace who found Anissa and waited, and when Anissa saw her shift for the first time she proved to Grace, and to herself, that though it was a lot, it wasn’t too much.
It took time for both of them to open up, but that was one of the many beauties of a relationship. They should be explored slowly, carefully, and each newly gained piece of truth should be held close to your heart and cherished. You didn’t need to like each and every little thing about your partner to love them totally and unconditionally. It wasn’t until Grace realized Anissa wasn’t going anywhere, that she would never be abandoned again, that she was able to settle and gain control of her form. Not a scared little girl, not a deadly but protective predator, just a woman holding the hand of the woman she loved because she was enough.
That brought them to where they were today, as happy as two people had ever been. It was absolutely magic... until Jen popped her head between the seats from the back and cleared her throat. “Harriet, you know I love you, and you too Grace, but can we please change up the music? You all know I’m an ally, but if I have to listen to another song from the Lilith Fair collection, I’m hopping out of this car and flying the rest of the way there.”
“Now you did not just diss Starley,” Anissa responded, but the smile on her face reflected her true sentiments. As much as she enjoyed time alone with Grace, Jen joining them on this road trip made it all the better. Not only did it give them sister time and a chance for Jen and Grace to get to know each other a little more, but their destination was picked partially with Jen in mind. “She is a strong, black lesbian.”
Jen groaned and fell back against her seat again. “Well, good for her. This is a reminder that this strong, black woman gets to choose the music on the way back.”
“I know. I know.”
“Good, just don’t you forget it. Are we almost there yet?” It was far from the first time Jen had asked. Questions like, ‘How much longer?’ and ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’ had become commonplace from the backseat. It was a bit childish, but with everything Jen had gone through, it was a blessing she could hold onto any little bit of her childhood still.
Far more patient with Jen’s antics, Grace didn’t react to Anissa’s mumbling and instead tilted her phone which sat on the dash, an icon of a car on a road leading them to their destination. “Waze says twenty-three more minutes.”
“I knew I should have flown,” Jen muttered and crossed her arms, a disgruntled huff adding to her attitude.
“Jennifer,” Anissa said, her gaze briefly searching for her sister’s through the mirror, “you know you can’t go around using your powers irresponsibly.”
“What’s irresponsible about lowering my carbon footprint? I thought Miss Green New Deal here would be proud of me. Save the planet, right?”
“Stop playing right now,” Anissa said, but her tone wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was warm. She remembered being Jen’s age. The complaining was more about Jen’s attempts to establish herself as an adult, more about testing boundaries than about any actual unhappiness. “You know you love being with us instead of home with Mom and Dad.”
“Ain’t that the truth. When I told them I was going away with you for the day, they got all weird. I caught them whispering and giggling like teenagers whose parents were leaving them alone in the house for the weekend.” Jen shuddered. “Old folks shouldn’t be like that.”
“Well, I think your parents are cute.” Grace looked over her shoulder and smiled back at Jen, ever the amused peacekeeper amid the Pierce sisters’ antics. “You should be happy they’re so in love and affectionate. You do realize you wouldn’t be here if not for your parents’ sex life, right?”
Jen met that assertion with a look of horror before she closed her eyes and raised her hands as if she could deflect the thought. “Nuh-uh. Not me. I just sprang up like Athena from Zeus’ head.”
“Same,” Anissa said, finally on the same page with her sister. Raised in the same house with the same birth parents, Jen and Anissa often had less in common than dissimilar, but they agreed that their mom and dad had been uncomfortably affectionate since getting back together. At least Anissa wasn’t forced to live at home and suffer through what Jen called ‘thin walls’.
“Change of topic before I need to place a call to Perenna for some emergency therapy. Tell me about this art show we’re seeing. Wait,” Jen grabbed both seat backs and slid forward again, concern etched into her lovely features. “This isn’t some gay thing that’s all girl body parts, is it?”
“Like the vagina museum in London?” Anissa smirked, catching her sister’s gaze in the mirror this time, and the horrified expression just made her smile more broadly.
Jen, however, only sat in shock for a moment before she squinted and shook her head. “Now who’s playing. That ain’t a real thing.”
“Actually, it is,” Grace said. “Be glad we’re not in the UK.”
“Okay, that’s it. Pull over the car. I’m flying home. You two can go on boob watch without me.”
“Will you relax?” Fun was fun, but all good things - like teasing your sister - must eventually come to an end… or at least an intermission. “It’s not that kind of a museum. We’re not all boob obsessed.”
“Babe.”
It was just one word from Grace, but Anissa recognized the reproach, and she couldn’t deny it. Instead, she pulled Grace’s hand to her lips and applied a gentle kiss as she whispered, “Your boobs are different.” Based on the groan from the backseat, she hadn’t whispered quietly enough.
Grace was the one who took pity on Jen and redirected the conversation. “The art show deals with some of the issues of systemic racism and police violence against the black community that’s become so prevalent in the country right now.”
“Damn, that sounds depressing.”
“It’s important is what it is, Jen,” Anissa said. “It’s one thing to know it’s happening, but it’s another to see who it’s happening to and what it’s done. These are real human lives, our people, and they were taken too soon.”
“Here we go,” Jen mumbled.
“You do realize the only reason that loitering is a crime is so that cops, the same people that used to be slave catchers, could arrest freed slaves who had no land and put them in prison, right? The entire prison system was just another version of slavery and still is in most cases. They only changed the name.” Facts, figures, data about institutional and systemic racism rolled off Anissa’s tongue far too easily. It would be impressive if it wasn’t the awful truth. “Less than thirteen percent of the US population is black men, but the largest percentage of men in prison is black. That’s no accident.”
“Argh. I know, Harriet. I took the same damn history classes as you did. I thought this was supposed to be a fun trip.”
“It’s educational, and education is fun.”
“Pfft, I don’t know what school you go to, but education is the least fun part about school. Now boys, those are fun. Am I right?” Jen shied away from the look her sister threw her in the rear view mirror. “Grace, back me up here.”
“Sorry,” Grace shrugged, and it was her turn to bring Anissa’s hand to her lips for a kiss. “I only have eyes for one woman now.”
“I’ll remember that when you try playing the ‘favorite sister-in-law card’ with me. Nope.”
“But I’m your only sister-in-law.”
“Then that makes you my least favorite, doesn’t it?”
Grace gasped and stared at Jen, mouth agape. Just because it was true didn’t mean she had to say it.
“Alright, enough, you two. Jen, let me tell you about the art show. It’s called—”
“Nope.” Jen pulled out her earbuds, sliding them into place. “Just let me know when we’re there. Peace out.”
“Really?” Anissa repeated, “Really?” louder, but it didn’t matter. Her sister had already checked out of the conversation and checked into the booming bass sounds that came from her phone. As far as conversation stoppers go, it was a classic used by teens all over the world. Mark a win down in Jen’s column for this battle if not the war.
The Waze app proved to be accurate, and the girls pulled into a parking space just down the block from the art show right on time. Rather stubbornly, Jen kept her earbuds in place for the walk while Anissa and Grace held hands and chatted happily. It wasn’t quite the ideal that Anissa had imagined, but it was far from the worst scenario that had run through her mind. They were together, moving in the same direction, and Jen had yet to come through on her threats to go airborne: small blessings.
The art show was in a repurposed warehouse. It was an old red brick building in Atlanta proper, some kind of mill building that had been out of its original use for who knew how many years. Anissa purchased them tickets, and they wound their way through people and artwork. The mediums were varied, going from pencil sketches to clay, from watercolor to wire and woven baskets. There was bright beadwork hanging on one wall, each bead painstakingly arranged to create a city scene of kids playing in the water spraying from an open fire hydrant on a hot summer’s day. There was an entire wall with the word “Life” on top in big, block letters. Underneath were pictures of men, old men, old black men holding numbers up to their chests. They were prison photos of what could be - might be - people’s grandfathers… if they had any hope left in their eyes. There were clay figures on a table, their colors vibrant as they played basketball, jumped doubledutch, painted, flew a kite, or walked hand in hand. Kitty-cornered was a set of pictures of women breaking down, crying, some on the street and others dressed formally and near a grave or coffin. The context wasn’t hard to understand.
As they headed toward a backroom, Jen removed her earbuds and looked around at the displays, wide-eyed. This whole place was a blend of color and darkness, a celebration of life and a commentary on its brevity. Set in juxtaposition to each other, the contrast was even more stark.
“What is all this?” Jen asked as her gaze swept the room.
“This is our community,” Anissa replied. “The good, the awful, but the honest truth. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“Some of it, yeah.”
“Good. That means you’re paying attention.” She held her younger sister’s gaze for several heartbeats then gestured with her head. “Come on. The exhibit I want to see is back here.”
“There’s more?” Jen shook her head and sighed. This had already been a lot for someone twice her age, but Jen - Lightning - had experienced a lot for someone any age. “Do I want to see it?”
“I think it’s important.”
With a nod, Jen followed Anissa and Grace into the smaller, back room. There were small pictures, full bodies, active but faceless on one wall, and opposite that were full-color portraits. Kendrick, Frank O, and Lebron were recognizable from a distance. Anissa led them to the back wall, past the press of bodies who examined the art with a quiet reverence, to where another series of portraits, thirty-seven in all, awaited them. They look unfinished, just pencil sketches partially colored with magic markers. One was shaded around most of his face but not his forehead or visible torso, and another just had some color around one eye. The rest were varying levels in between, but for them all, the word “incomplete” came to mind.
“Uh, is this a work in progress?” Jen asked.
“Come read this.” Anissa beckoned her sister over to the far left where a large print sat against the wall, but instead of images, this one was just words.
Stolen
This series is dedicated to the many black people that were robbed of their lives at the hands of the police. In addition to using markers and pencil, I use time as a medium to define how long each portrait is colored in. 1 year of life = 1 minute of color. Tamir Rice was 12 when he was murdered, so I colored his portrait for 12 minutes. As a person of color, I know that my future can be stolen from me if I’m driving with a broken taillight, or playing my music too loud, or reaching for my phone at the wrong time. So for each of these portraits I played with the harsh relationship between time and death. I want the viewer to see how much empty space is left in these lives, stories that will never be told, space that can never be filled. This emptiness represents holes in their families and our community, who will be forever stuck with the question, “who were they becoming?” This series touches on grief and the unknown.
Artist: Adrian Brando
“Tamir Rice.” Jen stared at the image with the least color, of the child whose life was robbed from them the earliest, and child was the right word. Everyone knew that name. He had so much life ahead of him when he was shot by police who believed his airsoft gun was a real pistol. The caller had told the dispatcher the gun was probably fake and the person with it was a juvenile, but none of that was communicated to the responding officers. Instead a cop who had been deemed emotionally unstable and unfit for duty in a prior jurisdiction shot Tamir before the police cruiser had even stopped moving.
Dead at twelve for having a toy gun. Shot by a cop even the department knew was unfit. Was this justice? Was this what it meant to serve and protect? No, but it was a too common truth of growing up… of trying to grow up black in the US. These thirty-seven unfinished pictures, pictures of unfinished lives, were but a representation of those in the black community killed at the hands of police officers, killed by the very people whose job it was to protect them.
Anissa leaned into Grace, grateful for the arm wrapped around her as she wiped away a tear she hadn’t realized she’d shed. She’d expected to feel angry. She could work with anger, had been for a while in Freeland, but this was heartbreaking. There was so much work to do, but even if they stopped the killing today, these lives would never come back. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, brothers, and sisters would never have their loved ones back. You couldn’t right death. All you could do was work to make people understand the color of one’s skin did not define one’s value.
“You okay?” Grace whispered as she pressed a kiss against Anissa’s temple.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to be. You never have to be okay with me. You just have to feel however you feel.”
So Anissa did. She let the sorrow wash over herself and let the tears flow. Usually, she was the one holding Grace when things got hard, but sometimes, Grace got to be the strong one. Hell, who was she kidding here? With all Grace had gone through, Grace was always the strong one.
They stood there until Jen joined them, leaning against Anissa to be wrapped in her older sister’s embrace. For a little bit at least, she seemed uninterested in growing up and acting out. Safe and loved seemed just right.
The girls spent an hour at the art show before heading out for something to eat. Jen remained uncharacteristically quiet through their late lunch, and Anissa didn't push. Pushing Jen never went well. It just pushed her away, and right now, Jen seemed to be processing. With their reality, there was a lot to process. It wasn’t until they stowed their leftovers in the trunk and piled into the car for the drive home that Anissa tried to breach the gap.
“Hey, it’s your turn to pick the music.” It was a gentle attempt to entice Jen out of herself and back into the here and now. Usually, it would be met with enthusiasm, and Anissa struggled to keep the smile on her face when her sister just met her gaze and then looked away.
“Maybe we could just have quiet for a little while?” Jen asked.
“We can do that,” Grace replied softly before Anissa could say anything, her smile looking far more natural than Anissa’s felt. It just reminded Anissa how lucky she was.
They drove on in a steady silence only broken by occasional directions from the app guiding their way. Anissa couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at Jen who still hadn’t met her gaze. Fifteen minutes passed, and it was starting to get worrying, even with Grace’s comforting presence coaxing her to further patience every time Anissa felt like all of hers had gone. When Jen finally did speak, even without her usual bravado, Anissa breathed a sigh of relief.
“Anissa,” just that one word, her actual name instead of ‘Harriet’, let her sister know they were going to have a serious conversation, “thanks for taking me today.”
“Thanks for joining me, us.” Annisa motioned toward Grace, a gesture meant to let Grace know she was part of this conversation, hell, she was part of this family. Anissa didn’t know when those casual reminders to her wife would end, reminders that they were an ‘us’ and Grace wasn’t and wouldn’t be alone again. Maybe never, and that was okay. “Thanks for going with us. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”
“Yeah,” Grace agreed, leaning between the seats to take Jen’s hand and smiling when Jen reached out to meet her grasp.
“Yeah.” Jen nodded, finally meeting Anissa’s gaze in the mirror before her sister had to avert her eyes back toward the road. “That was rough, you know, but I’m glad I saw it. That hit different.”
“Mhmmm. I feel that. Seeing their pictures that way, it hit even harder there than when I saw them online. I thought I was prepared.” Her gaze flicked back to Jen’s once more, briefly. “I wasn’t.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
Grace’s comment startled Anissa, but she could only furrow her brows as she steered the car around a tricky S-curve. “How do you figure?”
“There’s nothing wrong with getting upset from upsetting things,” Grace explained. “When you stop feeling things like that and become hardened to them, that’s when the world is wearing you down. Thunder and Lightning wouldn’t be the heroes they are if they didn’t care as deeply as Anissa and Jennifer do.”
God, how Anissa loved her. “Can you believe she looks this fine and loves this good?” Anissa asked, grinning back at her sister once they had reached the straightaway again.
“Yeah, yeah. You two are as gross as Mom and Dad… almost.” When Jen smiled, the first smile she’d managed since before going into the museum, Anissa relaxed.
“Oh, we’re grosser. You just don’t live with us,” Grace said.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Anissa reached over, squeezing Grace’s knee and wondering what she could say to properly scandalize her sister without truly crossing any lines.
However, it seemed that Jen was quicker. “Ugh. Your poor future kids. When I babysit for them, it’s gonna be like a therapy session.”
“Kids?” Anissa and Grace said together, their gazes locked for what was perhaps a little too long to be safe and only breaking when Anissa realized that and wrenched her head back toward the road. She had to struggle not to look back at Jen’s cackling laughter from the backseat.
“Oh, man. The looks on your faces. That was great. That was great.” Her laughter continued, and she wiped away a small tear that leaked from the corner of one eye.
“That wasn’t funny, Jennifer. Grace and I are still figuring that stuff out. Don’t be momming us.”
Jen continued to grin until Grace added, “Yeah, least favorite sister-in-law.”
“Ouch, cold.”
“What goes around comes around,” Grace said.
The atmosphere in the car had shifted. They weren’t as serious as earlier or hinting at a touch of abrasion from the ride down. This was friendly, grounded in loving reality. This was family, and when Jen leaned forward and turned on the radio, playing with the dials until she found a station of which she approved, Anissa knew they’d be alright.
“So, do you think this whole police reform or defund the police thing will work?” Jen asked as she leaned back, surprising Anissa by returning to their more serious conversation. “That sounds like taking money from people in power. They don’t give that up easy.”
“Which is why you have to take it,” Anissa said. “Greed begets greed. The more these people have, the more they want. Right now, they’re scared.”
“Of what?” Jen asked.
“When you live a life of privilege, equality can feel a lot like oppression.”
“Only when you’ve never felt actual oppression,” Grace said.
“Truth. We fight the good fight, Jen. We speak out, we march, and we don’t back down. We make our voices heard and don’t accept the crumbs they try to throw at us as either ourselves or our alter egos.”
“Challenging the patriarch’s narrative of female heroes?” Jen said.
“You quoting one of my fan pages again?”
“Please don’t,” Grace asked. “If her head gets any bigger, her mask won’t fit.”
“Hey, now. I think I liked it better when you two weren’t on the same side. No ganging up on me.”
“Sorry. She’s my favorite sister-in-law.” Jen leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Anissa cheek and escaping before her sister could swat her away. “Seriously though, y’all. Do you think we can change the system? You know what they say. A leopard can’t change its spots.”
“Excuse me?” Grace asked.
Hand over her mouth, Jen struggled to hold back her laughter… and failed. “Okay, poor choice of words on my part but you know what I mean. Is the system just too broken to fix?”
“Let me respond to your question with a question,” Anissa said. “When Mom got taken by the Marconians, did you think we could get her back?”
“With our sorry, ragtag lot?” Jen snorted. “It didn’t look good.”
“But you tried anyway.”
“Yeah. It was Mom.”
“Because what’s worth having is worth working for or fighting for if you have to,” Anissa said. “Never forget our people are worth it. You’re worth it, Jennifer. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t ever surrender.”
“I don’t think you Pierce girls know the meaning of the word surrender,” Grace said.
“That’s just because we’re ignorant… and stubborn.” Jen’s sarcastic humor had definitely returned, a good sign in the midst of this conversation. When the song changed on the radio, Jen lunged forward, turning up the volume. “You all be quiet and listen to Beyonce if you want to hear a queen.”
Anissa flipped her hand over, curling her fingers when Grace laced their fingers together. As Black Parade played on the radio and Jen danced in the backseat, Anissa smiled. This was her family. Anissa would march for them, and Thunder would fight for them because they were worth it. Today was a reminder of the evil in this world but also of the good, and she planned to hold onto the good.
We got rhythm (we got rhythm), we got pride (we got pride)
We birth kings (we birth kings), we birth tribes (we birth tribes)
Holy river (holy river), holy tongue (holy tongue)
Speak the glory (speak the glory), feel the love (feel the love)
Motherland, motherland drip on me, hey, hey, hey
Motherland, motherland drip on me, hey, hey, hey
I can't forget my history, it's her story
Motherland drip on me, motherland, motherland drip on me
Thank you for taking the time to read this. We’re in a critical time in the US and around the world. The BLM movement is holding a spotlight on the racism and violence with which our black sisters, brothers, and others deal on a daily basis. This is not new. It’s just newly elevated to the attention of many.
I’m sure, like me, you’ve heard the phrase, “It’s just a few bad apples,” in reference to police officers acting outside the law and with impunity. I think it’s important that we know and respond with the entire phrase. “One bad apple spoils the whole barrel.” This rot grows and spreads, infecting many of those who chose the profession with the best intentions. I’m not saying it’s impossible to be a good cop in the US. I’m saying it’s much easier to be a bad one, and until we change the system to stop that, these atrocities will continue.
If anyone would like to see the actual art by Adrian Brando mentioned in the fic, here’s the website. It’s powerful.