Chapter Text
Solstice dreads the fifteen minute intervals in which he must co-exist with lower end of society; the three stops along the yellow line, the scent of gluttenous consumption, evidence, of which is exemplified in the obese woman and her husband in the seats meant for the disabled, and the various greasy fast food wrappers discarded on the floor. He hates the way the women stare at him, with plump lips and furrowed brows, a mocking expression sent to him in half glances across the train car. Their perfume, thick and sweet, like vanilla honey, intoxicating and infuriatingly never meant for him. In truth, he’d prefer to take a cab, even if it cost him more, if only to avoid being present at the same time as them. The people in the metro often look as if they are decomposing, and the metal poles inside the train car leave his hands stained and sticky and smelling of pennies. The experience leaves him tight-chested and grimacing, and would avoid it entirely if he had the money. Which reminds him: he ought to contact Janice again, as she still owed him for his disclosure of the location of the new Avengers Compound. She’d been caught, and likely fined as well as arrested, but that isn’t Solstice’s problem. Solstice is nothing if not honest, he’s never been good at telling a good lie, and he held up his end of the transaction. It was Janice’s turn. But not here, not now. He is more than halfway through the trip to work. It’s just about time, now that--
“Stand back, the doors are about to close.” announces the automated voice of the train car. The speaker beeps twice, loud enough that Solstice cringes, before the doors begin to shut.
“Wait!” a man races across the platform to meet the doors before they close. He doesn’t make it in time. He bangs on the window, and Solstice knows he has enough time to press the “open door” button- but doing so might make him late for work, and he can’t have that. The man glares at Solstice as the metro jolts forward. Solstice laughs under his breath, and a woman looks at him from her seat. He senses her judgement, and he stares at her until she looks away.
Solstice twists his neck, an annoyingly familiar sound echoing in the cramped space. A man is playing rap music on a bluetooth speaker. It’s too loud, and the speaker vibrates with each syllable of music. It is always the same man, in a different skin; a man whose ego is too big for his britches, who wears a cocky look of indifference plastered across his face. He doesn’t see Solstice, but Solstice sees him, his big, red bluetooth speaker at his hip. If he had a voice to use, Solstice would tell him to shut the fuck up. He’d probably make a scene; the news would talk about him, perhaps even worship him. He could tell this guy off about how he was being disrespectful. Doing so could elicit a woman’s attraction, but he didn’t find any of the women in this train car anything to write home about. He would save his voice for another day, when it was needed, when it was craved.
Solstice chooses instead to burn the speaker with his mind. It only takes a few seconds for the plastic to begin to melt, burning so hot in the man’s hand that his skin begins to sizzle. An awful smell fills the car, of hot plastic and flesh, and Solstice coughs and turns away. He doesn’t look back, as the train car comes to rest at his stop. The doors open, the conductor unaware of the incident occurring, and the man with the speaker screams in horror as the plastic turns to boiling liquid in his hand. A smirk passes slightly across Solstice’s lips. The Yellow Line isn’t always so bad, it turns out .
______
Warm water limply cascades out of an old manual sink in the employee men’s bathroom. Solstice hates the smell of the soap, like almond extract or cherries or something too sweet to place. His reflection is pale and somewhat gaunt, skinny enough in his work clothes that he prefers the luxury of doing his work in a cubicle. He runs his wet hands through his hair, then dries them on his loose khakis. His therapist told him last week he ought to try looking in the mirror less, and he’s trying to make good on that.
“My issue with that, doc, is that there are mirrors everywhere. We are surrounded by windows. I can even see my own reflection in your glasses. How do you expect me to avoid that?” Solstice leaned back, sure he had made his point in its entirety. He waits for Doctor Sandry to comment on it’s profoundness.
“Stop looking for it.”
Solstice breaks eye contact with the mirror, grabs a paper towel, and uses it to open the bathroom door.
The workspace bustles with conversation, most from each individual to their earpiece. The office is tight and cramped while somehow split into individual sections. Everything feels far too separate while at the same time being completely side-by-side. Solstice spots Darren and Aliandre speaking at Darren’s cubicle, and he wants to remind them that they need to be working, but he knows what he’ll be met with: Darren’s smug smile, his assuredness that he is on his coffee break. Solstice knows this isn’t true, but he would rather not antagonize Aliandre, who is kind to him. Solstice still isn’t entirely sure why she would choose Darren, if anyone at the office, to spend her time with. Darren is small-minded and boastful. He drives a car more expensive than Solstice’s apartment, and Darren makes him sick.
Solstice walks to his nook, not far from Aliandre’s, but still too far to make out their conversation. Based upon the pitch of her voice and their sultry, well-timed laughter, they are more than likely flirting. Solstice bites his cheek out of disgust. He sits, turns on his computer, and logs back into his email. He refreshes it once the tab loads, then again. He’s waiting on an email back, from Nick Fury. He’d found his email on a government website last week, much to his excitement. Solstice clicks his sent folder, and then clicks the most recent email he sent. He wants to read it again. He’s proud of his wording.
Solstice Vandersmith
Avengers Inquiry
To: NICK_FAvengersContact.gov
Dear Nicholas Joseph Fury,
My name is Solstice Vandersmith. I am currently working as a customer service representative at Bellman Services, but I could be doing a lot more. I believe I am a master in the art of telekinesis. I believe my talents could be better utilized working with the Avengers. I can do almost anything with my mind, and it is not being spent on anything in my current place of work. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait to become the hero I am supposed to be. Your team would be far stronger with me on it. I hope to hear from you soon, as the timing of my entry into the public world is critical as a developing superhero. I think it would likely be a mistake to ignore my attempts at contacting you, as this is now the sixth time I have written to you.
Best Regards,
Solstice.
Solstice returns to his inbox and refreshes the page. Still nothing. He bites his cheek harder. Aliandre laughs at another one of Darren’s poor attempts at humour. When Solstice focuses, he can almost picture them; Darren’s hand on Aliandre’s shoulder, near her breasts, which swell with each breath against her half-buttoned shirt. He pictures Darren looking at them, because it’s something Darren would likely do. Solstice grimaces at the thought. Darren is disgusting. He pictures Darren leaning down; he’s going to show Aliandre something on the computer. Darren’s hand lowers, palm cupping the mouse of the computer.
“Agh, shit,” shouts Darren, disrupting Solstice’s daydream. “Fuck.”
Solstice peers over his cubicle. Darren is holding up his hand, which is blistered across the palm.
“Are you okay?” asks Aliandre, taking his hand and examining it.
“No, I’m not. What the fuck. Fucking burnt my hand.”
Solstice starts to laugh. Darren looks down at him, eyes wild. “Something funny, Solstice?”
“Oh, no,” Solstice chuckles. “Funny? No. Just something on my computer.”
“It burned you.” Aliandre interrupts, drawing Darren’s attention back to his hand. He winces, looking at it again. “The mouse burned you. Or at least I think…” Aliandre touches the mouse with her fingertip in brevity. Nothing happens. Then, the back of her hand. Nothing. She looks at Darren’s blistered hand and shakes her head.
“How did it burn you?”
______
Solstice has a buoyancy to his step on the way back to the metro after work. He does not look forward to the crowd or the smell, but beyond the metro remains the peace of the day, when he can finally go home and be away from anyone and anything he does not like. It is the part of the day he most looks forward to, when social, contractual obligations are no more, and he can rest his bare bones however he wishes. He’s checking his phone as he walks, refreshing his email over and over again, heart racing as he anticipates a reply. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. A new email. He stops in his tracks.
Your Message to NICK_FAvengersContact.gov could not be sent. Click here for more details.
Solstice shivers. He’s been blocked. Nick Fury has blocked his email. Rage boils in this stomach, and he has to be careful so as to not accidentally melt his phone. This is injustice. This is absolute injustice. Solstice swallows and takes a deep breath. If the Avengers wont stop blocking him, how is he ever supposed to help the world?
Solstice turns to the pedestrian crosswalk sign on the sidewalk. They have brewed a concoction of anger within him so deep that he cannot restrain himself; Solstice kicks at the sign repeatedly, through the pain, until it falls to the ground. He breathes heavily, the winter air staining his breath white. He looks up to see his reflection in the building across from him. Under the overhead lights of the street, with shadows deep and curled, he looks strong, the massive victor towering over the sign he has just defeated. Fury knows nothing. He is a fool to block Solstice. They are all fools, to doubt him.
When the anger has cooled, Solstice develops a wonderful idea. He exits his email and scrolls to his Facebook app. He’s going to post a video. The world will not ignore him.
He opens the camera on his phone, styling his hair before he hits record.
“You know what really grinds my gears? The way the elite thrive off our attention and the worship we hand out to them freely. We hand it out to them, like it's our job to. But the truths is, we are their employers, not the other way around. We fund them and their little projects and their wars which destroy our cities with our hard-earned money and what do we get? What do we get from them? We get nothing. We get a slap in the face. The Avengers are not our heroes. They are thieves of our tax money, thieves of joy, thieves of our trust. We shouldn’t trust them, because they will turn their backs on us the moment that it is convenient to. Maybe we should turn our backs on them while we have the chance.”
Solstice takes a deep breath and ends the recording. He’s going to post this, and no more than twenty people will like it; he knows the system will silence him. He will have to take more drastic action soon, something that will really get him noticed. But until then, this message will suffice. He will decide later that this was the Avengers last warning.