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Vic saw her in his sleep last night. It wasn’t uncommon; quite the contrary, in fact. She appeared in his dreams almost every other night, smiling, brightening his slumber, a fuzzy memory of what once was. A day would end, his stress and pain giving way to her, only her, for she was the only one to deserve his mind. Then, he’d once again awaken to a world of darkness, a world of suffering. A world where she no longer was.
However, that night was like no other dream.
There were fields. Endless green fields, like those back in their village, the fields where they’d always spent their time. She was there too, next to him in the midst of these fields, gazing at the clouds, her ponytail fluttering in the wind. She held on gently to his arm, her touch soft like no one else’s Vic had ever met. He glanced at her and their eyes met.
At that moment, her eyes grew wide and she pushed him aside. The sky grew dark.
“Who are you?” She asked, looking at him, grey eyes showing no sign of familiarity.
“What do you mean?” He responded, stunned. “It’s me, your husband!”
“No. No, you can’t be him…” She paused, staring him up and down, then nodded decisively. “He’s nothing like you.”
The wind howled, becoming stronger, louder.
Vic looked down at himself. He wore a sharp, formal suit, identical to the ones he wore daily. Except… except this was not something Mitsi had ever seen him in. His hair was short and neat, yet another difference between him and his old self. His eyes were adorned by dark circles underneath them and his gaze was harsher, barely any softness remaining in his faded gray eyes.
An unfamiliar rope, yet with a strangely familiar feel, was loosely looped on his forearm.
“My husband was an intelligent man, one who showed compassion and kindness. You… You’re not him.” Mitsi stood, briefly glancing at the odd rope in his hands. Her gaze hardened. “He’d never become anything like you!”
He saw the fire, flashes of flames threatening to take her away from him once again.
He took a step toward her, eyes outraised in plead. “I’m still the same, Mitsi! I haven’t changed, really, I—”
“No,” she cut him off. “Vic, he was hurt, more than I’ll ever understand, but he refused to give in to his pain. You— You are filled with hatred. It has consumed you; I can see it in your eyes.”
Victim hesitated. What was that?
He shook his head. “I do everything for us! For you!” he shouted.
The sky flashed and suddenly, he was alone in a room, glowing white walls surrounding him. Her voice still echoed.
“I don’t know who you are.”
* * *
Vic awoke with a gasp. He quickly hugged himself to stabilize his shaking and brushed an unsteady hand through his hair. He muttered some assurances to himself and rose to unsteady feet. He was accustomed to nightmares, even though this one had none of the usual stuff.
His bedroom exited directly to his office. He’d sold his house after her death, for it was never and would never be his as much as it was theirs.
He was about to enter the elevator when he suddenly stopped, hesitating. He looked back at his desk, finding the small blue box sitting at the corner, untouched ever since the day he’d bought it. Trembling fingers pried it open, revealing the pair of silver rings inside. Wedding rings.
He was supposed to propose to her on that cursed day. The grand anniversary of the company they started together, the last time they ever celebrated that anniversary. Of course, he never actually got the chance to. He never became her husband, and she never could be his wife.
The rings still shone like the day he’d first bought them all those years ago. He closed his eyes. It seemed so long ago when they were sitting carelessly on his broken-down rocket under the starlight. It seemed so long ago when he’d last seen her smile.
He brushed the back of his palm over his eyes, though he shed no tears anymore, and then slipped one of the rings onto his finger.
* * *
Vic walked down the corridors with a quick pace, though he felt his body was still numb. He answered employees’ questions, though he later couldn’t remember any of the responses he gave. He could only glance around as he walked, looking at the walls, floors and rooms of his company.
Stale, all of it, from the work desks to the workers themselves, clones as they were of one of the only employees that had stayed after that day. Vic didn’t know how ethical that was, but he had asked Silver and he promised it was fine. Mostly.
To his horror, Vic had found out that he didn’t care.
It was all so beautiful back then. So many people, walking up and down these corridors, so many different shapes and colors. Of course, that was all when she had led.
She was far better than him at any of it. Mitsi was a leader, one who knew people and how to inspire and motivate them. She knew every worker by name, no matter how significant, she had a charm no one else could match. No one, and especially not Vic, who still had to keep himself from jumping if someone so much as nudged him, who still had to stop himself from shaking at the slightest startle and who still had to fight away the haunting thoughts of him. Both of them.
But now, it was he who had to be a leader. It was he who had to stand at the front and guide. That’s what his dream was wrong about. He hadn’t changed because of a choice to hate. He had changed because he must. Because if he’d stayed the same, he never could have lived with the thought of her, at the fire…
Because the old him was not a person who had the guts to fight. He’d lost that after his first few days. The old him could only pretend he’d gotten over it. The old him could only avoid and stay away.
He was tired of pretending and he was even more tired of staying away.
So, the new Vic, turned his head sharply and looked at them head-on, telling them, beings stronger, more powerful than him, that he didn’t fear them.
Dream Mitsi may not understand, but the real one would. The real Mitsi was the only person who could ever see.
It wasn’t hate just for the sake of hating. It was hate to do what he never could. Hate to protect, himself and the ones he loves, memories though some may be. Hate to be strong.
* * *
Before he could realize it, he had entered the main room. Agent was waiting, along with his newly hired team of mercenaries who stood close behind him. Agent’s eyes, observant as always, immediately fell on Vic’s hand and his silver ring as he approached. If he had something to say, he didn’t, only locking eyes with his friend briefly, as if searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
Finally, he nodded. “It’s ready, sir,” he said as he pointed a finger to the cubic room-inside-a-room at the center.
It was the first time Vic saw it on, glowing white as it was. He had specifically made the plans and drawn the blueprints for it and, at long last, it was finally ready.
“I want to test it,” he said.
Agent looked at him, gaze piercing even behind his shades. “Are you sure, Vic?” he said, dropping the facade of the employee in favor of that of a friend. Sometimes, Vic resented Agent’s careful gaze, which seemed to uncover everything he held within him, but he would always shake off these pervasive feelings. He couldn’t let himself resent Smith, of all people. Anyone but him.
“Yes,” he said, resolute. He had to see how close their technology had come to matching the power.
For a second, Agent thought he saw a glint of something long lost in Vic’s eyes, before they returned to their usual empty stare. He sighed. “Very well.”
Vic entered the room designed to make a god feel pain and stood, surrounded by white. This room, the Box, as he called it, had the power to turn a victim into a predator. It was his greatest, most complicated creation, a testament to the company's resources, all his skills and knowledge put to work to create a masterpiece.
All so that he could find justice. All for her.
Outside, Agent pressed a combination on a control panel and a rope appeared in his grasp. Vic stared at it. Black with a glowing outline of blue, light in his grip yet incredibly durable and sturdy.
It was the same rope from his dream.
A rope, a lasso, a tool to be used in a variety of circumstances. He’s seen the practical uses first hand, during his life in the village, when he'd seen people dragging or lifting things with ropes or mechanisms equipping them.
He’d also seen how it could be used as a means of humiliation and to inflict pain.
He shook his head. He wasn't about to feel bad for wanting to hurt a murderer. Especially one who had dared to take away the one person that made him want to be better.
Vic gave him a slight nod and Agent entered another combination in the console. He felt a newfound strength surging through him, his limbs now agile and quick. For the first time in forever, he felt powerful.
He swung the rope with precise and swift movements he'd never be able to achieve before. He hit the objects Agent spawned with destructive strength. He changed the weapons in his hands in perfect coordination with Agent outside, sliding through the floor in maneuvers no one else could achieve.
After a while, he got the grip of it, moving more mechanically than actually focusing. His mind started to travel. Who was this man, who wielded a rope with fierceful wrath? Was he the weak victim from back then, the one who struggled to fight back as he was beaten down time and time again? Was he, perhaps, the gentle and shy friend and partner, the intelligent artist with an innocence hiding the pain?
With a start, he realized what he'd instinctively known for the past years: he wasn't any of them. That man who ran with supernatural speed inside his own creation, that man who now led Rocket, that man who was on the hunt for the world's most powerful beings, he was a brand new person.
This meant he also wasn't the person Mitsi fell in love with.
But no, she would still love him. Mitsi, who could see him for what he was. Mitsi, who could always understand his feelings and his actions.
She would be proud of what he's achieved. She would understand and she would support him.
His movements became decisive.
Yes, Mitsi would never not recognize him. If it was him who had died, he was confident she’d be in a similar boat. Sure, he might be a different person, might even be one full of hate, but would their love be any different?
He held the rope tight, leaving a long side of it hanging loose.
A whip cracked, the sound echoing sharply in the relative silence of the room. He stilled, letting his breathing return to normal as he came to a conclusion.
The dream, merely a manifestation of the love of his life, was a lie. Mitsi would not only understand, but she'd be proud of what Vic has achieved for her memory, of how much he loves her, enough to change so much and lose himself in the process.
And that may mean letting himself hate those that changed him.