Work Text:
Lorena’s mind is still clouded, but it’s looking better than last week. I slip into the familiar corridors and convince her to block out the pain- not like it’s gonna magically give her the ability to crochet again with her arthritis like it is, but at the very least she won’t have to deal with the constant ache.
“It’s so weirdly calm today,” Aisha says to me in the break room on our fifteen. “Y’know, sometimes it feels like ever since we hired you the old-timers are actually behaving.”
“Mmm.” I sip my weak cup of coffee, pretending to be more drowsy than I really am. I mean, what am I supposed to do, tell her I’m working on the cure for dementia? Me, some senior home carer, with just enough education to do algebra, while the big shot doctors swing and miss over and over again. It sounds ridiculous, unless you know a few of my old aliases, in which case I have worse problems than sounding like a crazy person.
Break ends, back to untangling Lorena. I’m trying to give her as much time as I can in between the other things I have to do- look, cleaning the piss off someone isn’t the most dignified work in the world, but it beats an unmarked grave.
Okay, there is something a little rewarding about it, even despite the insistent voice in the back of my brain that it’s all for the grift. Sure, I know this batch of old people so well that I could create a geriatric hivemind, but how would that benefit anyone? Dumb habits die hard.
Anyways, there is an undeniable pleasure in it, having someone trust in you enough to make small talk while the deed is done, catching a hint of the relief that comes from being fresh and clean without having to hop in the shower yourself. An ex told me that once, you know? I’m an “emotional leech.” Well, they’ve got surgical leeches, and that’s what I’m doing here. Clean work. Clean money. Everyone wins, especially little Jason and Jared when Grammy recognizes them from the last time they visited.
So yeah, some supers use their powers to play god, and I’m god of a shitty Medicare-funded nursing home in the most depressing city this side of the Rockies. Whatever. If that’s what I need to believe to sell the idea to myself, that’s what I’ll believe. Whatever keeps me and Cliff warm and dry at the end of the day is good, I think, no matter what. It’s what we have to do to live.
“Bye, Lorena,” I say, giving her a quick hug. She’s a nice lady, short and stout and very grandmotherly, with a yellowy-white bob that gets trimmed every four weeks at the hair school. She’s got these deep wrinkles around her mouth that make her look like she’s constantly frowning, which I think is why I gravitated to her. Inside, she’s a very nice lady.
“Goodbye, dear,” she says a little less absently than last week- or, absent because Mary Tyler Moore is on the TV and she’s not paying attention to me. The good kind of absent. I wish she was my grandma. I like when she calls me dear. Okay, I was a little selfish, and I made sure she quit calling me sir or ma’am, so what? I’m the one curing her, not whatever this sadsack facility calls an ethics board.
I gave her ibuprofen before I left so that the pain gradually comes back when I’m gone, so that it looks more like a night thing than a “my favorite staff member with superpowers is gone for the day” thing. Too bad I can’t just stay 24/7. But the important thing is, no arthritis pain all day. And the dementia part should be more permanent- I think- it’s just too bad I can’t mess with her pain much more without getting into medical territory I’m afraid to touch.
I’m bad on the way home. I go to a diner I know doesn’t have cameras, because the owner developed a technophobic paranoia, and I order up a few burgers to go, which the hostess conveniently forgets to ring me up for. Well, what can you do? A little inventory loss won’t make this place fold, and it's owned by a racist old dude anyways. At least my seniors are open-minded, even if their minds have got more holes in them than my last attempt at knitting. And I know Cliff hasn’t made dinner tonight, and I’ve been on my feet for so long I might need to amputate them when I get home. Jokes. God, I hope my physical health never fails me, or Cliff is going to have to get used to a lot of lifestyle changes very quickly.
When I get in Cliff is out on the balcony, which is never a good sign. I can feel the tense energy wafting off of him from here- I can’t help it, okay? It’s too intense for me to ignore, but I don’t meddle with it unless he asks me to. That’s our deal, not that I have to stop using my powers around him completely. But I set the food on the kitchen counter and pad across our cramped studio, still in my scrubs, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders from behind. Don’t worry, he heard me coming.
“You didn’t watch the news, did you?” Still in the same clothes from yesterday: baggy grey sweatpants and some cheap Nirvana tee we got when we first landed here a year ago. Hasn’t gotten out of bed today, from the way his hair is flattened against the back of his head, except to come out and stand on the balcony and leer at that sliver of sky you can see through the pines. He watched the news.
“They’re still saying you killed me.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” He hasn’t eased up at all- his shoulders are still square, his back hard and immovable no matter what angle I smush my face into it. “Come on. They’re shooting themselves in the foot. Crimson Virtue is dead? So nobody sees your face and goes ‘Omigod let me have your autograph’ in the street, that’s a good thing. Happy death day to you.”
“But it’s all part of this larger plan. Constantly pushing out this fake information... if they do catch us, they’ll tell the public you brainwashed me and they’ve already justified killing you. They might not even go the death penalty route- they might just let Fortitude crush you.”
“Ah ah ah. That’s if we get caught, which we won’t, and if we do get caught, I promise I can do a lot worse than what they showed on TV.”
Which is the upside of a mind control power. You don’t have to be very smart, or very strong, or really even very fast, in most situations. All you have to do is do your thing. If I really had wanted to kill Cliff, I could have convinced him to fly himself into the sun, nevermind shooting himself in the mouth or whatever. Which, by the way, wouldn’t even work, so I don’t know why Channel 4 is buying it.
Maybe Cliff has a touch of mind-reading, because he turns around to face me, a serious look on his face.
“I want to leave the apartment.”
“Okay, you want to leave the apartment. You’re a grown man, you can leave the apartment.” I cover his big hands with my hands the best I can and squeeze them tight. “It’s a shit town, but it might be good for you, leaving the apartment.”
“To work.”
I drop my hands.
“Cliff, we’ve been over this.”
“Like you said, it’s a... it’s a rough town. Highest crime rate in the state.”
“Which you wouldn’t guess, from the beautiful vista.”
“Come on, we could do something about it! We could- I don’t know, we could make this place into a real home, somewhere people are proud to live-”
“Okay, so, what? You sign up to be a cop? Do the same damn thing you were doing when you met me? How long before they ask you to do something you're not okay with doing? How long before they notice when you don’t bleed when you get shot?”
“They have social workers and things-”
“Which require a degree.” Look, I’m not trying to bring him down, but it’s not the first time we’ve had this fight and it won’t be the last. And I’m tired, and I want to go eat some lukewarm french fries. “So I come to the interview? Make them overlook the non-existent education level of your average super?”
“I could go back to school!”
“With whose money?!”
Neighbor upstairs hears us yelling, except she doesn’t and goes back to enjoying her cooking show and then I almost fall over because I am so damn tired and I’ve been massaging Lorena’s brain all day, and I just don’t have the energy to control the neighborhood while I argue with Cliff again, not tonight.
Of course he catches me. He always has, since the day we ran.
“It’s not your power,” he murmurs, for the hundredth time. “It’s just, I don’t want to lie anymore.”
“Yeah, that’s why they call you Virtue,” I spit, and immediately regret it. “I’m- I mean- look, normal people lie all the time. It’s practically required to get any job. And we would have to forge documents to get you a job at McDonald’s, let alone something where you’re in charge of more than just burgers.” Fuck, I want that burger.
We move the conversation inside to the bed, and by conversation, I mean that we both sit in the kind of miserable silence that only happens when one person accuses the other of being a criminal. For some reason, I feel like I’m the only one in the wrong- maybe out of habit, because arguing with the former embodiment of liberty and justice makes you feel like kind of an asshole, even if you’re both eating the same overcooked burgers, both covered in sweat and overgrown stubble, both equally fucked if the government finds you. Maybe not equally- at least I would just be dead. They have worse plans for him.
“I’m sorry,” Cliff says. “I know you work really hard.”
“I never said you couldn’t leave the apartment. I just think you should try to chill out a little. You don’t have to personally make up for every death the League caused.”
“I still hear them,” he responds hollowly- and for a minute I’m worried I’ll have to figure out how to cure a second brain disorder- but he continues, “People still call my name when they’re in trouble. I... I hear them, even here, but I can’t help them. I don’t know how to... deal with that.”
“Oh.”
“At least being near the ocean helps.” Cliff slumps down, distorting the smiley face on his shirt. “I always have something I can focus on.”
“That would drive me crazy. Hearing the ocean all the time.” I lean against his shoulder, launching into the same spiel I always give. “You’re not a bad person for looking out for yourself. Or for not saving the entire world at once. That’s pretty normal.” This time, I follow it up with: “But I do think you should get out and find something to do. They don’t check IDs at the park unless you look shady- which you never do, by the way.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Cliff sighs and relaxes into me, and I finally get that whiff of happiness I’m looking for. Some days that’s all I need. It’s an achievement in and of itself, stealing the world’s most famous superhero, right, but what’s important is that he is safe and happy, and not a pawn in a cold war between two countries that don’t deserve him, and not being forced to steer some giant space-beast away from corporate buildings into civilian suburbs either, that he’s allowed to be some random depressed guy eating crappy takeout, at least until we fuck it all up.
I really, really hope I don’t fuck it all up.
When I say I’m “curing” dementia, it’s really a useless project. I know that. I’m not creating something that’s usable to anyone else, because most of the other people with mind control powers aren’t really interested in improving the world one senior at a time. Normally they go more for dynastic stuff, or if you’re like me and you can only do so much with a crowd, a life of petty crime and grifting. But I’m great at the one-on-one thing, and Lorena’s illness stretches me to my limits enough that I can forget there’s not a couple hundred grand hanging in the balance.
Anyway, I’m not actually quite sure what I’m doing to her now is mind control, per se. It’s a lot less hypnosis and external stimuli and feels way more on the psychic spectrum to me. Much further down that path than I can usually go. Look- it’s not that I can step into her memories, not that I can read her mind or anything, but I can kind of get the gist of things sometimes. Really, that’s all this is, this power, is the gist of things. Manipulating the base urges, causing confusion, unhooking moments from one another. There’s a lot that the brain can do on its own- probably my painkiller ability is more like a placebo effect than anything.
This feels a little different. Deeper. Like I’m exploring some dark, foggy forest, leaving breadcrumbs at first, then walking the same path until it’s worn down so much that Lorena can follow my footsteps without getting lost. Maybe a scientist would explain it as something about neurons, but I fought Neuron Man and he wasn’t that smart, so your guess is as good as mine.
It’s not perfect, it’s not, especially because my constant access to Lorena is because of and interrupted by the fact that I’m a nursing assistant. There’s not enough of me to keep up with the normal functions of the job, nevermind my pet project. But I keep thinking of the way her wrinkles shift when she smiles, laughing and playing games with her grandkids, pointing to pictures and remembering without getting stuck, and most importantly, being able to follow my path out of the darkest parts of the woods.
Anyways, today is a bad day for her, although I’m doing everything I can between other patients.
“Where’s George?”
“George isn’t coming today,” Terry snaps, dangerously close to insinuating something terrible has happened to her (ten years dead and gone) husband, and I’m dangerously close to making her slap herself in the face.
“Wh... why not? He said he would be here in time for the wedding,” Lorena says, voice trembling.
“Lorena-”
“That’s Miss Lewis to you, young man,” she says, and I try not to flinch. I should have shaved last night. “Where is my fiancee? He said he would be here!”
“Don’t worry, Miss Lewis. He’ll be here soon,” I insist. “He called and said he and Roy are getting the car ready. Anyways, it’s early- you’re not even dressed yet!” She gets stuck on the wedding a lot these days. She’s told me the story, how her husband and his brother went to the dump to get cans to tie to the bumper, but ended up popping a tire on a bunch of old nails. How since it was a barn wedding, and everyone was waiting at Lorena’s sister’s ranch in the first place, they took the horses down Main Street, wedding dress be damned, until they saw the car and picked the boys up. How they all laughed about it for years afterwards. I’m hoping I can get her close to that... closer... just a little farther to the path, and...
“Cut it out,” Terry butts in, looking at her stupid smart watch. “You don’t have time to stand around and chat. Med pass is in two minutes and I’m not doing it again because you got distracted playing with the residents.”
“The resident is distressed,” I say, even though I shouldn’t, “and doesn’t appreciate her wedding planners talking about her like she’s not right here in front of them. I apologize, Miss Lewis. Can I offer you a complimentary pudding cup before we do your makeup?”
Look, I’m not good at sticking to promises, okay? And if Terry covers med pass and doesn’t complain about it, and also doesn’t have to feel her chronic back pain for a half hour while I sit and reassure Lorena, is that such a crime?
“It’s may you,” Lorena says, looking severe.
“Of course. Pardon me. May I offer you a complimentary pudding cup?”
“You may,” she smiles sweetly, forgetting about the whole car thing. Well, I figure I’ll go doll her up anyways. It’s the most fun I ever have at work outside of getting paid.
It does take a lot out of me, managing both Terry and Lorena, it does, but she’s a little more lucid by the end of it and does her own lipstick, grinning at herself in the mirror.
“What am I getting dressed up for?” she asks as we walk back down to the common room.
“Let’s just say you were feeling down and out, so we’re putting on your Sunday clothes.”
“Oh, that was a good one,” Lorena says, “though I always liked her better in Funny Girl.”
“Do we have the DVD? Maybe we could put it in the rotation for movie night.”
Except I don’t get the chance to look in the DVD cabinet.
“Why, look at that young man that’s just come in. Do I know him? Is that Dennis?”
A disturbingly familiar face looks around the room, nearly as bewildered as Mr. Garrison on his bad days.
I pretty much abandon Lorena immediately and run to him.
“What the hell are you doing here, Cliff?” I hiss, grabbing his arm and leading him back down the hallway, out of sight of the nurses’ station where Terry is placidly taking inventory for me.
“Volunteering,” he says, looking at me like I’m the one who’s crazy. “I thought it would be easier to start with you here.”
“You didn’t want to, I don’t know, discuss it with me before you came to my workplace? I mean, our faces are being shown next to each other on the news right now, what if-”
“It’s okay. You... present differently now, and I’ve put on some weight, and anyways, why would anyone suspect we were in a nursing home-”
“Why would anyone suspect-” I look around to make sure there’s no one in earshot. “-fucking Virtue of visiting a nursing home? Hello? You hosted the Puppy Bowl that one year! You’re constantly at- at children’s hospitals, and animal shelters, and-”
“It’s going to be okay.” Cliff peers back out at the common room. “Today is a new day. The anniversary memorial thing is over. Now they’re showing this big semi-truck crash that happened this morning. And you know most people don’t pay much attention to memorials for heroes anyway.”
I want to shake him by the shoulders and scream, You were THE hero, not some random geriatric super from Milwaukee, but instead I narrow my eyes.
“You didn’t go investigate that crash, did you?”
“Osprey already had it. They showed him on there. Good kid.” His lips draw thin as the words leave his mouth, as if to say, for now. Although I don’t see the U.S. government picking Osprey as their figurehead for justice, freedom, and the American way anytime soon. Lame power, socialist political leanings. “Anyway, I don’t think I should be the one under scrutiny for using my powers.”
“It’s not like that,” I try, even though it really is useless to argue my case with Terry still in her trance, probably humming something from Hello Dolly as she does my tasks for me.
“So tell me what it is like,” Cliff says, halfway in his not-mad-but-disappointed voice already.
“First of all, I’ve told you a hundred times, haven’t I? You can constantly hear the ocean. You’ve been able to do that since you were, what, a child? A baby?”
“More or less.”
“Okay, so imagine I tell you to just stop hearing things. Doesn’t work like that, does it?”
“That doesn’t mean I have to act on-”
“I found a cure for dementia.” That shuts him up. “Look, it started off small, like... you know how people use hypnosis to quit smoking? Well, first I did that, because if I can’t turn off my powers I might as well use them for good. Everyone here hates cigs and loves to eat vegetables and take their meds. Great. And then I started noticing patterns. Pain points. Okay, so I can- temporarily- I can make them forget about their pain, quit feeling it as much. And I started to think, what else can I do? What can I fix? How far can I go here?”
Cliff is silent. I can see him fiddling with something in the pocket of his hoodie, thinking so hard I can basically hear the gears turning in his big skull, even without super senses.
“And it’s scary. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I know I could fuck this up, I do! I do, but look, when the grandkids come she knows who they are, she remembers their names, and I can pull her out of the bad memories more often than not, now, and it’s so good for her, it is, she’s almost never scared or lost anymore...”
Just so you know, the last time I pleaded for my life this hard, I was looking at my own organs.
“I... I get it,” Cliff says, with this tenor in his voice that told me exactly how screwed I was, emotional-wise, “but you’re experimenting on this woman who can’t agree to anything.”
“She would agree, if I could tell her what’s happening. Anyone would. I mean, I’m helping-”
“I don’t think you’re doing this to help her.”
“What?”
“You said it. How far can you go? What else can you do? It’s... you’re doing this because you’re bored.”
“So what?” I feel like crying. The ground almost feels unstable under my feet. “I’m bored working a normal job, after years of- of- you know? Wouldn’t you be? Why is it such a crime to be selfish? Why does it matter, if I’m helping someone for once? Why can’t anything I do be good enou-” Oh, fuck.
The ground is unstable.
“Cliff?”
“Shit. This happens all th- I didn’t think this would be a big one,” he protests, his body already shifting into an unmistakably heroic stance. Oh, damn it.
“Go lock all the wheels on the wheelchairs, tell them to get under something or cover their heads,” I yell, ignoring my own advice and beelining straight for the common room right after him.
And I’ve still got it. I don’t have super strength, but I’ve held my own enough against superheroes and villains alike not to be toppled when the floor ripples under my feet.
The thing about earthquakes is that the most intense shockwave is pretty short, all things considered. Maybe a minute or two. But it’s the longest minute of my life, because I’m trying to think about all the variables, trying to calculate who’s missing from my group of seniors.
I give up on making sense of the visual information and stretch my power over everyone. Before I get overwhelmed by the terror, I have to calm them, at least enough so that I can differentiate one person from another, but not so much that they decide to wander around an unstable building. And of course I realize too late I caught Cliff in the wide net I cast. But breaking yet another promise is less important than who I’m missing- I let him go and tumble down the east hall just as the ground starts to shake again.
Lorena is back in her room, huddled underneath the vanity where I just got done making her over, holding something small and metallic in her hands, maybe lipstick, not important. I am wordless as I reassure her.
I am calm and she is calm and we are both feeling so, so zen about being stuck under a tiny table in the middle of an earthquake, until the fucking ceiling caves in and I can’t control the panic seizing through my muscles as I brace for impact.
It doesn’t come.
God damn it, it doesn’t come.
Lorena peers up at Virtue in all his grubby hoodie-sweatpant glory, levitating above the settling ground with a piece of ancient plaster ceiling in his hands like it’s nothing. I help her out from under the slab before Cliff sets it down with an almost comical whoomph.
“I do know you,” Lorena says, beaming up at him. “It’s Crimson-”
Cliff’s eyes meet mine, and I know before the next word leaves her mouth I am going to have to do something terrible.
All that work- and it’s possible I won’t undo it all, it is, but I’ve been playing around with things I don’t understand and if I’m severing connections in her brain I may be sealing off the only path to George, and Jason and Jared, and love, and light, and I may be leaving her alone in that dark fog. I may be undoing the only good thing I’ve ever done, besides rescuing Cliff, and that was on accident.
But our faces are shown on television together. Our city is full of cell phones and desperation and nosy old-timers who might just believe her on a good day, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the horror on Cliff’s face and try to believe he won’t hate me for what I am or what I have been or what I am willing to do to protect our fragile little life together from being snuffed out.
Lorena goes limp in my arms.
It’s what we have to do to live.