The day after I escaped from The Freaky Kidnapping Facility, I had a calm, civilised talk with the college admin about security. I impressed upon them the importance of having security procedures that don’t let sock-wielding kidnappers drive into the campus, pick people up, and roll out like nothing ever happened.
I only screamed a little bit. I only kicked a potted plant once. I’ll admit that half the screaming I did was a direct consequence of having kicked a potted plant, but I never claimed I made the best decisions. What matters is that after my terrifying-yet-unbearably-cute rantings, they increased security. Which is to say, they implemented security. Being scaredorable works! Never again would travel-sized students have to worry about involuntary shipping and handling!
After half a day spent watching over my shoulder, eyeing the knives in the cafeteria warily, and giggling senselessly at the mere mention of mitochondria, a representative from student affairs told me to take the rest of the day off. I was disappointed yet resigned. Just because I could heal (and get off on) a stab wound didn’t mean I wasn’t traumatised.
After I was safely ensconced in my dorm-room, I pulled out my phone. I’d never been the most social person, so my contacts broke down neatly into four categories: Important authority figures – from college admin to the police – that I’d already screamed at as much as I cared to; my parents, who would learn of my kidnapping over my dead body
(they really would: I had set up a system to notify them should I become unresponsive); my study group, who would either be in class or, y’know, studying; and pants-less fire goddesses I’d promised to call. It wasn’t that hard to figure out who I could commiserate with at the moment.
“Hi!” I said, trying not to sound traumatised. “This is that girl from last night.”
“Hi!” A warm and familiar voice replied. “If it were any other ‘girl from last night’ calling and sounding this traumatised, I’d probably feel like a terrible person. As it stands, your response is pretty normal.”
“Uh, OK, I think.” I replied, eloquently. “Thanks, um, I actually don’t think I got your name -”
“Emma.”
“Thanks. I’m Clare. You sound… Really normal. Like, given the whole… Everything. The whole everything. Shit. I’m bad at words. But I’m sure you noticed that. I didn’t need to say it. Shit again.”
There was soft laughter on the other end. However, it didn’t sound like someone laughing softly, but someone holding the phone away to laugh loudly.
“Sorry,” Emma said when the laughter had died down. “I’m really sorry. I’m just kind of giddy. Like, I’ve been in bad situations before, but I kind of expected to die. I’ve never had to deal with people with that much resources. Usually a couple muggers or burglars – rarely organised crime, and never this.”
I was really sorry to here that Emma lived in such a bad neighbourhood that they were constantly dealing with criminals. It made me feel lucky to live in a place so safe that, until today, there was no campus security. Although, seriously: what was up with the whole no security thing? That didn’t feel right.
Wait a second. Emma was waiting for a response. I’d zoned out mid-conversation. Crap. What was I supposed to do at this point? Make sympathy noises? Which ones? Why didn’t human interaction come with a manual? Or even just a regular text book. I could probably do a better job cheering up some Gram-negative bacteria than anything this macro. I just said the first thing that came to mind.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must live in a pretty rotten neighbourhood.” Yes, I insulted her home. Smoooooth, Clare. You must be a real hit with the flame-ladies.
“Oh, no.” Emma assured me. “It’s pretty nice here. Workload’s pretty low. In fact, if I want to do the most good, I should probably move downtown. That’s where the real bad guys are.”
Do the most good? What? Was she a social worker? That might explain why she could stay so positive-sounding in the face of all this craziness. I’d never imagined Gram-positive bacteria trying to cheer me up.
“I’m sure the people you work with really appreciate how altruistic you are,” I told her. Honesty probably works as an OK sympathy-signal. Or not. I’d know if anyone had been so kind as to give me a manual. I couldn’t even tell if this was an appropriate time to ask her out. Despite my best efforts, I’d been unable to locate a copy of The Gay Agenda, either.
“I actually work alone.” She informed me. “It’s not like there are enough criminals to justify two idiots in tights chasing after them.”
…Was this a euphemism? I could sort of see the stuff about tights and chasing, but where do the criminals come in? I’d only learned the meaning of “booty-pirate” last week, and I didn’t think it was relevant here. But what did I know, really? I probably missed an entire lexicon by avoiding all humans during high school. This could be the most transparent thing in the world to everyone else.
Sigh. I guess I would have to suck it up and admit that I was confused.
“Um, I’m sorry, Emma, but I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”
“I mean I’m a solo crime-fighter, of course. I’m not a part of any superhero teams. I’m a lone wolf. I know; shocking, right? I guess that means you roll with a pack, right?”
…………
“You’re a superhero!?”
“You’re not!?”
“No! Definitely not! I only learned I had powers yesterday! I learned them as a result of getting stabbed by a torturer! This is a thing!?”
“Oh my God, I totally need to get you up to speed. There’s so much to teach you! Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon. Know anywhere good near you?”
“There’s a coffee shop on campus, and I can be there at 5:30.”
“Great! Don’t worry about directions – I’ll just use my ~super powers~. See you then!”
Wow. So…. Wow. The third most surprising thing to happen in my life: superheros exist.
The second, of course, was the whole torture/kidnapping debacle. I still needed to sort out my shit after that.
However, they both failed to compare to the Most Astonishing Thing Ever:
Holy shit I’m going on a date tomorrow!!!
(Major thanks to ilzolende for editing and good suggestions.)
Wait wait wait… I need to find part 1.
Part 1 is ‘Didn’t Want To Move Because Wet Chocolate Mousse’. You can find it by following the tag ‘flame girl deserves a phone call’, which I’m using to organise the story.
(Part one was initially just some random dream so, while part one is definitely cannon for all subsequent parts, the reverse is not necessarily true.)
Tags:
#storytime #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #reblogging the version with context included
Brinens and Things 