Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Fifty-Six: Promises

Thirteen years ago...

Behind his back, Fallout slid the key out of the last pocket on his belt. His eyes trailed to the scuffed floor and his thoughts toward an old friend as Owl kissed him. He trailed his fingers across the silverwork. If he tuned out Owl's chatter, he could hear Cecil's breathing.  Soft and regular. The prisoner whistled, through the tune was old and sad, one Fallout couldn't quite place no matter how hard he tried.

"We're going to finish them off," Owl said with a quick, sloppy kiss on the side of his neck. He nodded. Smiled. How like her, to obsess over her work. He wondered if she did anything else. Shop? Play ping-pong? Both seemed unlikely. 

A deck of tarot cards rattled in Fallout's pocket, tucked neatly against the usual Uno deck. In the dark hall, the air thick with antiseptic and thicker still with the stench of stale blood, Owl rolled the sleeves of her greasy shirt to her elbows. Both dark eyes glowed against the shadows, and Fallout nodded for her to leave. She spun on her heel, ruffled his hair in that obnoxious way she had. Fallout licked his fingers and patted every strand back into place, the key still clenched behind him. "Nebula tried to shoot me. Can you imagine? It's been what? Fifty years since we first fought, and she's still trying to shoot me."

"Maybe she just wants her husband back," Fallout offered, rolling the key through his fingers. He knew Nebula as well as Owl did, considering his habit of kidnapping her to get Cecil's attention. She was pretty okay, even for a superhero. They had never been friends—she was too busy reading or etching her Master's thesis into the floor to carry on a conversation. And there's nothing more awkward or humiliating than being ignored by your prisoner. But when she did talk Fallout found himself surprisingly engaged, and he'd sit on the floor waiting hours for Taurus to get off work. She was plucky and smart and loved the heroes as much as her own children. She had a lot of heart to give. Too much to be taken now.

"Well, poor Nebula, then." Owl rolled her eyes. Fallout may have found the hero pretty okay, but any time Fallout had the woman in his control, he had to keep Owl away. They were real arch nemeses, Owl and Nebula, nothing like Fallout and Taurus. Too head-strong. Too leaderly. Too similar.

And all Owl wanted was to watch Nebula burn, even if that meant the other heroes—and the city—had to burn, too.

He forced a weak smile. "Well, go get 'em, tiger." As her footfalls to faded, he tapped the key to his wedding band. The ring glowed gold in the dim light, and the inscription seemed to burn through the very fabric of his glove. The door was gray and stripped of its paint, the brass knob coated in a layer of rust. Behind it, Cecil whistled, now low and tunelessly. Fallout glanced both ways, at the chipped rock poking through the drywall sheets, at the splatters of white paint and the smears of yellow mold. Then, he turned the creaking knob and slipped through, cringing at the squeal of hinges. Cecil whistled again, louder this time. The tune returned and it was sweet, classic somehow, but Fallout still couldn't place it. Not even when Cecil sang the words under his breath. Perhaps it came from the future.

Fallout cocked his head, leaned back against a door. The room was unpleasant enough, exposed stone walls reminding him of a cave. The air smelt strongly of blood to Fallout's sharpened senses, and he had to look twice at how spotless it was. Waxed floors. Bright bars of fluorescent lights shining down with a crisp, artificial glow. A plastic kiddie table sat in the middle of the room between two cracked yellow chairs, and a lonely door stood in the corner for a crude bathroom. But this was a usual sight for Fallout, and he'd gone to see Cecil, the man chained to the wall.

"Hey," he said with a quick wave, a quicker smile that left the edges of his lips hurting. "How are you doing, buddy?"

The words faded from the man's lips when Fallout looked at him. He replaced them with a solemn smile that didn't look like it belonged there. Cecil Brooks—Taurus, as the alter ego went—was a solid man, muscular and well built. Handsome, Fallout thought, the features on his face hard, a rough stubble growing in on his exposed jawline. Dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked. He was a hero's hero, American as apple pie. Known to stop runaway trains with a single shove and hold up falling buildings one-handed, all between offering kids life lessons. 'Taurus', the zodiac with the bull sign, was more than an appropriate name for him.