Of Phantasm and Fury

Making the Mundane Beautiful

21 Making the Mundane Beautiful

"...All that's been is over..." -E.H. Hanson

Flashback

Tight mahogany braids.

Tight, stock-still, stubborn braids.

Those woven tresses were the first recollection he had of what he believed would be his adversary.

Despite, or in spite of, matching his height to the millimeter, she was the most frustrating student he'd ever had. Entering swiftly, heather gray laced tank and dark shorts, her figure was one among a sea of young, up-and-coming urbanite professionals. They were all the same, after awhile.

Tall. Hourglass-shaped. Curvaceous somewhat. Smart. Wealthy, or soon to be. Didn't matter how—not to mention an expert in something strangely specific, like subterranean microbiology, in the case of this particular female. Practically chomping at the bit, she was. A veritable thorn in his side, this particular part of the day, as she made misstep after misstep, stomping on his toes at one point, claiming it was an accident, as her neck craned elsewhere, as if on lookout for an accomplice.

But, from his own behavioral surveillance training in the armed forces, he understood something was afoot; she readied her stance, restlessly shifting her weight, one foot to the other, with piercingly shadowed eyes as though she had seen things that could make a grown man cry.

He stopped in his tracks. Who was this woman?

"C-can we try sparring?" Her voice rang out as he tilted his head, puzzled. This wasn't a normal beginner's request. This seemed...dangerous? He wasn't sure. A terrible idea? Maybe. Weird? Definitely.

Still, sighing headlong, he knew who his benefactors were—Julian included, as SafeSpace founder. Far be it for him to antagonize, to bite the hand that kept the lights on for him and his colleagues. "You sure?"

"Positive!" Come at me, she seemed to say, as he detected an air of nervousness...trickery...deceit? So on he went, with little choice in the matter. 'You've got this, J,' he muttered to himself—jab-jab-throw—jab—jab—

"Over there!" she cried as he looked past her shoulder to a pale-faced man. Who was that? And less than a minute later, found himself reeling from a swift-hooked punch to the nose. The hell?

This woman was officially the bane of his SafeSpace existence.

Grumbling, he determined as much, observing in the limited time her propensity for dishonesty and inability to adhere to logical direction. Jealousy, too, judging by the elongated glances she threw upon the man whose hands had been splayed, however brief, upon the polished glass floor-to-ceiling window.

Clearly, this was a lover's spat, and she was here to make him jealous. To realize all he missed out upon. Of course, he, Jordan Chase, wasn't without agency himself; he wasn't anybody's pawn, least of all hers, and he wasn't about to get in the middle of this lover's spat. Not if he could help it.

"This lesson is over."

Side Tunnel, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

Massaging his jaw, he thought back to the first time he met Macy. Memorable? Yes—for all the wrong reasons. He could still feel twinges up his cheekbone—the malar bone, whenever he overexerted himself during training sessions. He didn't deserve that side-hook, and she knew it.

Jordan, on principle, never believed in second chances. Once a person showed you who they were, believe them. Or so the saying went. Typically with his long memory, he would have had nothing to do with such a person—an unfair puncher—were it not for the poltergeist Swan incident, and his own cursed self gaining a new lease on life.