Super•Villainous

Act 2: XXI

The IV sticking out of my arm seemed to weigh me down. I felt... heavy in a way difficult to describe, and it greatly reduced my mobility, although I didn't mind that part so much. I had no plans to move in the next five to seven business days, and then maybe a few weeks after that. I was thoroughly drained. Depleted. Used, abused, and ready to plant roots in the ground beneath my feet if it meant no one could drag me elsewhere.

I cocked my head to the side, looking past my dad to narrow my eyes at my step-father, in his scrubs, given he technically was still in the middle of his shift at another hospital. "You know..." I began, "it seems a little, shall I say, heartless, that you would go back to work so soon after your poor step-daughter got kidnapped. Possibly murdered. Potentially tortured and fed alive to sharks. I really think two weeks of mandatory mourning isn't asking for much."

He rolled his eyes, the concern therein promptly evaporating. "If you can complain, you're fine."

I tsked, dripping disappointed condescension. "You didn't know that at the time, did you? I'm just saying, it's suspicious. Did you even wait until I was out of sight before you started breaking out the bottles of champagne? Tell the truth, you were secretly relieved I was gone, right?"

"You. Are. Fine," he repeated, sounding wonderfully exasperated.

I infused deep despair into my responding sigh. "At least someone thinks so."

Adrian lingered by the spot from which he'd entered, like a sentry, or more likely contemplating an escape. "Now that you mention it, I'm starting to miss how quiet things have been these last couple weeks," he mused, his pointed meaning not at all lost on me. "How peaceful, even. I wonder what the common denominator could be... What could possibly be stealing my peace?"

"It was indeed rather peaceful where I've been, too," I said, smiling brightly, before dropping my lips into a scowl, "starving to death."

"You know, I've really missed these little conversations," Adrian said in a way that could have been mistaken for earnest, but I knew to be otherwise. My DNA may have been from my dad, but my personality definitely came as a result of proximity to my step father.

"Keep it down." My dad flipped back the curtain to peer anxiously out into the waiting room.

His unease didn't make sense, until Alexia made a running leap into my bed, cupping her hands to too-loud whisper in my ear, "They're here!"

I pulled back to see her cherubic face, and her evident excitement made me automatically weary. "Who's here?"

"Knock knock," came a light, pleasant voice, and the curtain pulled back to reveal two figures, both men.

Ugh. The amount of testosterone in the small space was enough to smother. I hugged Alexia closer to counteract any lingering effect of the masculine hormone in the air. Peering past them, I noted the sudden absence of patients and staff, evidently clearing out in the short time since Adrian, my dad, and I had been talking.

"Not ominous at all," I murmured, side-eyeing my dad to see what he made of the occurrence, but he schooled his expression into one of polite fatherly concern and went to stand near my pillow, a hand resting casually on my shoulder.

Or rather, that was how it probably appeared to unwitting observers, for there was nothing casual about how his fingers squeezed around the flesh of my collar bone in clear warning, but what was he trying to warn me about?

I turned to the two Supers in our midst, only mildly self conscious about my disheveled state — a rather generous description of my appearance, if you asked me. Nearing three weeks without a bath, no clothing changes, no brush. You do the math.