He stilled down to the smallest joint in his littlest finger, unmoving until my serious expression cracked.
"Sorry." I laughed, repeating, "Sorry, that was mean. It was funnier in my head."
His eyes crinkled with mild amusement, not exactly at what I'd said, nor the obvious lack of tact, but more charmed by my own awkward laugh.
"You figured it out alright on your own, and it's not as though there is no truth in the sentiment," he admitted, shrugging in that understated way of his. "Curious that the worst thing to happen to you is the best thing to happen to me. Still, I wish I hadn't put you through so much. I wish there had been a better way."
Pushing myself to my feet, I circled around where our map-in-progress lay spread out on the floor, stopping when I stood behind him, my hand falling to rest on the back of his wood chair. "All's well that ends well?" I suggested, ignoring the glaring fact that not everything had ended yet, and things still had every opportunity to end poorly.
I hadn't meant for a kiss to happen, initially only intending to wrap my arms loosely around his neck in a show of comfort, but by then we were so close, and he angled his head just so, gazing at me like I lit the stars in the sky.
It was easy to fall into him. For him. With him.
I didn't fear the fall. It was exhilarating, a feeling I never came close to encountering before. The fall couldn't kill me.
The end might, however.
*~*~*~*~*~*
I thought over our conversation for several days while we finalized our plans.
Possibly as a consequence for the damage he'd already caused, Atticus hoped to keep casualties to a minimum. Thrust the Constable from power and then run off on our merry way into supervillain retirement, never to be seen again.
At the churning, bitter rage boiling beneath my skin whenever I thought of the Guild getting off so easily, I discovered that I had a hunger he lacked. Only complete ruination, a tearing out of the toxic foundations the Guild was built upon, could sate me. The guilt of their crimes spread further than simply the Guildmasters. All the Supers had to know, to some extent, the shadier dealings going on. If they abandoned Nightshade and locked up my grandfather, surely it also happened to others, lost to record.
In vain, we tried to work through whatever block Atticus had that prevented him from using all his gained powers whenever he pleased. He described the situation like a series of locked doors sealing his powers out of reach on the other side. Everytime he used his powers, he had to jiggle each door knob until one turned at random.
When I pointed out that doors could be broken down, he didn't seem to find my input exceedingly helpful and the matter got dropped.
Atticus snuck out for a few hours each night to gather supplies and intel, on the easier days with the added ease of mobility from his ability to move with and blend into the shadows. Despite my entreaties for him to skip when he only had ice or telekinesis to fall back on, he went anyway. He wanted to feel productive. Useful. I did, too, although we both agreed I, in particular, couldn't risk being caught out in public. Hostages were, generally speaking, not allowed to go on casual strolls through the neighborhood. Should I be caught, awkward questions would ensue.
As October passed into late November, my melancholy sunk its claws deeper, driven by the guilt of missing my dad's birthday. We weren't the sort to place heavy emphasis on birthdays, yet it still stung, knowing he had no idea if I was safe, and that to tell him risked everything.
Atticus and I debated the best time and place to surge on the Constable. We quickly ruled out ambushing him while he slept, because, although Atticus had managed to sneak in and out of the Guildhall once before, to do so again was made far more difficult in light of the fact that they now knew Shade had made it past their many security measures intended to keep him away. They had undoubtedly ramped up security since then.
On the other hand, waiting for the Constable to stumble into our laps left too many things up to chance, if it ever happened at all, so we settled on holding out for his next major public appearance during an ego-patting award ceremony for services rendered nearing the Christmas holiday. While I didn't enjoy having to live in limbo for weeks on end, waiting for the fateful day to arrive, I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little relieved by the delay.
Due to the unpredictable nature of Atticus's powers, we crafted up three different scenarios for how we'd get our hands on the Constable. In a perfect world, Atticus would have his shadows, and be able to slip in and out after doing the deed without undo danger. Things would be far more tricky should the ice or telekinesis be present instead, so we stole blueprints for the building and planned for every contingency.
That wasn't the only reason for my relief, however. It was Atticus himself. He practically glowed with wellness, each day healthier than the last as he healed himself against the havoc his foreign abilities wreaked on his tired body. I didn't tell him, aware my concern only fell upon deaf ears, but I earnestly wanted him fully recovered before we made our move. The longer we waited, the better off he would be.
Sitting alone with my knees up to my chest after a month of cohabitation, back pressed against the chill wall, on the single mattress Atticus had managed to steal a few days prior, I apprehensively watched the rising dawn light reaching through the window, stretching golden tendrils to distant points of the room. By noon, exhaustion compressed my brain and my eyes watered and stung when I closed them. By the next nightfall, I knew.
Atticus wasn't coming back.
YOU ARE READING
Super•Villainous
Fantasy"I've been looking for you." There was an unexpected rasp to his voice, a hint of desperation. He stretched out one hand, as if to brush it across my cheek, or perhaps wrap it around my throat. Oddly enough, I didn't know which option frightened me...
