xp_logs | Five Against One: Dissolution

Haller tries for a night out, and Betsy and Wanda find theirs abruptly cut short. WARNING: Graphic depiction of mental illness.

Had he remembered to pay the check?

No. He had not needed to pay the check. It had been a long time. Dinner had been paid for him.

I don't belong here.

The buildings around him meant nothing anymore. He had moved away from downtown because their windows had been too clean. He did not like clean windows. They reflected too much, and so it had seemed a natural choice to move away from them. It was better in the outskirts. He liked the darker streets and stores that covered their windows with multi-colored ads for bands and self-advertised services that no one ever removed, only taped over. Jim liked New York because nobody ever stopped to ask you what was wrong.

Where was his car?

He had been walking for a long time. There was no car here. The car was with the valet at the restaurant which he had forgotten the name of.

Let me go.

His hand scraped something. Brick. Jim looked up. An alley, and that would be good. It was private. There was a dumpster. There was a back entrance to something. He couldn't sit on the ground. The ground was dirty and wet. Maybe it had rained. Jim let his hand take the railing and lowered himself onto the white concrete steps, laying his cheek against the railing and breathed in the smell of metal.

What was he doing here?

He reminded himself, again, that he had been at dinner, and the check had been paid for him. Because she was his

No she wasn't.

If he called Charles, he reasoned, he wouldn't have to find the car. But then by the same token he would also have to call Charles. He would have to explain. And he did not want to explain, because he was sore, his body ached, and even though it was getting warmer he still had to wear long sleeves. If he didn't wear long sleeves people would see the bandages, and he didn't want to scare anyone, particularly the students. Because it was important to have faith in your authority figures. And so, like he had to wear long sleeves, he could not call Charles because talking to Charles would make it worse. If he were a woman he could have worn a veil and been eccentric. But Jim was a man, so he would just be crazy. He would rest, because he had walked such a long way, and then he would get up and find his car.

Around the metal-smell Jim thought there must have been sour milk in the dumpster.

They had sat across from a mirror at that restaurant which he had forgotten the name of, and she had asked how he was doing. She had been so concerned. She would have been concerned because it had been a long time since they'd talked. Because she. Because she. She was. She was his. She was not his not his

Let me out of here.

Stop it

Let me

Stopit

Let me LET ME

You want to go?

Then

GET

OUT

White pain -- steel door and steel railing warping -- cracks shooting through the grey concrete beneath him with a sound like a gunshot -- and Jim tore--

And the alley which had one held five.

One body lay on the stairs. One body lay across the alley. And in the space between them both, three bodies lay positioned in a loose triangle.

The biggest of them rose first. Disoriented, the movement wasn't as fluid as it could have been, but he came to balance again quickly. He was tan and dark, but the threadbare white t-shirt set him off from the gloom. The smaller figure half-curled by his side didn't even try to move, only blinked in confusion at his surroundings. The girl just next to his red sneakers heaved herself into a sitting position. She stretched out her hands and waved them around, evoking a cacophonous jangle of noise from the mass of silver bracelets. The big man was the first to gain his feet, but she was the first to speak. She said:

". . . what the hell."

From his spot against the far wall the man with dusty skin struggled to his knees. His movements weren't like the others'. They were jerky and disconnected, like someone waking up from a night of bad sleep. His eyes fell to the hands braced on the pavement and widened, brown irises left stranded in a sea of white.

"How--"

Captivated by the unreality of his own existence, he didn't register the pound of the feet crossing the alley until one caught him in the gut.

"Animal," Jack snarled as the small man slammed into the wall gasping. His leg drew back for another kick.

And this, finally, roused the fifth figure on the broken steps. The only person that was still David Haller half-drew himself up by the warped railing and screamed, "Jemail!"

David was too weak to move, but Cyndi was on her feet in a heartbeat. She lunged for the big man, seizing his arm, and was almost yanked off her feet by an answering yank that was the total content of strength in her body multiplied by fifty. Digging her heels in, the tiny girl threw her weight back. "Jack! Dude!"

The older man snarled. Their hair and clothes rippled with gathering force, and Cyndi knew there was no way she was going to be able to hold him back alone -- and then she wasn't.

Small arms grabbed Jack by the waist and a much younger voice cried, "Don't!"

Jack tried to spin, but he was hampered by the boy and girl hanging from him. Even in his rage he knew them. It was enough to give him pause.

"Get off, Davey," Jack hissed.

The boy's skinny arms only tightened. "Or you're gonna do what, Jack? Hurt us?" Davey's cheek was mashed against the small of Jack's back, and his defiant voice took on the bite of accusation. "More?"

Jack's muscles, tensed for fight, now assumed a different sort of rigidity: guilt.

"You know I never did mean that."

"Yeah. But you did it."

"Yeah," Cyndi said, voice flat and hands still locked on Jack's arm, "to both of us. A lot. We are owed, man."

Grey eyes locked on the boy still gasping against the dirty wall, and silence stretched.

Jack's muscles loosened. Davey, sensing the change, let go of his waist. Cyndi was longer in letting go. Her trust in Jack's mercy was far lower than Davey's.

"Fine." The word was tight, but the telekinetic turned away from the prone boy to face Cyndi. He flicked his head towards the little boy standing a few feet away. "Split. I'll take him."

Cyndi's jaw dropped.

"Dude, excuse me. Let's look at the summary here." The girl's arms flew out to encompass the universe at large, and especially whatever part of it had somehow enabled those arms to exist. She punctuated each word with the jab of a hand at each offense to reality: "This! Is! Not! Right! Oh, and I repeat, WHAT THE HELL?"

The big man looked at her with that dangerous levelness. The kind that meant logic had been followed but the destination had been nowhere good. "How long do you think we get before the Gimp Squad arrives to collect?"

Cyndi's hand slapped against her forehead. "Dude, we are so long past the set of the last big Bruckheimer movie. Chuck and I squared this months ago. He's gonna let me be so I don't care. You're the one who keeps pitching shit just to move your arm! Do you even know why anymore?"

There was no response from Jack but the twitch of muscle in his cheek. The pyrokinetic snorted. "Yeah, thought so. Just take your little persecution complex of yours to the Caribbean and have yourself a nice private ceremony. I ain't into threesomes."

"You're in the middle of New York City in a body of your own for the first time in your life." His voice was level now. "You want to hang around and wait for the roundup, hey, your life." He dusted off his jeans and turned from her, the dismissal clear. "For now."

Ignoring the groans of the dark-skinned boy on the ground or the shallow, stricken breathing of David as he lay on the steps, Jack knelt to extend one hand to Davey. "Come on, kiddo."

Davey hesitated for a moment before reciprocating the gesture, clearly harboring reservations. Jack smiled as the small hand grasped his, then spun the boy around and drew him in so suddenly it evoked a yelp. Hands securely gripped around Davey's waist, Jack ducked low to put his head and neck through the boy's legs. Davey's panicked flail turned into a squeal of delight as the big man rose effortlessly, child balanced on his shoulders and sneakered feet hooked across his chest at the ankle. Man and boy turned to Cyndi.

"Do what you want," Jack said, hands stabilizing either side of Davey's thighs as the boy rested his hands on the top of his head for stability. "We're gone."

Jack strode away without a backward glance.

Now it was Cyndi's turn to hesitate. Jemail was starting to move, but David was barely showing signs of life. It was as if all the energy left in him had been poured into that single scream. Now he just lay on the broken steps, panting and clammy-skinned, with nothing to add to the situation but a blank stare.

She should stay with them, make sure they were all right, but Jack had known just what button to push for someone whose entire life was about opportunity. Was she ever going to get a chance like this again?

Goddammit, Jack.

Piercings moved as her face twisted in a grimace. She spared a moment to look at the two prone men. "Sorry, guys," Cyndi called over her shoulder, and pelted off towards the street.

Now there were only two. Wall. Wall could be used as a support. Jemail pressed his dirt-smeared hands against it and forced his knees to lift him. He rose too slow, yet his body felt too light. As if muscles had been excised.

"David?" he called, and swallowed a wave of nausea at the alienness of his own voice. His eyes focused on the figure sprawled across the steps, and suddenly all disorientation was gone. "David!"

Pain forgotten, Jemail scrambled to his friend. Two fingers slipped under David's chin to seek a pulse -- pointless, he knew, but the only thing Jemail could think to do. David looked up at him, blue eyes barely registering, and only found two words.

"You're out."

Jemail made abortive moves to take David's arms. He saw immediately it was useless. The other man was tall, far too tall, and all but dead weight. He could never carry him on his own.

"It'll be okay." Keep his voice level so he didn't scream. David was starting to drift. Jemail's tone pitched more urgent, trying to keep his attention. "We'll get help. David, we'll get help."

David had closed his eyes, and now they wouldn't open. Jemail didn't bother shaking him; he could feel the young man's mind, thin and flat, and could feel it slipping back. It was shock. It was just shock. He couldn't panic now. David needed help. And the minute he stopped thinking about that the minute he began to wonder about how the impossible had become anything but.

Jemail reached out, but it wasn't to Charles. A closer mind. A less complicated relationship. His mind was split like an open wound, but there was no choice. He crawled through the tangle of the astral plane until the tips of his fingers finally brushed amethyst.

#Betsy--#

* * *

The bar was fairly packed but not to the point where the ladies were not able to grab a table. It was open late and the crowd typically would pick up in about an hour or so. They were simply, Wanda mused, getting a head start. "Thank God for Saturday nights," she sighed, happily, as she took another sip of her drink.

"Why does it feel like it's been ages since I've had one off," Betsy said as she swirled the contents in the glass, watching the liquid churn. "Seriously, the last time I think I've been out was your birthday and that is not natural."

"Does there need to be an intervention?" Wanda was only partially joking. "Look at who we are...we should be giving our younger coworkers a run for their money socially speaking. But we've let them run circles around us." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It makes me feel old. And thus, an intervention in the prevention of feeling old."

Betsy pulled back from her reverie and stared at Wanda. "Oh my god, I can't believe that actually made sense." She tipped her glass in her compatriot's direction. "To not admitting our age, our bust size, and all the mysteries that women of our caliber hold dear."

"Amen to that," she agreed, lifting her drink in a salute before finishing it off. The waitress must have been blessed with fantastic timing as she walked by to drop off another pint. "Brilliant, thanks." Turning back to Betsy, she grinned. "We need to make this a regular thing, if our busy lives will allow. And for all there's a push for results, there's an equal push for giving us downtime. I could wind up spoiled."

"When have you ever known me to turn down an opportunity to socialize with my fellows?" Betsy said haughtily. "Or to drink? So, what have you - a Wednesday affair of sorts? And it is what with you Americans and calling this adequately named Day of Woe into Hump Day? I have yet to see any humps, ditches or any other road incursion."

"Did you just call me an American?" Wanda asked, eyes wide, before grinning broadly. "How much have you had to drink? Unless...oh my God, I have been here a while if you've think I've gone native. But I agree with you on the absurdity of the name. It makes me think such dirty thoughts. Not that I need much of an excuse."

"Wait, wait. You're not?" Betsy replied, confused. "Shit, that makes much more sense now! Please, don't you ever concern yourself with how much I've had to drink, m'dear. It's a losing battle and definitely none of your concern." Betsy laughed. "To the poor souls that have to hump their way to salvation."

"The accent did not give it away?" There was going to be lots of good natured teasing. And drinking, lots of drinking. "And I do not delve into the drinking habits of others...there is always the greater than chance of someone delving right back. There is not man or God that needs to know that answer."

"Oddly, no," Betsy commented unperturbed, smiling at the waitress that handed her a beer this time. She winked at Wanda and then took a generous sip, placing the glass back down and wearing a foam mustache. "Oh, that's good stuff!"

Wanda gazed at her utterly calmly...for all of two seconds before she cracked up. "I'm sorry, I just..." There was calm again as long as she wasn't looking at Betsy but the second she did, she dissolved into slightly alcoholic giggling.

Betsy furrowed her eyebrows. "What? What is there something on my face?" She wiped at her mouth and playfully smacked Wanda on the shoulder. "Oh, you're a good friend," the telepath said sarcastically. "It's a right wonder I let you buy pay for our next round. It's a real hardship."

"The hysterical laughter tipped you off, didn't it?" Wanda asked as she pretended to sulk and rub her arm. "Oh yes, terrible hardship. How do you survive like that with me buying rounds for you? Shame. What is this world coming to?"

Betsy froze, her smile quickly fading from her face. Her eyes were slightly unfocused and her head tilted as if she were listening in on another conversation. "A terrible place," Betsy murmured. "Oh God."

"Betsy? What is it, what's wrong?" With the drinks moved safely to the other side of the table, Wanda reached over and grabbed Betsy's hand with her own.

"We have to go." The telepath rose quickly and grabbed her jacket. "There's something wrong with... We have to go...Now." She gave Wanda a frightened look before quickly heading towards the bar entrance.

Quickly, she fished out the money for their bill and tossed the bills onto the table, not caring about change. Jacket firmly in hand, she quickly followed her friend through the bar. Even without knowing what was going on, the adrenaline and worry that spiked through were already chasing the drinks out of her system. It left her with a starting headache and a bitter taste in her mouth...

And fear in her stomach. Because Betsy didn't scare easily and if she was frightened...something had gone horribly wrong.