Post by skybright on Mar 7, 2006 22:13:55 GMT -5
Action movies have exaggerated the phenomenon some, but there really are sections of New York where you can leap from one rooftop to another with relative ease. And in one such section – a neighborhood of older but well-kempt brownstones – Regina Dawson was doing just that.
She supposed it was a little more dramatic that strictly necessary; but it was thrilling, and good exercise, and it certainly had the air of something a private detective should do at least once in a while.
Particularly if that private detective had a tail to aid her sense of balance and an uncanny knack for landing on her feet.
Daws counted rooftops as she worked her way down the block of buildings; on the ninth rooftop she swung over the edge of the building and clambered down onto the fire escape.
It was nearly ten-thirty; most of the windows in this building of families with small children were already darkened for the night. But light still shone from a bank of windows on the seventh floor; and Daws snuck quietly down to that level, settling on the edge of the fire escape and peering cautiously into one of those windows. The curtains were drawn, all but obscuring the room inside; but after a careful shift in position, Daws was able to see in.
The dark-haired little girl sitting on the floor by the couch had grown considerably taller since Daws had been here last; she looked to be four or five now, long-limbed and slender. She was clad in bright-pink flannel pajamas and clutched a large stuffed rabbit with sleepy ferocity. Her dark curly head leaned back drowsily against the legs of the man seated on the couch. He, too, was dark-haired and slender; he was looking over round wire-rimmed glasses at a large book that he held opened in his lap – reading aloud to the little girl at his feet.
But it was the woman who sat next to him that drew Daws’ attention. She had coppery red curls and finely-shaped features; hers was the kind of face that would age gracefully for a century, if need be. The only thing marring the woman’s appearance was the line of four jagged diagonal scars that cut across the right side of her face from temple to chin. Daws winced at the sight of the scars and unconsciously flexed the claws of her left hand.
The woman shifted and touched her husband’s shoulder, murmuring something that caused him to nod and close the book. The woman stood, crouched down and held out her arms to her daughter, and then carried the girl unresistingly into another part of the apartment. Her husband followed suit, leaving Daws looking in on the empty room. Almost without thinking, Daws reached out and lightly touched the window glass.
Laura.
Her stepsister was four years Daws’ senior; and in that long-ago moment when Daws had manifested her mutation, Laura’s life had been changed forever as well.
They’d been arguing; over what, Daws no longer even remembered. Their fights had always been mostly trivial ones; shouting matches that escalated into brief blows, then lapsed into sullen silences and grudging apologies. But this fight had been different – irrevocably different.
Daws could still vividly remember the rush of unfamiliar agony that had raced down her arm, spreading through her shoulder to her spine. But the pain had started in her fingertips; it had started in the very moment she’d drawn back her arm to slap Laura’s face, something she’d done countless times before.
This time, in the moment it took her hand to complete its arc, short, black, razor-sharp claws had burst out of her fingers.
She’d laid Laura’s face open almost to the bone.
There’d been a moment, a frozen moment that Daws had never forgotten, when they had both merely stood there staring at the aberration that her hand had suddenly become. Then the pain and terror had flooded into her, and Laura had started screaming – really screaming – and Daws, hearing her stepmother’s feet on the stairs, had done the only thing she could think to do.
She’d turned and bolted from the house; her mind numb with panic and confusion, her body already wracked with the pain that would turn her overnight from what she’d been to what she now was. She’d run to Central Park, to the streets, and, eventually, to Jack Knight and Grimalkin, Inc. and the life she led now.
It had been fifteen years.
She had never, even for a moment, gone back to that house.
By the time she’d run across Laura’s name – on the wedding-announcement page she was scanning in hopes of catching a bigamist husband for one of her clients – ten years had gone by. She’d stared at the newspaper photograph in shock, examining the scars that were visible even in the grainy shot. Then she had done what came naturally to her – she’d snooped around and dredged up Laura’s new address.
Over the past five years, Laura had settled in with her new husband (Dave) and had given birth to the dark-haired little girl (Anna). Daws had ‘visited’ perhaps eight times – always at night, always quietly lurking on the fire escape.
Always searching for and failing to find the courage to actually knock on the apartment door.
Daws’ stepmother, Glynnis, had been abusive and a drinker; she’d never completely approved of either of the girls, though Daws had borne the brunt of her displeasure. Glynnis had held Laura up as everything Daws (Reggie, she’d been then – a nickname she still wouldn’t tolerate) was not. Laura was pretty and vivacious and popular; Laura was a cheerleader. Laura (according to Glynnis) at least had her looks going for her. In a moment of anger and confusion and change, Daws had stripped Laura of all of that.
The two girls, despite their arguments, had not been enemies – nor, exactly, had they been friends. They had been sisters, with all the complexities and strifes that entailed. But then Daws had taken everything that shielded her sister from their mother (including herself) – and run away. She couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about.
Where were the words to apologize for that? In five years of perching on this fire escape, Daws had yet to find them.
True, Laura seemed happy; she seemed to have taken the events of that long-ago night in stride, or to have come to terms with them. She was not the bitter, lonely wreck Daws had once dreaded her becoming.
But how would she react if suddenly a woman who bore no resemblance to her vanished thirteen-year-old stepsister appeared on the doorstep? Would she scream, as she had so long ago? Would she call the police or (what was somehow worse in Daws’ mind) would she call Glynnis? Would she somehow, impossibly, recognize Daws at first glance and step back to invite her in?
Daws didn’t know. In fifteen years of detecting, it was the one mystery she had not yet found the courage to investigate.
And yet . . . Daws sighed. And yet she still wished that she could muster the courage to speak to her long-lost sister. Even if the conversation was brief; even if she found nothing to say but that she was sorry, and that she hoped Laura had found the same measure of happiness she had. Daws wondered what Laura would say if she knew that her kid sister had become a real-life private eye, like the characters in the novels she’d devoured as a kid. More to the point, she wondered what Laura would say to a kid sister who’d become an anthropomorphic feline private eye.
Laura and her husband re-entered the living room, and Daws drew back quickly from the window as they sat down once again on the sofa.
Daws had never found the courage to knock on their door. She had a good reason not to do so now; her involvement with Tiernan Enterprises and the fledgling group dedicated to fighting it meant that her somewhat-perilous lifestyle had suddenly grown much more perilous. And if Nicholas Tiernan, whose vitriol against mundane humans was obvious, were somehow to connect this small human family to Daws . . . . She shuddered at all the images that train of thought entailed.
So tonight, as always, she clambered back up the fire escape to the rooftop and stood there, looking up at the half-moon that fought its battle against the city’s light pollution and smog.
Maybe someday she’d find the words, and the courage. Maybe once she’d made sure that Tiernan was no longer in a position to hurt people like her sister’s family. For now, they were part of why she was fighting him.
Maybe someday she’d be able to tell them that.
For now, though, it was far too late for an obvious mutant to be wandering around in an all-human neighborhood. Daws drew up the collar of her trenchcoat, pulled her fedora firmly down on her head, and leapt in one fluid arc to the roof of the brownstone next door.
She supposed it was a little more dramatic that strictly necessary; but it was thrilling, and good exercise, and it certainly had the air of something a private detective should do at least once in a while.
Particularly if that private detective had a tail to aid her sense of balance and an uncanny knack for landing on her feet.
Daws counted rooftops as she worked her way down the block of buildings; on the ninth rooftop she swung over the edge of the building and clambered down onto the fire escape.
It was nearly ten-thirty; most of the windows in this building of families with small children were already darkened for the night. But light still shone from a bank of windows on the seventh floor; and Daws snuck quietly down to that level, settling on the edge of the fire escape and peering cautiously into one of those windows. The curtains were drawn, all but obscuring the room inside; but after a careful shift in position, Daws was able to see in.
The dark-haired little girl sitting on the floor by the couch had grown considerably taller since Daws had been here last; she looked to be four or five now, long-limbed and slender. She was clad in bright-pink flannel pajamas and clutched a large stuffed rabbit with sleepy ferocity. Her dark curly head leaned back drowsily against the legs of the man seated on the couch. He, too, was dark-haired and slender; he was looking over round wire-rimmed glasses at a large book that he held opened in his lap – reading aloud to the little girl at his feet.
But it was the woman who sat next to him that drew Daws’ attention. She had coppery red curls and finely-shaped features; hers was the kind of face that would age gracefully for a century, if need be. The only thing marring the woman’s appearance was the line of four jagged diagonal scars that cut across the right side of her face from temple to chin. Daws winced at the sight of the scars and unconsciously flexed the claws of her left hand.
The woman shifted and touched her husband’s shoulder, murmuring something that caused him to nod and close the book. The woman stood, crouched down and held out her arms to her daughter, and then carried the girl unresistingly into another part of the apartment. Her husband followed suit, leaving Daws looking in on the empty room. Almost without thinking, Daws reached out and lightly touched the window glass.
Laura.
Her stepsister was four years Daws’ senior; and in that long-ago moment when Daws had manifested her mutation, Laura’s life had been changed forever as well.
They’d been arguing; over what, Daws no longer even remembered. Their fights had always been mostly trivial ones; shouting matches that escalated into brief blows, then lapsed into sullen silences and grudging apologies. But this fight had been different – irrevocably different.
Daws could still vividly remember the rush of unfamiliar agony that had raced down her arm, spreading through her shoulder to her spine. But the pain had started in her fingertips; it had started in the very moment she’d drawn back her arm to slap Laura’s face, something she’d done countless times before.
This time, in the moment it took her hand to complete its arc, short, black, razor-sharp claws had burst out of her fingers.
She’d laid Laura’s face open almost to the bone.
There’d been a moment, a frozen moment that Daws had never forgotten, when they had both merely stood there staring at the aberration that her hand had suddenly become. Then the pain and terror had flooded into her, and Laura had started screaming – really screaming – and Daws, hearing her stepmother’s feet on the stairs, had done the only thing she could think to do.
She’d turned and bolted from the house; her mind numb with panic and confusion, her body already wracked with the pain that would turn her overnight from what she’d been to what she now was. She’d run to Central Park, to the streets, and, eventually, to Jack Knight and Grimalkin, Inc. and the life she led now.
It had been fifteen years.
She had never, even for a moment, gone back to that house.
By the time she’d run across Laura’s name – on the wedding-announcement page she was scanning in hopes of catching a bigamist husband for one of her clients – ten years had gone by. She’d stared at the newspaper photograph in shock, examining the scars that were visible even in the grainy shot. Then she had done what came naturally to her – she’d snooped around and dredged up Laura’s new address.
Over the past five years, Laura had settled in with her new husband (Dave) and had given birth to the dark-haired little girl (Anna). Daws had ‘visited’ perhaps eight times – always at night, always quietly lurking on the fire escape.
Always searching for and failing to find the courage to actually knock on the apartment door.
Daws’ stepmother, Glynnis, had been abusive and a drinker; she’d never completely approved of either of the girls, though Daws had borne the brunt of her displeasure. Glynnis had held Laura up as everything Daws (Reggie, she’d been then – a nickname she still wouldn’t tolerate) was not. Laura was pretty and vivacious and popular; Laura was a cheerleader. Laura (according to Glynnis) at least had her looks going for her. In a moment of anger and confusion and change, Daws had stripped Laura of all of that.
The two girls, despite their arguments, had not been enemies – nor, exactly, had they been friends. They had been sisters, with all the complexities and strifes that entailed. But then Daws had taken everything that shielded her sister from their mother (including herself) – and run away. She couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about.
Where were the words to apologize for that? In five years of perching on this fire escape, Daws had yet to find them.
True, Laura seemed happy; she seemed to have taken the events of that long-ago night in stride, or to have come to terms with them. She was not the bitter, lonely wreck Daws had once dreaded her becoming.
But how would she react if suddenly a woman who bore no resemblance to her vanished thirteen-year-old stepsister appeared on the doorstep? Would she scream, as she had so long ago? Would she call the police or (what was somehow worse in Daws’ mind) would she call Glynnis? Would she somehow, impossibly, recognize Daws at first glance and step back to invite her in?
Daws didn’t know. In fifteen years of detecting, it was the one mystery she had not yet found the courage to investigate.
And yet . . . Daws sighed. And yet she still wished that she could muster the courage to speak to her long-lost sister. Even if the conversation was brief; even if she found nothing to say but that she was sorry, and that she hoped Laura had found the same measure of happiness she had. Daws wondered what Laura would say if she knew that her kid sister had become a real-life private eye, like the characters in the novels she’d devoured as a kid. More to the point, she wondered what Laura would say to a kid sister who’d become an anthropomorphic feline private eye.
Laura and her husband re-entered the living room, and Daws drew back quickly from the window as they sat down once again on the sofa.
Daws had never found the courage to knock on their door. She had a good reason not to do so now; her involvement with Tiernan Enterprises and the fledgling group dedicated to fighting it meant that her somewhat-perilous lifestyle had suddenly grown much more perilous. And if Nicholas Tiernan, whose vitriol against mundane humans was obvious, were somehow to connect this small human family to Daws . . . . She shuddered at all the images that train of thought entailed.
So tonight, as always, she clambered back up the fire escape to the rooftop and stood there, looking up at the half-moon that fought its battle against the city’s light pollution and smog.
Maybe someday she’d find the words, and the courage. Maybe once she’d made sure that Tiernan was no longer in a position to hurt people like her sister’s family. For now, they were part of why she was fighting him.
Maybe someday she’d be able to tell them that.
For now, though, it was far too late for an obvious mutant to be wandering around in an all-human neighborhood. Daws drew up the collar of her trenchcoat, pulled her fedora firmly down on her head, and leapt in one fluid arc to the roof of the brownstone next door.