I pride myself on being rational and reasonable. I know I have a temper, so I control it; I've spent my whole life learning various methods of
keeping it in check, from shuri-ryu karate, to tai chi, to meditation, to counting to ten in any of the three languages I can count in (but not speak), to
beating on socially-acceptable inanimate objects such as punching bags and rope-wrapped boards. I don't kick puppies or break things, I don't yell
much and when I do I try to make sure it's directed at the person responsible and not some innocent bystander, and I don't hit people.
So imagine, if you will, the bemusement I was feeling as I tore through the garage in alternating bits of rage and pathetic weeping. I remembered wandering
out here, looking for something. Someone. I didn't know who. It was like my body was on autopilot, and I was a passenger. One that was staring at the
driver in mute shock as they ran every red light, sideswiped a school bus, and put the hammer down when the car was pointed at a pedestrian. My garage was
getting thrashed. Tables, knocked over; cabinet doors with fist-sized holes in them -- from my fist, no less! -- and a spelling bee trophy embedded
in the wall like some strange impromptu throwing star. All the while I was panicking and repeating, "Where is she? Where IS SHE?" over and over
again.
I could feel the hopeless terror coursing through my veins, and it was not mine.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
At least, until the first blast of green energy swirled out of my hand -- my hand! -- and blasted the punching bag into oblivion. Fabric flew in all
directions as the beans inside sprayed around like shrapnel, trailing smoke and the acrid stench of melted plastic. Several of them bounced off me, including
my face, and I didn't feel a thing. Literally; they hit with tiny 'thwack!' sounds and bounced away, without touching me. At the same time, the
irreverent ever-present 13-year-old boy in my head perked up at the display of honest-to-goodness energy blasts. I squashed the little snot impatiently; no
matter how cool they were -- and I had to admit, it sure looked awesome -- I had to get a grip on myself before I destroyed too much more of my house.
"Okay, calm down," I said -- feeling like I was trying to talk my body down from a precipice without quite knowing how it had taken us there in the
first place.
"WHERE AM I?!" I screamed in response.
This, I noted clinically, is where the guys with the straightjackets are supposed to show up, isn't it?
As that rolled through my mind, I cradled the stuffed panda protectively and slumped to the floor, scooting backwards to sit with my back to the wall and my
knees drawn up.
I never sit like that. It's not very comfortable, for one, and while I'm flexible, I'm not that flexible. Simple physiology for a guy my
size; we don't fold well.
Cautiously, I tried moving a hand... and found it as easy as ever. Whatever impulse had kept me from stopping myself earlier was apparently gone... but I
could feel the alien presence, now that I realized it was there. That tingling sensation that had been with me since the electricity injection was not injury,
but... a presence.
And I felt a horrible sinking sensation in my gut as the pieces clicked. I'm a pattern person; I see them without trying to. It's helped me in my
career, letting me spot underlying problems in the reams of data I have to analyze; it's failed me miserably in social situations, because individuals
don't all follow the same pattern and you get yourself in trouble assuming they will.
The pattern here was easy. My brain put it together unconsciously and held it up like a child showing off their schoolwork. "See?" it said, waving
the data points around frantically. "Green energy blasts, Mr. Whiskers, you were playing City of Heroes, you're not behaving like yourself, and
electricity. Simple."
Yeah, simple. Unexplicable, impossible, and disquieting... but simple.
I knew who was invading my body, and the smoldering bits of my punching bag lying around were clear evidence that her abilities -- some of them, at
least -- were along for the ride. I knew her better than anyone, and why shouldn't I? I created her.
And she was completely, entirely, and thoroughly insane.
I'd told people this time and time again. It had seemed like a fun quirk at the time -- Rheabeth Samuels, former combat medic turned superhero after a
mysterious incident, oh, and, by the way, she thinks her stuffed cat is really some sort of alien superpowered cat-creature from beyond space and time, sent
here to rescue humanity from itself.
Oh, this was going to be wonderful.
I set aside the sarcasm and cleared my throat. This next bit could well be tricky. Rhea would take careful handling, if I were to keep her from --
"I'm not deaf, you know," I said into my knees, my voice choked by a sob but conveying indignation all the same -- and female.
"Sorry!" I replied automatically -- and blinked. My snark-to-mouth filter failed to make the catch, and I opened my big yap again. "Great.
Both of us are talking to ourself. Does that make me as nuts as you are?"
Oooh, bad move, Brian.
"I'm not crazy," Rhea said -- using my vocal cords but in her own voice.
"One of us is," I replied. What can I say? I like playing Rhea, I don't want to be her.
"Hmph," she replied, and buried our face in our knees again.
Gah.
"Okay, um, sorry, I'm not at my best when someone invades my mind without warning. Y'know, 'cause usually folks call ahead before
taking up residence in my skull." I shook our head.
"I want to go home," Rhea replied, ignoring my sarcasm.
"You and me both, crazy lady," I muttered under my breath -- and winced in agony as a headache blossomed in my skull.
"Don't call me crazy," Rhea hissed. "I'm not. I'm sorry you can't hear Mr. Whiskers -- he
doesn't like you very much, by the way -- but just because you can't hear him doesn't mean he doesn't talk... you jerk!"
I held up the panda. "Look, Rhea, see? Panda. Not cat. Panda. This isn't Mr. Whiskers -- god, what am I doing? I'm talking to
myself in my garage. I'm the crazy one!"
She sighed. "He's in disguise, hello?"
Right. Okay then. Disguise. Yyeaaaah.
We sat in silence for a bit.
"So... nice weather, huh?" I said lamely.
She tensed our shoulders and squeezed Mr. Whiskers -- the panda, gah, the panda! -- tighter, but didn't reply.
"Okay, well, here goes nothing," I said at last. "I'm the blunt type, so I'm going to just get it over with. Are you Rheabeth
Samuels?"
"How'd you know my name?"
"That's a 'yes'. Next question: how'd you get in my head?"
She raised our head and looked around. "I... don't know."
"Great," I sighed.
"You're a guy," Rhea said, staring at our hand in shock.
"Yes, and?" I replied. "Hey, wait a second!"
My words went unheeded as we scrambled to our feet and ran for the full-length mirror in its stand, out here in storage. Rhea swiped some dust away from the
surface and stared at our reflection. I somewhat irritatedly reached out and adjusted it to a better angle. We regarded ourself thoughtfully. I noted that
my eyes had changed color, from my normal dull brown to Rhea's vibrant green, peeking out from under dark brown, almost black eyebrows and hair. That
appeared to be the extent of any physical change, though the ease with which I moved suggested somthing not visible was subtly altering me as well. But
visibly, there I stood in all my (hah!) glory -- six-plus feet of overweight, middle-aged, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, with glasses. And a ponytail.
"... you're, um, out of shape."
"Oh, you noticed?" I replied sourly. "I thought I hid it better than that."
"Really out of shape."
"Yes, thank you, I get the point." I tossed a nearby dropcloth over the mirror and scowled.
"What's going on here?" It was so odd hearing Rhea's voice -- just as I'd always imagined it, sultry yet chipper, with a very faint
Southern accent -- coming out of my throat.
"I wish to hell I knew," I replied... and my brain poked me again. Patterns, y'see. "Wait a sec," I said, and hurried back into the
house. Little Buddy growled and barked at me again as I entered, and I shushed him absently. I intended to get to my computer and see if this was widespread
or if I was the only one who'd gone nuts -- ow, stop it, Rhea! -- but the thump of footsteps overhead gave me pause.
I wasn't sure I was up to facing Ben just now. Or anybody, for that matter.
I spun away from my computer nook and passed back through the living room, scooping up my work laptop and my old gaming laptop as I went. Out of sight, out of
mind... and the garage was as far out of sight as one could get at my house. It wasn't attached to the house proper, the door could lock, and the windows
were painted black. I could hide there until I figured out how to get the crazy lady -- OW! -- out of my head!
"Knock it off with the migraines and I'll forget the word crazy," I muttered at Rhea as I struggled through the garage door, burdened by two
laptop cases and a stuffed panda. "Deal?"
"Fine," she replied in a huff. I sighed and set about setting up the computers. God bless wi-fi, that's all I have to say. In moments they
should be up ... and... why were they not booting?
"Your computers are broken," Rhea observed helpfully.
"Not broken," I growled as I perused the systems. "Wiped clean. What the hell?"
Rhea was very suddenly and carefully silent. I attempted to turn and glare at her, realized that that would be the equivalent of chasing my own tail, and
sighed. "Okay, Rhea, what did you do?"
"Mr. Whiskers says he's sorry, but EMP does nasty things to computers?"
I whimpered.
"Um... sorry?"
I shook my head. "Y'know, people call me paranoid." I rose and went to the cabinet at the far end of the garage, opening it and scrounging
within for the object I knew to be in there. "I figure it's just good sense, mostly." I returned to the workbench where the laptops sat and
opened the heavy metal safety case. "But until you came along, I never would have figured on my backup images being used to recover from a
fucking EMP burst."
I hoped they'd survived. I didn't know the range or limits on Rhea's powers here in the real world, and the case was rated against fire damage,
not nuclear weapons.
Ignoring the odd sensations in my mind as Rhea did the mental equivalent of poking around looking for a place to sit, I set to work restoring the laptops.
Damn, I hope the wi-fi still worked...
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
keeping it in check, from shuri-ryu karate, to tai chi, to meditation, to counting to ten in any of the three languages I can count in (but not speak), to
beating on socially-acceptable inanimate objects such as punching bags and rope-wrapped boards. I don't kick puppies or break things, I don't yell
much and when I do I try to make sure it's directed at the person responsible and not some innocent bystander, and I don't hit people.
So imagine, if you will, the bemusement I was feeling as I tore through the garage in alternating bits of rage and pathetic weeping. I remembered wandering
out here, looking for something. Someone. I didn't know who. It was like my body was on autopilot, and I was a passenger. One that was staring at the
driver in mute shock as they ran every red light, sideswiped a school bus, and put the hammer down when the car was pointed at a pedestrian. My garage was
getting thrashed. Tables, knocked over; cabinet doors with fist-sized holes in them -- from my fist, no less! -- and a spelling bee trophy embedded
in the wall like some strange impromptu throwing star. All the while I was panicking and repeating, "Where is she? Where IS SHE?" over and over
again.
I could feel the hopeless terror coursing through my veins, and it was not mine.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
At least, until the first blast of green energy swirled out of my hand -- my hand! -- and blasted the punching bag into oblivion. Fabric flew in all
directions as the beans inside sprayed around like shrapnel, trailing smoke and the acrid stench of melted plastic. Several of them bounced off me, including
my face, and I didn't feel a thing. Literally; they hit with tiny 'thwack!' sounds and bounced away, without touching me. At the same time, the
irreverent ever-present 13-year-old boy in my head perked up at the display of honest-to-goodness energy blasts. I squashed the little snot impatiently; no
matter how cool they were -- and I had to admit, it sure looked awesome -- I had to get a grip on myself before I destroyed too much more of my house.
"Okay, calm down," I said -- feeling like I was trying to talk my body down from a precipice without quite knowing how it had taken us there in the
first place.
"WHERE AM I?!" I screamed in response.
This, I noted clinically, is where the guys with the straightjackets are supposed to show up, isn't it?
As that rolled through my mind, I cradled the stuffed panda protectively and slumped to the floor, scooting backwards to sit with my back to the wall and my
knees drawn up.
I never sit like that. It's not very comfortable, for one, and while I'm flexible, I'm not that flexible. Simple physiology for a guy my
size; we don't fold well.
Cautiously, I tried moving a hand... and found it as easy as ever. Whatever impulse had kept me from stopping myself earlier was apparently gone... but I
could feel the alien presence, now that I realized it was there. That tingling sensation that had been with me since the electricity injection was not injury,
but... a presence.
And I felt a horrible sinking sensation in my gut as the pieces clicked. I'm a pattern person; I see them without trying to. It's helped me in my
career, letting me spot underlying problems in the reams of data I have to analyze; it's failed me miserably in social situations, because individuals
don't all follow the same pattern and you get yourself in trouble assuming they will.
The pattern here was easy. My brain put it together unconsciously and held it up like a child showing off their schoolwork. "See?" it said, waving
the data points around frantically. "Green energy blasts, Mr. Whiskers, you were playing City of Heroes, you're not behaving like yourself, and
electricity. Simple."
Yeah, simple. Unexplicable, impossible, and disquieting... but simple.
I knew who was invading my body, and the smoldering bits of my punching bag lying around were clear evidence that her abilities -- some of them, at
least -- were along for the ride. I knew her better than anyone, and why shouldn't I? I created her.
And she was completely, entirely, and thoroughly insane.
I'd told people this time and time again. It had seemed like a fun quirk at the time -- Rheabeth Samuels, former combat medic turned superhero after a
mysterious incident, oh, and, by the way, she thinks her stuffed cat is really some sort of alien superpowered cat-creature from beyond space and time, sent
here to rescue humanity from itself.
Oh, this was going to be wonderful.
I set aside the sarcasm and cleared my throat. This next bit could well be tricky. Rhea would take careful handling, if I were to keep her from --
"I'm not deaf, you know," I said into my knees, my voice choked by a sob but conveying indignation all the same -- and female.
"Sorry!" I replied automatically -- and blinked. My snark-to-mouth filter failed to make the catch, and I opened my big yap again. "Great.
Both of us are talking to ourself. Does that make me as nuts as you are?"
Oooh, bad move, Brian.
"I'm not crazy," Rhea said -- using my vocal cords but in her own voice.
"One of us is," I replied. What can I say? I like playing Rhea, I don't want to be her.
"Hmph," she replied, and buried our face in our knees again.
Gah.
"Okay, um, sorry, I'm not at my best when someone invades my mind without warning. Y'know, 'cause usually folks call ahead before
taking up residence in my skull." I shook our head.
"I want to go home," Rhea replied, ignoring my sarcasm.
"You and me both, crazy lady," I muttered under my breath -- and winced in agony as a headache blossomed in my skull.
"Don't call me crazy," Rhea hissed. "I'm not. I'm sorry you can't hear Mr. Whiskers -- he
doesn't like you very much, by the way -- but just because you can't hear him doesn't mean he doesn't talk... you jerk!"
I held up the panda. "Look, Rhea, see? Panda. Not cat. Panda. This isn't Mr. Whiskers -- god, what am I doing? I'm talking to
myself in my garage. I'm the crazy one!"
She sighed. "He's in disguise, hello?"
Right. Okay then. Disguise. Yyeaaaah.
We sat in silence for a bit.
"So... nice weather, huh?" I said lamely.
She tensed our shoulders and squeezed Mr. Whiskers -- the panda, gah, the panda! -- tighter, but didn't reply.
"Okay, well, here goes nothing," I said at last. "I'm the blunt type, so I'm going to just get it over with. Are you Rheabeth
Samuels?"
"How'd you know my name?"
"That's a 'yes'. Next question: how'd you get in my head?"
She raised our head and looked around. "I... don't know."
"Great," I sighed.
"You're a guy," Rhea said, staring at our hand in shock.
"Yes, and?" I replied. "Hey, wait a second!"
My words went unheeded as we scrambled to our feet and ran for the full-length mirror in its stand, out here in storage. Rhea swiped some dust away from the
surface and stared at our reflection. I somewhat irritatedly reached out and adjusted it to a better angle. We regarded ourself thoughtfully. I noted that
my eyes had changed color, from my normal dull brown to Rhea's vibrant green, peeking out from under dark brown, almost black eyebrows and hair. That
appeared to be the extent of any physical change, though the ease with which I moved suggested somthing not visible was subtly altering me as well. But
visibly, there I stood in all my (hah!) glory -- six-plus feet of overweight, middle-aged, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, with glasses. And a ponytail.
"... you're, um, out of shape."
"Oh, you noticed?" I replied sourly. "I thought I hid it better than that."
"Really out of shape."
"Yes, thank you, I get the point." I tossed a nearby dropcloth over the mirror and scowled.
"What's going on here?" It was so odd hearing Rhea's voice -- just as I'd always imagined it, sultry yet chipper, with a very faint
Southern accent -- coming out of my throat.
"I wish to hell I knew," I replied... and my brain poked me again. Patterns, y'see. "Wait a sec," I said, and hurried back into the
house. Little Buddy growled and barked at me again as I entered, and I shushed him absently. I intended to get to my computer and see if this was widespread
or if I was the only one who'd gone nuts -- ow, stop it, Rhea! -- but the thump of footsteps overhead gave me pause.
I wasn't sure I was up to facing Ben just now. Or anybody, for that matter.
I spun away from my computer nook and passed back through the living room, scooping up my work laptop and my old gaming laptop as I went. Out of sight, out of
mind... and the garage was as far out of sight as one could get at my house. It wasn't attached to the house proper, the door could lock, and the windows
were painted black. I could hide there until I figured out how to get the crazy lady -- OW! -- out of my head!
"Knock it off with the migraines and I'll forget the word crazy," I muttered at Rhea as I struggled through the garage door, burdened by two
laptop cases and a stuffed panda. "Deal?"
"Fine," she replied in a huff. I sighed and set about setting up the computers. God bless wi-fi, that's all I have to say. In moments they
should be up ... and... why were they not booting?
"Your computers are broken," Rhea observed helpfully.
"Not broken," I growled as I perused the systems. "Wiped clean. What the hell?"
Rhea was very suddenly and carefully silent. I attempted to turn and glare at her, realized that that would be the equivalent of chasing my own tail, and
sighed. "Okay, Rhea, what did you do?"
"Mr. Whiskers says he's sorry, but EMP does nasty things to computers?"
I whimpered.
"Um... sorry?"
I shook my head. "Y'know, people call me paranoid." I rose and went to the cabinet at the far end of the garage, opening it and scrounging
within for the object I knew to be in there. "I figure it's just good sense, mostly." I returned to the workbench where the laptops sat and
opened the heavy metal safety case. "But until you came along, I never would have figured on my backup images being used to recover from a
fucking EMP burst."
I hoped they'd survived. I didn't know the range or limits on Rhea's powers here in the real world, and the case was rated against fire damage,
not nuclear weapons.
Ignoring the odd sensations in my mind as Rhea did the mental equivalent of poking around looking for a place to sit, I set to work restoring the laptops.
Damn, I hope the wi-fi still worked...
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs