Out of the Ashes, Book 2 Part 6

Out of the Ashes, Book 2 by Misty Meenor A Comic RetCon Universe Story The Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian characters are the property of DC Comics. Captain America, the Red Skull and Union Jack are properties of Marvel Comics. American Dream used with the kind permission of Lilith Langtree. He hugged the woman, who barely seemed to notice. "Ahem. Which brings us to, how do I hold on to the incredibly powerful Miss Mars? And how will I keep you from telling anyone my little secrets? Ah. Well. Maria, show them." Maria raised her head, her eyes meeting mine. I had a moment of panic, as I felt a presence in my head, insinuating itself, twisting around parts of my mind. There was the briefest sense of ... apology?... before it pulled. There was an obscene ripping sensation and an incandescent detonation behind my eyes, and I collapsed to the ground, senseless.

---

Author's note: I apologize for the delay, this was a difficult piece to write, for technical reasons which may become apparent. I'm still not happy with it, but better to post it now, than to dwell on it forever. Comments are welcome as always!

---

There was a dream... a woman, a terrible woman, to her enemies. But I was not her enemy. She wanted something from me... something important...

The dream faded, pushed aside by the pain in my head, and the image of Maria's slack-lipped face and dead eyes. I awoke with a start, remembering with nightmare clarity.

What had she done to me?

I was lying on my back, presumably on some kind of bed. The light was so bright it hurt my eyes, even through closed lids; I threw an arm across my face to block it out and the hammering behind my eyes subsided, a little. My body felt heavy and sluggish.

A voice came from close by, a young woman's, her tone urgent, but not in a language I understood.

Who is she talking to?

Keeping my eyes closed, and averted from the brightest of the light, I propped myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Even that careful motion provoked a sudden bout of nausea; I leaned forward, taking slow, deep breaths, fighting off the urge to retch. My hair tumbled down on either side of my face, helping to block the light, and carefully I opened my eyes, wincing as the pain increased, but determined to take stock of what little I could see, from my sheltered perspective. The woman was still talking, her tone relieved now, but still with urgent undertones. Whoever she was talking to, wasn't responding. A phone?

Okay, first things first. My bare feet rested on concrete, not especially worn or stained, age indeterminate. My legs were shrouded in unbleached canvas drawstring pants, too long, of course, covering most of my feet, as well. My toes -- what little I could see of them -- and presumably the rest of me had returned to my default green color. I was wearing a loose top to match the pants, also oversized on my small frame. The clothing had an institutional feel, coarse and scratchy against my skin.

What had she done to me?

I had a growing suspicion, a very bad one. Still keeping my head down, in case I was being observed, I brought my hand -- also green: check -- in front of my eyes. Sheltered from sight by the curtain of my hair, I tried a simple shapeshift, just the color of my nails. The pounding in my head seemed to pick up the tempo as I tried to focus, but I felt relief flow through me as my fingernails obligingly took on a deep red polish, and I hastily returned them to normal before they could be noticed.

Well, that's something, anyhow.

I dropped my hand to my side, resting on the edge of the bed, then casually reached a little lower to explore the bedframe. A simple metal rail, it felt like; I grasped it firmly and squeezed, just a little, then harder, then with all the strength I could muster.

Nothing.

Worse than nothing; I'd cut myself on the rough edge. I watched dully as blood welled from the scratch.

Strength: gone. Invulnerability: gone.

The pain in my head told me what would happen, but I had to know. I tried to levitate myself a few inches off the bed.

Nothing. Except the pounding in my head was threatening to push my eyeballs out from the inside. This time I did retch, fortunately my stomach was empty, and I was left with only a sour taste in my mouth.

Flight: gone. I'm just a girl, now.

As Dan, I'd been six-four, two hundred twenty pounds, in decent shape. I could reach the top shelf, open my own pickle jars, and physical intimidation wasn't something that happened to me, it was something I did.

Then the metagene kicked in, and suddenly I'm a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, and on the other side of the gender wall. Despite looking like the kid-next-door's hot teenaged babysitter, despite having to look up at the world, even from high heels, I'd always had that secret. You can't hurt me, and I could kick your ass.

I'd been female for less than half a year, but I'd never been 'just a girl'. I don't know how I could have coped without Dolores, but with her love and support, somehow I managed -- and it wasn't always easy, but I always had a crutch, the confidence that even though I might look small and frail and weak, I wasn't.

But I really was all those things now. Small. Frail. Weak. It wasn't just pretend, anymore.

Breakable.

In the clutches of a madman who commanded the power to do this to me, and worse -- and who thought nothing of murdering an entire village, a couple of hundred people, men, women, and children, just to lure Court, for reasons unknown.

But not all the children. He took some. Why?

Finally, I straightened, squinting my eyes almost shut and still having to shade them from the light. The room was long and narrow, barely wide enough for the two beds set lengthwise along one wall, separated by a few feet. Opposite the beds, centered along the other wall was a rusted toilet and matching sink. The walls were unpainted cinderblock, the ceiling high, maybe 12 feet. The source of the glaring, painful light turned out to be a single naked bulb, in a wire cage. The end of the room closest to me held a metal door, featureless except for a rectangular peephole, now closed.

That woman's voice belonged to Court. Why didn't I recognize her voice? Who was she talking to? She stopped talking, perched at the end of her bed closest to me, as far as her leash would allow, watching me with worried eyes. She was dressed in the same outfit I was, also much too large, the neck slipping dangerously low over one shoulder. Court's leash was clipped to a hook at the far end of the room, allowing Court to reach her bed and the toilet, but no further. A single LED glowed green on the mounting plate.

I took a deep breath and stood up. The pounding in my head increased until I was sure Court must be able to hear it, and I staggered, uncertain of my balance, almost collapsing again. Court babbled something in an encouraging tone, ending with a question. I glared at her in annoyance. "Who are you talking to?" I demanded sharply.

That's not what came out.

"K-k-k --"

I clapped my hand to my mouth, as my expression turned to wide-eyed horror.

The words weren't there.

It was terrifying feeling, as if the word I wanted was just on the tip of my tongue, but just wouldn't come.

I tried again. "N-n-n-n!"

Everyone has had that experience, grasping for that one elusive word. Back at college, in Psych 101, it was literally called the 'T.O.T. phenomenon', for 'Tip of the Tongue'. Psychologists find it fascinating. When it happens, even though you can't find the word you want, it turns out you know a lot about the word. You know what words it's not, you often know how many syllables it has, maybe even what it rhymes with. You can usually find a synonym, or a phrase that's almost as good. You chuckle at the momentary lapse, work around it, and move on.

For me, it was every single word. It was like there were holes where the words used to be. I could 'see' the holes in my mind's eye, deduce the word's 'shape', but the word itself had been torn from me.

In a panic, I tried to find any words that might still remain. Arm. Leg. Floor. Wall. Bed. Megan. Court. I tried Spanish. I tried the little Portuguese I'd picked up. I tried what high-school Latin I thought I knew.

Nothing. I could 'think' the concepts, but when I tried to speak, to turn thought into language, there was a total disconnect. My voice had been thrown into gear with nothing to say, all that came out were stuttering noises.

Court spoke again, her voice sharp, commanding, the tone needing no words. Focus. Get a grip. Report, soldier!

My heart sunk as the penny dropped. Court was speaking English.. Try as I might, I couldn't even parse the sounds into individual word-parts, the syllables just flowed together in a continuous stream.

I remembered the last words I heard from the Red Skull: "How will I keep you from telling anyone my little secrets? Maria, show them."

I did throw up then, barely making it the two steps to the toilet, falling to my knees as my empty stomach lurched and heaved and tried to leap out of my throat. Finally, my ribs aching, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and turned to sit facing Court, propped weakly against the toilet bowl. The pain in my head seemed to be receding, a little, like a brawl between marching bands had moved from this room into the next.

Court was frantic with worry, unable to fathom my behavior, desperate to help, but not having the least idea how. She stood, shifting nervously, uncertain what to do with her hands. She reached towards me, then pulled back, paralyzed by conflicting reactions, struggling to reconcile the gruff macho soldier she'd been with the girl she now was. Any other time, I might have found it funny.

At least you didn't punch me in the shoulder and tell me to walk it off. But a true girlfriend would have held my hair while I barfed, I thought wildly, and started to giggle, the giggles becoming deep racking sobs, and suddenly Court was there, kneeling beside me, holding me. She stroked my hair and rocked me as I cried.

~o~O~o~
I woke slowly, my eyes crusted shut with dried tears. The pounding in my head had receded into the middle distance, still there, but traveling in the right direction. I pried my eyes open, the light not seeming so painfully intense, now. Court was sitting at the end of the bed, her back to the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, watching me. I realized this had to be her bed; leashed as she was, she couldn't have reached mine. She offered a cautious smile, and said something in a sympathetic tone, ending with a question.

I sat up carefully, testing to see if the headache would come back, but it stayed put for the moment. My chest and rib muscles complained as I straightened, still sore from trying to turn my guts inside out, but I took a deep breath , and tried to figure out how to explain to Court what had been done to me.

Easy things first. I took Court's hand in both of my own, and made a show of trying to crush the daylights out of it. My Martian body might be stronger than the next normal girl's -- I had no way of testing that theory, but I had long suspected it -- but it wasn't anywhere near enough to make American Dream's hand flex even a little. Her eyes went wide, and I nodded grimly. I tapped my forehead, and then held my fist in front of my face, snapping my fingers wide to simulate an explosion, adding a sound effect for good measure. I was a little surprised when the sound came out; at least my voice was still good for something.

She looked puzzled and asked another question. This was going to be the fun part. I sighed and pointed to her, then made a talking gesture with my hand, sock puppet style, pointed at myself as if it was her speaking to me. I shrugged, shaking my head and raising my hands in an I-don't-know expression. I pointed to my ear, and nodded. Yes, I can hear you. I tapped my forehead, and shook my head. No, I don't understand you.

While she was digesting that, I pointed at myself, and made the talking gesture at her, shaking my head. I pointed at my head, and nodded. Yes, I can think. I pointed at my throat and at my lips, and emitted a tentative "La-la-la". Yes, my voice works. I touched them all in sequence, head-throat-lips, and shook my head. No, I can't speak.

~o~O~o~

The headache receded over the next couple of days, but I couldn't shake the depression that had settled over me.

The Red Skull had dispatched us both without breaking a sweat, two powerful metas, captured like fireflies in a bottle. He'd anticipated every move; now Court was firmly under control, and I was powerless, just a helpless girl, a liability, unable to express or understand any but the simplest messages.

Even deaf mutes can learn sign language. There are dogs who understand more conversation than I ever will.

Court tried to keep active, as much as the leash would allow, doing impossible numbers of pushups and sit-ups, and coaxing me to join her, but it seemed pointless; I couldn't match her, not anymore, and watching her just drove the point home over and over. Once in a while she'd forget, and say something out loud, as if I could understand her, but I quickly learned to ignore her, rather than look up and endure the guilt and pity on her face as she caught herself.

I slept a lot, and spent the rest of the time on my bed, facing the wall.

The light never went out; periodically, the slot in the door would slide open, and a guard would check on us before opening the door and placing a tray on the floor. The food seemed wholesome enough, but neither of us trusted it much. I didn't need it, and Court refused to touch it. We flushed it down the toilet.

I spent a lot of time trying to figure a way out; escaping the cell seemed as simple as taking Court's leash and letting her get close enough to the door to bash it open, but the plan fell apart quickly after that. Getting out without attracting the attention of armed guards was more important than it used to be, now that I was breakable and had to worry about bullets and such. It wasn't likely they'd give us time to explore the place, so finding the others would be problematic. And then there was the tiny challenge of finding a way out of these caves. Oh, and the whole sharing the plan thing was pretty much out the window.

So it seemed pretty much hopeless for the time being. Maybe an opportunity would present itself, but it was hard to feel very optimistic.

~o~O~o~

There were voices at the door.

I guess it said a lot about our state of mind that we both sat up and faced the door expectantly; we'd only been prisoners for a short time and we were already bored as hell.

The voices were arguing. Two voices, both men, the first one younger,demanding something. Whatever he was demanding, the second man gruffly refused to acquiesce, which angered the first one.

Court was on her feet, glowering at the door, her fists clenched. I took my cue from her and stood, facing the door warily. I assumed she recognized one or more of the voices, but without being able to even pick out words, let alone accents or intonation, I was at a loss.

Finally the first one seemed to get his way; the slot on the door slammed open, and a pair of eyes peered at us for a moment, before the bolts on the door were released, and a tall, slim figure stepped in.

Jack.

He stepped inside the door as it shut behind him, and gave us a cocky grin. Court said something, and his expression hardened. He stepped towards her, stopping just out of her reach, sneering, taunting her.

Without thinking I moved to push him into Court's grasp, but he spun faster than I could have imagined, slamming me against the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs, as Court strained against the limits of her leash and shouted futile threats.

With the sudden movement, my oversized shirt chose that moment to betray me, slipping off my shoulder, exposing too much of my breast. Automatically I moved to fix it, but he slapped my hand down, hard. He pressed me to the wall, obviously enjoying my helplessness, running his eyes over me and lingering on my exposed cleavage. It seemed he liked green girls. My hand ached from his slap, but I held his gaze levelly, curling my lip at his attentions, although my gut was twisting in fear. He was talking now, presumably for Court's benefit; I got the impression he'd have preferred to have her in my place, but knowing she was watching and helpless to interfere was giving him a real thrill.

His hand moved to caress my cheek, and I jerked my head away. He chuckled softly as he ran the back of his hand across the top of my exposed breast, before tugging my treacherous shirt down, freeing the breast completely.

I tried to knee him in the groin then, but his metagene reactions were quicker than my action, and he blocked me effortlessly. He smiled coldly, watching my expression, then backhanded me across the face, slamming my head into the wall. Stunned, my legs gave out, and I would have collapsed, but he held me pinned to the wall. He yanked the shirt from my other shoulder, sliding it down my arm until both of my breasts were exposed to his slimy gaze. I was dazed and shaking now, and there was the taste of blood in my mouth. I struggled to muster some strength into my knees, to hold myself up and meet his eyes with all the loathing I could put into my expression.

There was a sound from behind him and he spun, impossibly fast, throwing up his arm; Court had flung the dinner tray, frisbee-style, with all her considerable strength. Caught unawares it might have crushed his spine, instead it hit his arm before ricocheting off and clattering against the wall. Jack clutched at his arm and staggered back a few steps, screaming at Court. The arm appeared to broken, judging by the odd bend it had acquired. Released, I fell to the floor; still dazed, I managed to scramble blindly to Court's end of the room and out of Jack's reach. He kicked at the door and called to the guard, and left without looking back.

Court helped me to stand and fix my shirt, and tried to comfort me the best she could. There was blood on my shirt from someplace; I looked it incuriously while she tore a strip from the hem of her own shirt, wetting it under the tap and dabbing gently at my lip.

Part of me resented needing Court's protection, and by extension, wanted to resent Court, but it didn't seem important enough to work up any kind of strong emotion. I was feeling... well, nothing, really, just numb and distant and empty. Eventually I just curled up on my bunk and waited for sleep to make the world go away.