"Yeah." I slip off the stool and smooth my blouse down over my stomach. I'm still overweight, but... "Notice anything different?"
The Professor eyes me critically. "Could you step on the scale?"
In a blink I'm standing on the metal plate and the digital numbers are ticking away. A couple of seconds pass and they level off at 185.3 pounds. "I was fifteen pounds heavier than this yesterday," I say.
Dr. Colibri taps at her keyboard. "How's your caloric intake?"
"I could eat," I say. "I had a big lunch before the interview, but I've been flying and fighting. Takes a lot out of a girl."
"You'll need to take better care of yourself," the Professor says. "You do remember your first year with the powers, don't you?"
"Yeah." Until I figured out how to eat enough and supplement my body correctly, I dropped to almost 110 pounds -- and, for my height and body type, the ideal weight is just over 130. We figured it out, though. "I'll work on it. I have a lot of protein powder at home -- I got it on Saturday, right before you guys shot me."
He has the grace to look embarrassed by that, though he doesn't apologize. I think we've talked that out to the bitter end. "I'll e-mail you information on some new supplements." He slides a credit card across the lab table; it has my name on it. My real one. "Use this. But don't overdo it; it draws directly on my personal account."
"You're just lucky I'm not into shoes."
The Professor nods. I know he was married at one point, so in theory he knows about that stereotype; at the very least he has to have seen a sitcom or two. "Get what you need, and then rest."
"What about my costume?"
"What about it?" Dr. Colibri doesn't turn away from her computer. "You're not going to fit into it. Not for a while."
"Regardless, I'd still like to have it."
"I'll have it brought to your apartment."
"Fine." I'm getting tired of looking at the back of her head; I zoom over next to her and click off the monitor, and by the time she turns around I'm back on my stool. She looks pissed. "Childish, I know. But the least you can do is be civil."
The doctor turns to the Professor, who gives her a half-shrug. She sighs and turns to me. "More important than any of that," she says, apparently deciding to ignore what I did, as if I'm some four-year-old who's throwing a tantrum in the mall, "is the balance you've upset."
"Yeah, about that," I say. "How long do I have before he comes back?"
It's obvious who I mean by 'he'.
The Professor checks some handwritten notes. "Judging from the last time he appeared to you, and speeding up the cycle at the same rate as your power increase--"
"Skip the math."
"Very well." His cold blue eyes stare into mine. "About a week."
"A week? " The words squeak out of my mouth, probably because a frozen fear has expanded into my chest and up through my throat. I swallow hard and try again. "A week?"
"Perhaps less." Dr. Colibri folds her arms. "You should've let me give you the implant."
"No," I say without hesitation. "I'd rather fight him again than go back to being that sad thing I used to be. At least now I have a purpose in life."
She doesn't reply to that; I'd hoped the words would hit home, but it doesn't look like she took them in the spirit I intended. "Be that as it may, you must prepare yourself. You should meet with the Professor whenever possible and begin training again."
"Just because I spent eleven years as an out-of-shape lump doesn't mean I've forgotten everything I learned."
"I'll be the judge of that," the Professor says, and it's in a tone that brooks no argument.
"Fine." I sigh. "Anything else?"
"We'll let you know," Dr. Colibri says.
"I'll expect to see you tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock, my office. I trust you'll be there on time?"
I allow the Professor to see me smile. "I always am."
He nods. "That is one thing I appreciate about you. You always know exactly what time it is."
By the time I get to the GNC nearest my house, the new supplement list is in my e-mail, as promised. I hand my phone to the clerk -- this one's a lot nicer and doesn't question me -- and in a few minutes, I have everything I need. Good thing it's quick; I ripped the mask off right as I landed in the alley behind the shop, and I really want to get home and put a warm washcloth over my face.
I have to go home the usual way -- walking -- because, without the mask, it's possible people will be able to identify me by my powers. I'm fast, but I still have to flash in and out of super-speed to make sure I don't run into anyone. Plus, I like where I live; I don't want to have to move just to maintain my secret identity.
"About time," Buffy says as I close the front door behind me.
"Oh, shut up, you." I put my packages down on the dining-room table and go get some milk out of the refrigerator -- I did manage to go shopping for the necessities yesterday, in between moping and feeling powerless. "I'm home later than this on work-days."
"And I say this every day when you get home from work. It's not my fault you couldn't understand me before."
I shrug and mix scoops of supplements with milk, yogurt, and ice, then pour the whole mess into my blender and hit the button to turn it into a vaguely chocolate-looking puree. The noise, thankfully, sends Buffy scampering. Once the shake is done, I pour it into a massive plastic QT mug and pop in a straw; then I carry it into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. Willow watches me intently as I remove my skirt and hose; in just my blouse and underwear I get myself the warm washcloth I've been looking forward to, arrange my pillows, and recline in my bed.
Willow noses the mug just as I'm about to drink, and the straw hits my lip. "Thanks for that," I say.
"Sorry." She nuzzles my arm until I lift it; she cuddles against me and I feel her purr vibrate through my side. "That smells terrible."
"Cats aren't supposed to like chocolate." I try a sip and make an indifferent noise. "It's not very good, but it's better than they used to be."
"I suppose that's positive." Willow's voice is already growing quieter; I swear this cat could sleep forever.
Actually, sleeping sounds like a good idea, but I know I need to finish this before I can rest; the supplement list came with a nutrition regimen, and I'm supposed to drink four of these a day in addition to regular meals. I bought chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry flavors; I suppose I can go back to the grocery store and get enough frozen fruit to add a little more taste to the chemical powders. Maybe it'll start to taste edible before I have to fight the Dark King again.
I shift uneasily at the thought of him. He's not Satan; he was very clear about that when we first met. He's simply an extremely-powerful being who rules whatever alternate dimension all this mess comes from. I don't know the name of it, and the minions were always very careful not to tell me when I tried to goad them; I wonder if knowing the name would be enough to find my way there and destroy the Dark King for good.
Willow noses my arm and I run my hand down her spine; she stretches and pushes her clawed paws against the blanket. "You feel different," she says.
"How so?"
Buffy leaps up onto the bed and I can practically feel her staring at me. "Power," she says. "I feel the power in you."
"No one ever mentioned that the last time."
"You didn't have me the last time."
"Did you have any pets?" Willow asks. I shake my head. "Well, that's the answer."
I take the washcloth off my eyes and toss it in the general direction of the bathroom door. The motion is so natural that I forget for a moment I have super-strength and the damp cloth thumps against the shower wall. "Oops."
"Idiot," Buffy says. But her tone is thoughtful. "My sister may be right."
"How so?"
"We've lived with you for more than four years," Buffy says. "We're used to your scent, your behavior, your touch, and the way you feel to us."
Willow continues the explanation. "Now you feel different
in my head. More pressure. Heavier." She yawns. "Makes me sleepy."
"Walking across a room makes you sleepy."
She makes an affirmative noise and rests her chin on my arm. I hear her breathing start to level out.
To my surprise, Buffy is now walking across the bed; she makes her way up the pillows so she can look at my neck. "What is it?" I ask her.
"Turn your head."
"O... kay." I do as she asks. I have a feeling she's going for the mark, so I set the mug down first; then I move my hair out of the way. "What is it?"
One small paw uses my shoulder for balance; I feel her presence very close to my skin. Her breath comes in tiny puffs of warmth as she sniffs my skin.
Then a sandpaper tongue is drawn across the mark, and a moment later Buffy has leapt up onto the headboard, scampered along it, and jumped across to the chair in the corner where I sit when I want to read by the window. "What is it?" I ask again, worried. "Are you okay?"
Buffy licks her paw and then draws it over her face a couple of times, as cats do. It takes a few seconds for her to speak. "I don't like it," she says.
"Don't like what?"
"The new you. That mark tastes bad."
"Are you sure it's not just the alcohol? Someone was going to put in an implant this morning, and--"
"It's not that," she says, and it's with such certainty that I don't bother to contradict her. "And it's not you. Not really." Her tone is kinder than it's been since I gained the ability to hear her; she sounds sad, come to think of it. "Your power is a harbinger."
When she doesn't say anything more, I have to ask: "A harbinger of what?"
She turns accusing green eyes on me. "Your death."
And then, to my absolute shock, she makes her slow, careful way back to the bed and curls up next to Willow, pressing up against me. "I don't want you to die, Andrea," she whispers. "Please don't die."
My eyes fill with tears; I'm too startled to wipe them away. "I'm..." I swallow hard. "I'm not going to die, Buffy. I'm not going to leave you."
"Please don't," she says. I hear her purr, a soft vibration, not nearly as rumbly as Willow's. It's a scared purr; she does it sometimes when we're at the vet. "Please don't die."
I take a long, slow breath and reach down to stroke Buffy's smooth, tawny fur.
She sighs. "I love you, Andrea."
And then, in an even smaller voice, "if you tell Willow about this, I'll shit on your pillow."
Yep. That's my cat.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GONE
+++++
I wake up Tuesday morning with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was really looking forward to showing up to work having misplaced a good twenty percent of my body weight in the past week; on the other, I don't really know what I'm going to tell Jake. He's not going to be happy; that much I know.
Buffy's disappeared by the time I've gotten out of the shower -- she was nice enough not to wake me up before the sunrise today, but I can't find her in any of the usual places. My guess is she's hiding behind the dryer, but I can't contort myself into a position where I'd be able to see. The laundry closet is just too small. I suppose she's feeling sheepish about letting her guard down.
It's all right, though; Willow makes up for it by twining herself around my ankles while I stand at the dresser, putting on makeup and subconsciously reminding myself to damp down the glow in my eyes. Though I've interacted with people over the past few days, this is going to be my first real test: anything out-of-the-ordinary and Jake will pick it up. I can't let any blue shine through.
It seems petty, I know, but the makeup and the business clothes -- black skirt and jacket, pale pink blouse, and a little heel to give me a touch of lift -- make me feel better about the whole thing. I guess clothes really do make the man. Or woman. Willow hops up onto the bed and I do a little turn for her. "What do you think?"
"You look pretty," she says.
"She'd say that no matter what you're wearing," Buffy calls from wherever she's hiding.
Willow cocks her head a little. "She's probably right. It's just because I love you."
"I love you too." I reach down and scratch behind Willow's ears before going out into the kitchen. I already had a bowl of cereal before my shower, and my shake is sitting in the refrigerator. I take it out and pop the big plastic straw through the manhole-cover-sized lid. I'm trying vanilla today; the sample I tasted from the blender didn't thrill me, and I make a mental note to get frozen fruit to add to it. And, speaking of fruit, I toss a couple of bananas into my bag, just for a snack. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be at work, so I'll probably miss the shake I'm supposed to have around lunchtime, but I'll live. There's always food at work.
"I'm going," I say; I know both cats can hear me. "Don't barf on anything expensive."
Buffy tells me to fuck off, but it's okay; after last night, I can handle pretty much anything she says to me. Willow, sitting on the cat-tree in the living room, tells me to have a good day. I like to think that, even when I couldn't understand her, she always did.
After the weekend I've had, I really don't want the bus to be late, but that would be asking too much. If I'd made the decision to run -- or fly -- to work, I could've been there in a minute or two. The thing is, I don't have my costume, or any way to hide who I am, and I work at a TV station. Cameras are everywhere, and I'm not just talking about the big ones in the studio -- everyone has the latest cell phone, and security cameras cover the entire area around the building. There'd be no way to land nearby, and there's nowhere secluded enough to pull it off.
So, the bus. I recognize some of the people waiting at the stop, and I get a couple of quasi-friendly nods of greeting. I return them. That's about all the human interaction people at my bus stop have with each other. Some of these folks have been riding the 99 with me for years, and yet I don't know their names, or if they have families, or where they work. People are strange that way, not talking to each other. And, of course, the one time I really feel like talking to someone about something totally inconsequential, I know it would be a mistake: if they pay too much attention to me, they might put two and two together once I -- once Alexandra -- start getting out there a bit more.
I sigh. The bus arrives only about ten minutes late and we all board. I find a seat in the back corner, my mug in one hand and my phone in the other. I don't watch the news -- at all -- and while I've gotten a couple of breaking news alerts, it's not until I hit the CNN app that I see the write-up of my interview. Instead of reading it, though, I put in my headphones and touch the icon to start the video.
"Oh, crap." The words are mouthed, soundless. "I look awful!" In the bright lights of the studio, I look even bigger than usual -- even bigger than I was in the mirror this morning, and I've lost around twenty pounds since the interview happened. Plus, I've never liked hearing my voice on recordings; it either sounds nasal or like I have a cold -- the latter this time. But it is interesting to see how they intercut Gina and me talking to each other with recordings of the things I did as a teenager. Aerial footage of fights against monsters, an interview someone got after I rescued some kids from a fire, even an appearance I did at a children's hospital; it really is a good piece. Some of the folks down on the first floor at work have probably already criticized it, but I don't care. I don't interact with them very much anyway.
I transfer to the 27 bus and read a little more CNN before we get to my stop, where I begin my usual trudging walk to the office. My habit of leaving early pays off; I get to work in plenty of time to clear out my inbox, wash my mug, get a cup of coffee, and plunk myself down at my desk to wait for Jake to roll in. Or Marcia, my boss, who's never here before 9:30. I pass the time going through my desk, separating old paperwork into keep, shred, and leave piles, and that's where she finds me. "'Morning, Andrea. Feeling better?"
"Yeah. How are you?"
"Fine." She heads toward her office, a few feet beyond my cubicle, and I follow her. "What's up?" she asks
as she puts her purse and briefcase down on the desk.
"I need to talk to you about something."
Marcia glances up and sees that I've closed the door. Her expression sobers and she waves a hand at her guest chair, which I sit in. She lowers herself into her big leather chair. "What's wrong? Is it an HR thing?" The company -- as it should -- takes a very dim view of harassment of any kind, and Marcia is nominally in charge of that department too.
"I don't think so. It's not bad." I think about that statement for a moment. "Well... not really."
After a few seconds of silence, she levels her eyes at me. "Out with it, Andrea."
I take a deep breath. "I need to resign. Effective immediately."
That surprises Marcia -- I'm sure she had no idea it was coming. Hell, before yesterday, neither did I. She sits back in her chair a bit, hands on her armrests. "Is it because of the doctor's visit yesterday?"
"Yes and no." I sigh. "It's not really something I feel comfortable going into, but it's definitely going to impact me being here--"
"You can go on a leave of absence; we can work that out for you."
I'm touched by how sincere she sounds; in the time I've been here I guess I never realized how much she cared about me -- but then, the way I'd been feeling, I'm not surprised that I didn't notice. "I don't think that'll work out," I say. "I might be able to come back someday, but I don't know when. I don't think Corporate would understand an indefinite leave without a medical reason."
"But you said it was related to your doctor's visit," she says. "Can't... he?"
"She."
Marcia nods, scooting her chair forward and waking up her computer. "Can't she get you medical leave?"
"I... don't think so." Actually, I don't think Dr. Colibri is that kind of doctor -- oh, she seems capable of practicing medicine, but if she's actually a licensed physician, I'll eat something unpleasant. "I'm really sorry," I say. "I know I'm leaving you in the lurch, but this isn't something I can put off for two weeks. Or even one," I say quickly, forestalling the question that I know is coming. "Honestly, Marcia, it has to be today."
After The Apocalypse Page 16
