R.C.'s Collection of Short Stories

1: The Hospital

The young woman tossed her raven locks behind her as she walked into the hospital. The rumors had to be false. There was no way Rick could've killed himself, it just didn't make sense. Particularly not to do what he did. Young Marina Whittaker turned her icy-blue eyes on the nurse on duty in the hospital. "I want to see Solar," she said.

The nurse's eyebrows shot up. "Why?" she asked.

"Because he's my brother. Obviously," Marina said. "Are you going to let me see him or not?"

"Well, you can see his body," the nurse said aloofly. "Solar is dead, Vine. There's nothing anybody can do about that. Not that we want to, considering what he did."

In spite of herself, Vine found herself tearing up. "It's just not possible!" she protested. "He can't be dead. He's got ... he's got a son, and a wife. He wouldn't just throw that all away to blow up some random apartment building!"

The nurse shrugged, uninterested in Vine's grief. "I am sorry, Miss Whittaker, but you need to move on. Your brother was a terrorist. There's no other way to put it. None at all. Move along."

Vine clenched her fists furiously, and against her will, a vine lashed out at the nurse, hurling everything off the front desk. "Rick was not a terrorist! He didn't do it! He didn't!"

"Miss Whittaker, control yourself, before I call the authorities!" the nurse cried, instinctively ducking.

But Marina was beyond control. She covered her face with her hands, sobbing desperately. It was bad enough that Solar was dead. It was even worse that they kept spreading lies about him, lies that he'd destroyed the apartment and took over two hundred lives in the process. It just wasn't him. Her brother would never have willingly put anyone in danger. Not without consulting any other options first.

Marina didn't see the government agent come from behind and hit her with a knockout dart. She did feel it though, and as she dropped forward, losing consciousness, she couldn't help but think that she might prefer to be knocked out for the rest of her life, instead of facing the pain of what Solar had apparently done.

. . .

A few weeks later, Marina was still in the government-run United detainment center for supers. She hadn't been released from her cell since she'd been brought in from the hospital, nor did she want to be. She didn't care if she never saw the light of day again. By that time, she had become reluctantly accepting of the idea that Solar had destroyed the apartment building by detonating himself and killing over two hundred people. Why would she want to go out into the world that had somehow turned her brother into a mass murderer?

She sat in the corner of her padded cell, staring at the wall. The tears had run out weeks ago, probably soon after she'd been brought inside. The only break to the monotony was the meals that were served like clockwork. If Marina had been in her right mind, she might have considered that they were putting something into her food, to make her more complacent. But she didn't care anymore.

The thud outside of her cell caught her attention. That was new. She stood up straighter as the door swung open, and she could see the bodies of her two guards there. The man in the black trench coat pointed his weapon at her. "Step out," he ordered her. "And meet your fate."

Marina obeyed without question, looking at him. One sentence only came to her mind. "You're kind of cute," she observed.

The man—probably around her age, in his teens—blinked. "I'm ... what?"

"Kind of cute."

He blinked again, running a hand over his dark hair. "Are you Marina Whittaker?" he asked. "The villains want you dead."

"Oh." She looked at him. "Maybe I want to die. What's there left to live for, without Solar?"

For some inexplicable reason, the man lowered his weapon. "Will you come with me?" he asked.

"Come with you? Why?" Marina blinked at him.

"Because ... I think that maybe, we both need something to live for." The young man met her eyes frankly. "And maybe we can find that in each other. Wanna give it a try? I'm sick of being a villain."

"Oh ... okay," Marina said with a shrug. "Why not? Except—what's your name?"

"Eagle," he said with a grin. "But you can call me Art. Arthur Brendan."