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Superworlds - 2.2 - Rising Tensions
🕑 Added 2023-07-04 05:06:36 +0000 UTC“Basement?”
“Basement.”
“Hold on.”
Will scrunched up his eyes. Around them, there was a surge of noise, of flashes and shouting as the onlooking crowd suddenly realised what was about to happen – and then a moment later the cold light of the alley was subsumed beneath pressure and darkness and Matt felt himself hurtling through a tunnel of crushing, smothering black. About a half-second later the sensation passed, and Matt opened his eyes to the familiar smell of sulphur and the sight of bare concrete walls.
“Ah,” he said, smiling around at the ten-foot by ten-foot oppressive bunker, “Hole sweet hole.”
They had teleported into a room at the bottom of 32-40 Wilsmore Crescent, a large and modern building that covered half a block and twenty-three floors. Twenty-two of those were standard residential apartments, accessible the normal way apartments were accessible, through the front door and lifts and a lobby on the ground floor. But unbeknownst to the other residents of Park River Arms – as it was called – a top-most level existed, not present on any publicly available strata registration or floorplan. This floor existed separately to the rest of the building, connected only to a private elevator shaft that ran straight up and down to an underground concrete bunker with no outward doors. Three stories below the street and surrounded by solid rock, it was an inconspicuous cube of hollow concrete sitting just outside the building’s anti-phasing, anti-teleportation Disruptance fields that no one would ever have suspected was present, let alone led to a secret apartment.
A secret penthouse, actually. The White Queen, Elsa Arrendel, former Norwegian aristocrat and deceased Legion second-in-command, had had the whole place purpose-built in the 1980s as a private, paparazzi-proof refuge, cleverly angled to be invisible from the outside. When she’d been killed, ownership had transferred to the Legion, who’d spent the better part of a decade discreetly renting it out to philandering celebrities and the like for exorbitant profit. Now, it belonged to Matt and Jane.
“We should put up a poster,” Wally suggested, looking around at the bare concrete walls, “A bit of colour or something. Such a depressing first sight to come home to.”
“It’s not that bad,” chided Matt, waving his hand in front of his face to disperse the sulphur, “Although I do like the poster idea.”
“Maybe some tropical scenery.”
“That dangling cat picture that says ‘hang in there’.”
“Will one of you idiots please call the lift,” growled Jane. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Someone’s grumpy.”
“I’m just not in the mood.”
“Alright, alright,” said Wally. He turned to Will. “Let’s leave the lovebirds to their nest.”
The teleporter raised his arm and the telepath took it.
“Thanks for coming guys,” said Matt. He reached past them to the silver elevator doors and pressed the ‘up’ button. “Really appreciate it.”
“Just glad you didn’t get shot,” replied Will. Behind him, Jane sniffed.
“Aren’t we all,” Matt replied.
“Let us know what the police say,” said Wally.
“Let us know what Legion forensics come back with,” said Jane. She gave a curt nod to Will and submitted begrudgingly to Wally’s one-armed hug.
“I thought you did really well,” the red-headed psychic told her. He looked at Matt. “Both of you.”
“Thanks man.”
“We’ll debrief more later. Get some sleep.”
Wally turned back to Will and with a nod the pair disappeared in sulphurous ‘pop’. The bunker suddenly seemed less crowded and claustrophobic. Matt released a sigh and let his shoulders droop. Jane continued to stare straight ahead.
The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and they stepped inside.
The cold concrete silence faded away into a light press of gravity and slow and distant whirring as the pair steadily rose.
“Well,” Matt joked lamely, glancing across at Jane. The lift had caramel-coloured wood panelling and a foot-wide mirror strip running around the middle, in which the sequins on his girlfriend’s dress continued to sparkle. “What a night.”
Jane gave no response other than to clench her jaw and continue staring at the doors to the elevator.
“Come on,” Matt assured her, “I’m fine.”
The rising feeling ceased. Jane shook her head. The elevator pinged.
“We never should have done it,” she said.
They stepped out. Matt followed Jane to their front door and watched as she pressed her finger into the scanner-pad above the handle. Neither of them had a key.
“What? The interview? Of course we should have.”
The lock clicked and the door swung open, allowing Jane to spin round and fix him with an incredulous gaze.
“You were shot!”
“I was almost shot,” Matt replied, stepping past her with a dismissive wave. He strode into the apartment, shrugging out of his suit jacket and throwing it haphazardly across one of the lounge chairs before flopping down onto the couch. After a moment of glorious melting into the leather, he sat forward and began to untie his shoes.
“That doesn’t make it okay!” cried Jane, striding in his wake.
Around them, the apartment stood as they had left it. The ceiling was relatively low – maybe eight or nine feet high initially, although the floor dropped down by an additional two steps a few feet in from the entrance. For a penthouse, it had relatively few windows – for privacy and security reasons – with the northern side stepping out into an indented balcony which provided Jane a fly-out point and provided them both with some semblance of a view. It was a large space, mostly open plan; a long wooden dining table (Arrendel’s) near the balcony doors; brown leather couches, matching armchairs and a thick glass table marking a living area in the centre (Arrendel’s); and a further yellow couch facing a TV and Xbox to the south (Matt’s). Floorboards ran the main room’s length, save for in the kitchen, which was marked by white tiles and a long marble island parallel to the west wall, while a doorway on the south side led off to a spare bedroom, bathroom, laundry and gym, the last of which was foam-padded to muffle any noise from dropped weights. Their bed – the master bedroom – was in a room in the northeast corner and had white carpet with mechanically-heated underlay. The whole place was soundproofed up the wazoo and still littered with art and decorations from its original owner – although the odd beer bottle or pizza box, phone chargers, crumpled hoodies, photographs of Matt’s family and the textbooks scattered across the dining table marked the last few months of Matt and Jane’s habitation and the slow process of them making it their own.
Reclining into the sinky brown leather couch, Matt undid his top button and pulled off his tie as Jane loomed over him with a pained expression, her arms crossed, making no move to decant herself from her sparkly dress. Matt glanced up at her and then down again, noting her bare toes splayed atop the carpet.
“Did you leave your shoes in the alleyway?” he said, “Giselle’s going to be furious.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“You know some weirdo’s going to find those and sniff your feet.”
“Matt! Be serious!”
“I am being serious!” Matt exclaimed. He threw up his hands. “What do you want me to say? We knew it was a risk. Going outside generally is a risk! That’s just how it is until all this blows over. Sometimes maybe good, sometimes… crazy people!”
“They shouldn’t have known we were there,” Jane said bitterly. Matt just shrugged.
“Jane, yes, I agree with you, the deception should’ve worked. But what do you want me to say? Sometimes the best laid plans go tits up.”
“We didn’t tell anyone,” Jane complained.
“That we were sneaking out the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Azleena knew. Maybe she accidentally tripped something when she pulled up the building plans.”
“Unlikely.”
“But anyway,” Matt pushed forward, “It was just bad luck. And it was fine, wasn’t it, in the end? I mean you were there, you protected me…” Abruptly, Matt’s voice trailed off – because the look that had come over Jane’s face was not relieved but pained, twisted and wracked with guilt. She’d had the same look back in the alleyway.
“You… did protect me, didn’t you?” he asked. Jane opened her mouth to answer, but for a few seconds nothing but wordless protests stumbled out. The penny finally dropped. Matt’s face drained of blood.
“Jane!”
“What?” she demanded, although her guilty, shifting expression put paid to any attempt at ignorance. “What?!”
“What did you do?!”
“I saved your life!” Jane shouted, voice rising in self-defence.
“You played- you travelled in time?”
“Only for a few seconds!” she argued, but Matt was already on his feet, his hands thrown up in the air, his face a mask of horror. He stepped back, turning in place a few feet away, gaping at her.
“We… we talked about this! Jane we-” he swore, clutching his hair, “-talked about this, you promised you wouldn’t!”
“I’m sorry!”
“You can’t mess with this stuff!” he cried, “You can’t… it’s time travel! You screw with time, time screws back!”
“He shot you!” Jane cried, and she lunged towards him with a single vicious step, “He shot you, and I saw it, I saw your blood and your brains and the bullet and-” She choked off into a sudden sob. Her hands, clenched into fists, hung rigid in front of her.
Matt’s chest deflated and his face turned, if possible, even paler. “I… I died?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Jane snapped, and her throat choked around the words, “You died, right there in front of me, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t just watch, I had to… I just…”
She took another angry step forward, then wavered and a moment later collapsed down onto the couch. Her eyes closed and she took a deep, shuddering breath before opening them again and fixing Matt with a burning look.
“I’m not just going to let you die,” she spat, the sheer venom and rage belying the underlying sentiment. Matt stared at her, frozen, conflicting emotions warring across his face.
