Be the Rising Star (DC/Worm)

[Lunaryon]

August 4th, 2010
Afternoon

Danny Hebert stands in the center of his living room, tired bleary eyes staring down at the twin pieces of shattered plastic rod in his hands. He doesn't know... no. Danny doesn't remember how the curtain rod broke, but he knows how it broke.

Because he doesn't remember much at all of the previous night. He'd been drinking again. It was months ago that he swore that he wouldn't do that anymore... that he needed to stop drinking, because his daughter needed him. His work needed him. It didn't help.

Despite how much he knows that he needs to stop, that this poison is tearing his life apart, time and time again he finds himself with a bottle between his fingers when that cold emptiness creeps up on him, seeping into his thoughts and his words. Every time when that change starts to roll over him, his daughter, his Taylor, always glares at him with eyes as cold as ice before retreating back upstairs to her room.

Danny knows that his daughter hates the fact that he drinks, and he hates it too... He tries to stop, really... he does. Yet, far too often he finds himself laid out on the couch, with a bottle of beer in his hands. He tries to stop, but he isn't strong enough.

He isn't strong enough to resist the siren call of the bottle.

Isn't strong enough to pull himself back from the brink.

Isn't strong enough to reach out to his daughter...

He wasn't strong enough to protect the love of his life.

Even now... As Danny stands here, staring down at the newest casualty of this damned blight on his life, he can feel the whispering siren call. It wouldn't even be hard... All he has to do is go and hide away the broken curtain rod so that Taylor won't see it, and he can pretend that nothing is wrong.

Taylor isn't here at the moment anyways... She left for the library before he had even woken up. So she isn't here to see this. To see just how much of a failure that her father is. Maybe...

Maybe she hadn't noticed when she left? Danny couldn't help but hope that she hadn't noticed that he had broken something again. Of course, his daughter was as bright as the stars, more than likely she had noticed... but... He could pretend for just a few hours that she hadn't, and everything would be fine until she gets home...

...no...

The broken plastic creaks in his fists as his grip tightens. No. This curtain rod is broken, and while Danny isn't strong enough to fix his life, or strong enough to fix the hole in his daghter's heart.. He can fix this. He can get a replacement before Taylor gets home. And if he can do that, then he can pretend for a little while longer that everything isn't as bad as it really is. Just for a little while longer.

The broken plastic rod goes into the trash, and Danny piles himself into his old truck off towards the Northern end of the city - if there is anywhere where he'll be able to find a curtain rod for cheap, it'll be the Lord Street Market.

Outside the weather is actually quite nice - It isn't as hot as one would expect from the first week of August, and the skies are as clear as blue as they could possibly be. Even someone as downtrodden and broken as Danny couldn't help the soft smile from starting to slip onto his face.

It isn't too hard to find somewhere to park near the two square block's of open asphalt that makes up the Market but it is still harder than trying to find the same during the weekdays when Danny normally visits. The whole of the Market is like a giant swap meet, where anyone who is interested can buy themselves a stall lot for anywhere from 50 to 150 dollars, depending on the size and location. Once you've got the space, you can do just about whatever you want with it, with limits of course.

Most people just set up stalls in order to sell off any number of things, from knick-knacks and handicrafts put together by old spinsters without anything else to do all the way down to overstock from some of the most expensive stores on the Boardwalk, marked down by ten to twenty percent off the usual pricing. There are ice cream vendors, and dog breeders hawking their wares. Tourism kitsch and cape fair, both official and bootleg. Racks of clothing, old booksellers, and all kinds of food.

That is just the people selling wares of all kinds - another popular use of stall space are shows and spectacle. Magicians plying their trade by mystifying and surprising children, or those capes called Rogues who instead of fighting use their powers to turn a profit. Even from where he stands, Danny can see a few of Parian's giant stuffed animals that the Cape uses to entertain children, and he can hear the familiar music of another local cape, a pink haired Idol calling herself Step or something like that.

Danny slowly starts to work his way through the aisles of the Market, wandering from stall to stall as he hunts for his target. He pauses here and there as something catches his eye, looking over the varying wares that are on display. On occasion, the man does seen something that he could easily use as a make-shift curtain rod, but nothing manages to truly stand out from the rest - either by being cheaper enough from the competition to note, or by being of a quality actually worth the price tag that these sellers are asking for.

It is only as Danny finally comes round to the last stall, just about ready to give up on the day, when he spots something that truly stands out from the rest. It's an almost perfectly sized staff, one that Danny could easily use as a rod. Well, almost easily use as a rod. Up near the top there is an odd kink in the metal, and a strange almost hook shaped scoop to the crown of the staff, but Danny has the tools down in the basement that he would need to cut off that top and make the rod.

Sitting on the other side of the stall is a truly ancient looking old man. With white hair as thin and whispy as the morning mists, juxtaposed against the thickest, longest white beard that Danny had ever seen, the man looked like he was 200 even if here was likely only in his 80's. "Looking to buy?" The man asks, his voice crinkling like a twisted water bottle.

Danny carefully picks up the staff, feeling it's heft and weight. "How much?" Danny asks after a moment.

"Hmmm..." The old man begins, before going silent for a long few moments. "Thirty bucks. Dunno why you want the old thing, but I'll be glad to have that waste of space off my hands."

Danny simply shrugs, not wanting to explain himself to the older man. "Alright." The staff slips down into the crook of his arm as Danny fishes out his wallet, pulling the cash free and handing it over. "Glad to do business with you."

"Same." The old man says, before leaning back in his chair, and closing his eyes, looking to all the world like he just died. It was a distinctly short and strange conversation, but Danny has already had more than enough of the old man, and thus retreats from the Market back home.

Carrying the staff in from the car, Danny can't stop the sigh that sneaks past his lips as he moves from the light of the sun to the dark dreary inside of his home. All the lights are off, the nearly all the curtains are pulled closed, and the inside sticks of booze. God, just looking at the living room drains all the strength from his limbs. Danny rubs at his face as she steps through the living room, and entering into the kitchen. Danny sets the staff down in the kitchen, before rubbing at his face and returning to the Living room, picking up bottles and cans and trying to make the room at least a little presentable.

Once all the trash is handled, the man slides back into the kitchen, pulling a bottle from the fridge to quench his thirst. Danny takes a long, slow sip, before sighing, shaking his head and pushing himself back to his feet once more. Maybe, once he's handled the staff then he can sit and relax, finish his drink.

Nearly numb fingers slowly wrap around the cold metal of the staff, and Danny's eyes slowly slide across the table to the beer in his hand.

A tingle, a warmth at the back of Danny's mind - like a whisper almost forgotten. The instinct and the urge are too strong to resist, and he doesn't even realize what he's done until the bottle slams into the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. "No more" Danny growls out, shaking his head and dropping the staff.

The man pounces towards the fridge like a creature possessed, throwing open the door and pushing everything to the sides as he roots through, pulling bottles and cans of toxin out of the cold maw. One after another they drop into the trash, until there is not a single bottle left within. Then comes out all the food that is or is close to expiring.

This poison keeps digging it's claws into him. Ruining his words and killing him inch by inch. No more. If he can't trust himself not to drink himself into a stupor, then the only thing he can do is remove the temptation, disarm the threat.

He couldn't keep doing this to his daughter, she needed him.

Of course, having removed everything nearly rotten from the fridge means that the fridge is now pretty much empty... So a long and deep drink of water later, and Danny leaves the house once more, this time headed to the grocery store. Taylor loved her mother's lasagna, and he knows the recipe.

All the while, the staff he bought is left forgotten leaning against the counter in the kitchen.

 

[Lunaryon]

August 4th, 2010
4:30 pm
Taylor Hebert

All of my attention is locked onto the cursor blinking away at the top of the empty page in front of me. The stupid little line is mocking me, I just know it. Time and again, I almost start to type away, my nearly aching fingers leaping forward towards the keys before I hastily abort, retreating back to the standard position on the keyboard that my hands rest as I start to rethink what I want to type out.

Yet, for all the thoughts that have danced across my brain, the thinking and pondering and wondering... I just don't know how to phrase the feelings rising in my chest. Maybe it would be easier if I even knew what it was that I was feeling.

I know... I know that I need help. That and there is the real crux of the issue however... I mean, yes, I need help. For nearly two years now, my home has felt more like a morgue than the graveyard my mother was buried in.

Day in and day out, my Dad barely manages to stumble his way out the door to work in the mornings, where he spends hours upon hours whiling away the months and hiding from me in the docks. Then in the evenings, he comes home, so tired and worn away that he barely has ten words to say to me before he drowns himself in a bottle of some cheap booze, and ends up falling asleep on the couch.

At this point I can't even count the days that I have ended up coming down for a last drink before bed and pulling a comforter out to cover him up so that he doesn't get sick from sleeping in his clothes in the living room.

It's just under a month before school starts up again, and with it having to face my for- To face Emma and Sophia and Madison... All their sycophantic followers, and the school's teachers and staff who are all willing to just turn a blind eye away from my suffering.

What am I supposed to do? What am I... What do I do?

I just... I can't tell Dad... He's barely around, instead staying at the Docks, and even when he is home, he's barely coherent... Even if he was back? Then... Telling him about Emma would mean he'd have to talk to Uncle Alan...

And...

And what if a fight with him breaks Dad all over again. Leaves me all alone again.

No... I can't talk to Dad about this, I can't lose what little time I have with him... And talking with the teachers has never accomplished anything.

I just...

I want the bullying to stop. I want those stupid girls to leave me alone. Is that really too much to ask?

The cursor of the new thread continues to blink away, unknowing and uncaring of my struggle. Maybe a part of the reason why I keep failing to figure out how to word what I am trying to say is a fear that someone from Winslow might see it, and then just like every other bit of social media, I'd find my PHO account filled with death threats and mockeries and all sorts of horrible messages.

With a sigh of disgust, I close the browser and log off the computer. This isn't getting anywhere, it isn't accomplishing anything. At best, it's just making me feel even worse about myself than I already do.

Shaking my head, I run a tired hand through my hair as I sigh. I need to do something in order to get my mind off the upcoming school year...

Not that there is much that I can do at the moment. I don't have any friends to hang out with anymore, and money's been tight since Mom died...

I guess I could wander the Boardwalk, or go up to the Market, but I don't have any cash, and window shopping has never been something that I was super interested in. That was always Emma...

I can feel my face pulling into a scowl as I shake my head again. I don't have any reason to think about that traitorous former friend for another month, and so I am not going to.

Simple as simple can be.

Instead... I guess I'm going to go home... to that lifeless house, and see if Dad has finally gotten up. It might be his day off, and so he deserves to have some rest... but I want to see him sometimes too...

Gah - More negative thoughts. You decided that you weren't going to think thoughts like that, so no thinking thoughts like that.

...Making that decision really didn't help, and instead I just find myself consumed by thoughts that whirl and dance around and around and over and over in my head as I take the bus back home.

The closest bus stop from my house is still a good three block walk, which gives the negative mood that I have been struggling with all day more time with which to smother my thoughts.

As I turn about the corner, I notice a distinct lack of Dad's truck in the driveway. So... he's not even home. Great.

I don't mean for the thought to be bitter, and that's just more of the pallor mood I've been struggling with today, where I focus on all the worst parts of my life, but that doesn't mean that I'm not bitter - That I don't still wish that Dad would have been home when I got home, so that I could see him in something other than a drunken stupor or passed out on the couch. I want to see Dad, I want to talk to him, even if time and again I end up more angry than anything when we're done.

I miss the Dad I used to have.

Coming through the door, I'm with the overpowering smell of... whatever alcohol it is that Dad drinks. God it stinks in here. Yet... at the same time... I can't help but notice that the living room looks the cleanest it has been since...

Cleaner than it's been in a long, long time.

Though, if it's clean in here, where is the smell coming from?

I barely have to search to find the answer to that question - A splatter of booze on the wall, dribbling down to a puddle of the filth, and fragments of shattered glass litter the floor in the kitchen near one wall.

It looks like Dad threw the bottle at the wall for some reason.

...And of course, he didn't bother to clean it up.

However, the spill isn't the only thing of interest in the kitchen, it honestly isn't even the most interesting. No, that distinction belongs to the tarnished metal staff leaning up against the counter. Thick enough around to be a walking stick, and topped with a kink in the metal that leads into a large metal hook looking thing that peaks just above eye level even as it leans against the counter, the staff has to be just longer than I am tall.

It looks like it's supposed to be made of gold... maybe, but all along it's length there are splotches of flaky blueish green like droplets of water landed on the metal and were never cleaned off.

Whatever, I can look at that thing and try to figure out where it came from after I clean up Dad's mess.

Once all the glass is thrown away (Speaking of which, why was there no trash bag in the can?), and all the alcohol is mopped up, I go back to examining the staff.

Picking it up, I'm surprised first by how light the staff is, it feels almost weightless in my hands, yet... Well it feels sturdy, and a quick flex of my noodle arms makes it clear that at the very least I am not strong enough to bend the thing.

There isn't a lot of room to move in the kitchen, so quick enough I head down the stairs into the basement. Even with the big hook head thing, the staff is just the right size (I think...) to spin around like they do in those old Kung Fu movies that Dad used to love to watch with me and Mom.

With a snap of motion, I start to move, trying to copy the motions I remember from those movies. A twirl here, and a spin there, lashing out to strike with the top, or sweeping the bottom along the ground to trip imaginary opponents.

God, I probably look really stupid right now, but I forgot how much just exerting yourself can be. Again and again I move the staff, before trying to twirl it one last ti-

My fingers slip, eyes close, and I wince in expectation of a clattering crash...

A crash that never comes.

Carefully, slowly... My eyes start to open. There in the air, the staff silently hovers, a beautiful golden light seeping from the inside of the hook. I... what?

Is this thing some kind of Tinkertech? I barely start to reach a hand out to the staff, before it zips into my hand. Carefully, I let go, and the light coming from the top begins to dim, yet the staff does not fall over. It simply stands there, in direct opposition of gravity. I step back, and the glow brightens, the staff giving a little hop as it spins around.

What is this thing? Is it... Alive? Is it aware?

No, no no no no. No, this is too weird, this is too much. I can't handle this. Backing up away from the staff, I barely make it back up the stairs without tripping, before slamming the door to the basement closed.

What... the... fuck?

What the hell is that thing doing in my house?

---

Dad comes home before long, the truck loaded down with more food than I think we've had in the house for months... at the least. There's something...

Well, I was going to say that there was something different about him, but that's obvious enough. Dad's not drunk. Hell, he said that he threw out all his alcohol, and that there isn't going to be any in the house anymore.

I'm not sure that I believe it, but Dad also cooked dinner, and he hasn't done that since Mom died. So maybe he's trying, I jus... I just don't know. I want to believe that Dad is getting better, but I just...

I guess I can't.

It's not even been a day, and I'm already just waiting for the other shoe to fall, for Dad to fall off the wagon and go back to being broken. Still, Dinner was pretty good, and it gave me a chance to ask the question I really wanted to. "Hey Dad..."

"Hmm?" Dad says, his mouth full of Lasagna.

"Where'd you get that weird staff that was in here this afternoon?"

There's a confused look on his face for a moment, and the pit of worry that has been slowly building in my stomach surges to the front, before the look clears up. "Oh, right, that thing." Dad looks embarrassed, but he pushes on through. "When I woke up this morning, I noticed that one of the curtain rods was broken." He says, which is just the oddest non-sequitur. "So I went down the Market to see if anyone had anything that could be a cheap fix. Found that staff being sold by a rather strange old man. Gave it to me for thirty bucks. Now that I'm a bit clearer headed, I'm worried that the thing might be a bit too heavy to use as a curtain rod."

What? Heavy? The staff didn't feel like it weighed a thing in my hands.

"It didn't feel that heavy when I picked it up..." I mention, and Dad gives me a distinctly odd look.

"Taylor, that thing is easily fifty pounds, if not more." Dad argues back, shaking his head. Which sounds insane, until I remember that the staff managed to float in the air when I dropped it, and that it stayed standing where I put it down. So it's possible that the staff just didn't activate for him.

And that just raises even more questions. Questions, by the by, which I'm going to wait until tomorrow to try and find the answers to, because the last dregs of sunlight has dipped down behind the hills to the west, and I am utterly and completely exhausted - both emotionally from my struggles with PHO, but also physically from swinging that staff around in the basement.

I barely manage to get changed and into bed before I am out like a light.

 

[Lunaryon]

August 4th?, 2010
Really Late...
Taylor Hebert

While I am not a particularly light sleeper, neither am I a heavy sleeper by any definition of the word. Instead, I am a creature of Habit, one who goes to sleep at the same time each night, and wakes at the same time each morning. Thus, I'd like to say that the shift from sleeping to waking was as peaceful and easy and calm as it is every morning...

But if I did that, I'd be lying.

One a normal day I wake up about ten minutes before my alarm goes off, which gives me enough time to get up and out of bed before the alarm itself starts to go off. Waking up right now, however? That wasn't anything like that. That first thing that my brain managed to piece together was the fact that I was still exhausted. I felt like I had only managed to get a couple of hours of sleep, and that I shouldn't be waking yet.

The second thing that managed to dig through the smog coating my mind was a feeling of annoyance and confusion. Someone had turned on the lights. With a groan of frustration, I flop over, turning away from the brightness and covering my eyes with an arm... Even so, there was a part of me that knew it was already too late. Now that I was awake, there was no chance of me being able to get back to sleep for at least an hour.

That, however, just brought up the question of who turned on the lights? Dad hasn't been one to come and wake up in nearly five years, not since I turned ten years old and started managing to get up all on my own. 'Like a big girl!' I had thought at the time.

Finally giving in, I push myself up into a sitting position and bring an arm up to rub at my eyes to clear the gunk from them before I crack one eye open to try and se-

The staff that I had left in the basement is floating there, right in front of my face. The whole of the heft of the staff is glowing with an internal golden light, one that leaks from the tip of the hook as the thing almost trills at me, spinning around its axis in what I can only feel is an overly excited manner.

It is only thanks to the year of learning how to hide my feelings from the girls who keep tormenting at school that I keep myself from screaming, even as I skitter backwards away from the sta-

A hand meets air instead of bed, and as my weight tips there is the briefest of moments where I manage to hang in the air much the exact way that bricks do.

Or, in other words...

I fall, hitting the ground with a solid thump that is only muted by the coating of carpeting across my bedroom floor. Again, the staff starts to float closer, even as I stumble up to my feet. Hands up high and open to show the thing that I don't have anything...

The staff seems to lift to one side for a moment before spinning back how it was, all the while trilling at me again. It sounds... curious, and maybe even a little worried. Combined with the way that it moved...

I feel crazy for even thinking it, but I swear that the staff is worried about me...

Then, once it's clear that I'm not hurt, the staff floats closer and up, bumping against my hand with a honest to go whine.

Like a puppy coming up to it's owner, wanting to play.

Everything about the way the staff moves around just screams more curiosity and excitement, not danger or anger.

Slowly, I start to extend an arm out, my hand open and flat. The staff trills excitedly, before twirling up and over and landing perfectly on my palm right where I had grabbed the staff before.

Now that the staff is in my hands, there are a couple more details that stand out to me. Much of the green tarnishing seems to have vanished. There is a point on the staff that glows brighter than all the rest, and the point slides up and down the staff, perfectly where my eyes are tracking.

From the way that the staff trills at me again, it's clear that the thing wants me to grab hold, and without thinking I do. There is a moment where I wonder if this was a bad idea, before my feet slowly lift up off the ground.

I'm... floating. There's a soft scrapping, and looking to the sound, I see my window glowing with a soft white light - lifting upwards as the window opens.

Wait. Is the staff doing that? How?

The staff spins again, this time pulling me with as it falls to it's side, and then before I even have time to realize what is happening, I'm through the window, lifting up, up, and away.

This whole things... being up high in the air, with nothing below me, nothing around me, and nothing to stop me from falling to my death but the staff that my hands are white knuckled around should be terrifying, and while I am a little scared, I'm not paralyzed with fear like I think I should be.

However, the impromptu flight quickly comes to a close, as the staff begins to slow, before stopping over the particularly flat roof of a dilapidated apartment complex. Down, down the staff takes me, even though for all the world around me appearing to move, I still don't feel like I'm falling. None the less, I land without making even the lightest of sounds on the rooftop.

The staff starts to pull forward a little, and for a moment I struggle, worried that the thing is going to leave me here, all alone atop this building. It's only as the staff trills at me again, this time comforting and I swear it feels like its asking me to trust it. I swear that my hands unclenching sounds like stones grinding against one another.

The staff pulls again, and I let go, allowing the staff to float forward for the briefest of moments before it freezes, a confused trill coming from it this time...

What was it expecting? For me to... what? Hold out my hand? Like... like when I was training with it in the basement. Or sort of like how it was back in the bedroom.

I put my faith and my trust in the staff once more, holding out a hand and grabbing hold when it comes into contact with my palm.

Much like I did in the basement, I start to twirl the staff around, over to one side, then the other, my motions in part like that of a monk from those old kung fu movies I used to watch, and in part like a cheerleader with a baton. Then I step forward, snapping the bottom of the staff up in a short, sharp, striking motion. Pulling back, I try and twirl again, but I'm still tired, and I can feel the staff start to slip out of my hand.

I can't rightly say what prompted the next action - a thought at the back of my mind, or simply a guess from seeing how the staff has acted before, but as the staff left my fingers, my other hand snaps up. I don't even need to see the staff to know that it is moving in accordance to my thoughts, my other hand grabbing hold and bringing the staff down in a heavy hammer blow.

Snapping around, I hear the heavy crunch of my feet across the shattered concrete of the rooftop as my eyes drift close, and I allow the motions to take center stage - lashing out against shadowy figures my mind conjurers. A strike here, a twirl there, a blow then a block.

The sweat is running down my face as I continue to push myself faster and faster - the staff might not feel like it weighs anything in my hands, but that doesn't mean that I'm not exerting myself.

It's not until I leap backwards, my free arm wiping the moisture away as I finally open my eyes to blink the salt out that I realize my feet are just passing the edge of the roof, leaving nothing but air below me for more than thirty feet. There is a rush of fear, before the staff trills at me, and I realize the most important thing. I may still be sliding backwards through the air, but I'm not dropping down.

I'm...

I'm flying!

Perhaps that shouldn't surprise me, not after the staff flew me to this rooftop, but this is... different, somehow. Here I am, over thirty feet up in the air, with nothing below me, nothing around me, and nothing to stop me from falling other than the staff that I have in my hands... That should be terrifying. I should be paralyzed with fear that I am going to fall.

I'm not afraid.

Instead, this is absolutely exhilarating. Maybe its due to the fact that I don't feel like I'm being pulled along by the staff, and I don't feel like I'm going to fall. Instead, I feel light, I feel weightless. I can't stop the giggle from slipping past my now grinning lips, even as the staff trills at me too, clearly just as excited as I am. Slowly, I look down at the ground below me, and still... I feel no fear.

Instead, I look up to the sky, and as I raise the staff upwards, I choose a point and then...

I don't know how best to explain this in words. I feel like I am the one in control of my flight this time, despite the fact that it is still the staff doing all the work. I choose a point, just go there. Like, as the closest comparison, when you are sitting there on the couch, and you decide to stand up and walk to the kitchen, you don't have to think about making sure both of your feet are under you, then pushing up with your legs in order to life you off the couch. You don't think about lifting up one foot, and swinging the leg forward in order to put the leg and the foot down in front of you, then jostling forward to move your torso, and repeating the motion again with the other leg.

No, you just stand up, and you start walking. It's the exact same here. I didn't even really decide to fly up to the spot I chose. I just did. Doing as was as instinctive and natural as breathing. Hell, even the more complicated maneuvers I decided to try were more like jogging in comparison to walking. I did a barrel roll here, and a flip there, and I just... I just do it, without even thinking about all the complex parts that these things have to like... I dunno, do?

Is this what flying is like for Alexandria? For Dragon in her suits, or for any of the other numerous capes who have the power of flight?

I'd always wanted to be a hero like Alexandria when I was a kid. Sure, Armsmaster might be my favorite local hero, but I always dreamed of having the power to fly, of having super human strength and the power to be completely invincible.

Though, I guess I don't really have powers... do I? No, it's just the staff...

It's with that rather depressing thought that I turn about in the air, slowly starting to head back home.

However, I barely move a few feet before the staff slows to a stop, trilling at me - somehow sounding both supportive, and yet chiding at the same time. Then, before I can respond, the jerks forward, dragging me behind it as it shoots off, diving through the sky.