3.Y
Vicky didn't feel pain. Amy was screaming something, but it was okay. She did good, right?
They were in the mall. She'd wanted ice cream. Mom was too busy, at the office. As usual. Vicky knew that. Amy had held her hand, and they'd gone to get ice cream, because Amy was nice. Amy was sad. Vicky noticed. It wasn't very difficult, when Mom would look at her sister, in that disdainful way, and then away.
She was old enough to understand when Mom got into arguments with Amy. She hated that. Amy said they weren't arguments, but Vicky knew what arguments looked like. They looked like her sister's face, gloomy and moody afterward. No hint of happy Amy. Voices weren't raised. It was quiet discussion, with tense, strained voices. Afterward, Amy would just look at her and sit down on the couch next to Dad.
Dad had skipped his meds today. He said they made him feel sleepy. By the time Vicky had noticed, it was already too late in the day to pout at him until he'd take them. She'd do better tomorrow.
To her, it felt like everything was going away. She could tell that much. Mom was angry. A lot. There were no yelling matches, no outright tantrums. But even when it wasn't out and obvious, she was frustrated. When she wasn't frustrated, she was irritable. When Amy talked, she was offended, exasperated. When Dad talked, she could see the bitterness, the hopelessness in the lines on Mom's face. Mom spanned that spectrum of anger. Then, it spread.
The exasperation went to Amy. The bitterness, the hopelessness, went to Dad.
Amy went to school, and came back tired. Vicky went to school, and had fun. She felt guilty for having fun. For having friends. Amy never looked happy when she flopped down on the couch next to Dad, then asked him if he wanted anything from the kitchen.
Dad attempted a smile. It didn't quite work. He shook his head dully, made a noncommittal sound, then went back to watching the television.
Vicky hated the television.
On his good days, Dad was active. He smiled. It felt wonderful. He brought light into the room with him, sometimes literally. He went on walks, runs. He remembered his medication, he didn't half-heartedly apologize for missing birthdays.
Those were fewer and fewer. He avoided Mom's eyes when they spoke.
When he put on his costume, he cried, sometimes. But mostly, he was sitting there, at the couch. Sometimes he made dinner. He was a good cook. A better one, on his good days.
Vicky always made sure to compliment him first, so that everyone else would too. Dad needed the compliments.
But today, Amy looked very sad. So Vicky asked if they could get ice cream.
"Ames. Let's get ice cream! You're sad, we can fix that. With ice cream." The nickname had come about when she couldn't pronounce Amy as a baby. It had been embarrassing when she'd become aware of it. Then, it had gone the entire loop of embarrassment and come back to adorable.
Carl, she had neglected to continue calling Mom.
Amy had taken Vicky's smaller hands in her own, and smiled at her, hugging her. There was a little bit of happiness in that smile, and a little bit was better than nothing at all.
"Tell me about your day, Vicky." Amy said, on the walk.
"So we ran today in phys ed-" She didn't call it P.E., only the
third graders did that. "-and we got to play basketball and the whooole time I was
super good at it. I scored like,
three baskets."
"You should join the basketball team. I think you'd do very well at it." Amy was muted, but there was a smile peeking through that gloomy, cloudy face.
"Yeah,
totally going to do that when I can. What kind of ice cream do you want? I'm getting-" She considered. "Rocky road? Cookie dough? I'll decide when I get there!"
"Oh, so you haven't decided yet, but
I have to decide first? That's
unfair."
Yesss. She was smiling.
"Yep! You gotta decide first 'cuz you're older. Age before beauty!" Vicky stuck her tongue out at Amy, and Amy stuck her tongue out right back. They stood there for a moment, making faces at each other.
"Hmm. How about we both try new ice cream, then?" A little of the wistful sadness seeped back in, but there was enough happiness now that Vicky just nodded.
There was screaming, and noises like fireworks. She held Amy's hand tightly, and they didn't get ice cream because something was terribly, terribly wrong.
The sounds got closer, and they were running. And then Vicky saw someone walk out from the staircase with a gun. Amy was looking straight ahead, pulling her forward.
The man leveled the gun, and in that moment, Vicky did what she knew she had to do. She'd never hit her sister, even when she was at her most angry. She sulked. She pouted, never in a way that Mom could see, because Mom would start giving Amy the third degree.
She shoved Amy as hard as she could, and then she heard the noise happen.
Her legs didn't move as well as she wanted to, and Amy was holding her tightly. More fireworks, gunshots, rang out.
She felt warm. Amy loved her, and Vicky had saved her. That was what heroes did. Dad would be sad. Mom would be angry. But she had done the right thing.
And that was what mattered.
--
Amy threw the basketball at her, and Vicky caught it expertly, working it into a spin on her finger. She rolled her shoulders, faking a yawn as she kept it spinning, then switched to dribbling it.
Amy rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Yes, Vicky, you're
very good at what you do."
"Yeah, well, can't
do anything with it, can I?" She dribbled the ball between her legs, doing a fake-fakeout of her sister, who was just standing there. "Under investigation of having super-"
She threw the ball. "-powers."
Woosh. Two points.
"Well, you
do." Amy said, and Vicky's face dropped from amused all the way down to
did anyone hear you say that?
"Shh! And it's not like it would help me in basketball
anyway. Don't you
dare tell Mom and Dad. I want to finish my stuff, first." She already had.
The programming for hard light constructs was finicky, unintuitive. Amy had known from the beginning. Well, not the
beginning, because Vicky had tried to avoid hugs for a few days. Amy had noticed, and Vicky was forced to confess.
"Well, it's a little flattering, isn't it? In a weird way." Amy picked up the basketball, tossing it back to her. "She's so good, she
has to be cheating."
"Yeah, but it's because of the family, too." Vicky dribbled the basketball, then tossed it back.
"Fair enough." Amy bounced the ball, up and down, up and down. "So what's your first thing going to be? Gonna make armor? A shield?"
"Nah." Glory. That was what they were calling her. Carefully dressed in a makeshift costume, and a wig.
Programmed with a
pretty good fuzzy logic system. Not true AI, she couldn't do that. There was also a link system, to allow for fine control. Even a reasonable imitation of speech.
She already had the best sister in the world, one that was selflessly giving her time to help so many people. She'd helped Dad. Mom had left.
The relief Vicky had felt, the
guilt that she felt
better after Mom left. It had all roiled up inside her, squirming and writhing.
That was when she'd woken up with powers, moments later.
Mom had come back. They went to therapy. Things got better. Slowly, but that was the nature of such things.
But something that Vicky was waiting for. She wasn't telling Amy about Glory, for one, very important reason. She wanted to have that surprise, the moment where she'd show her the construct's face. Her present to her hero, who'd done so much.
