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Reposing Force Excerpt #3

She tries to ignore them. 

She moves throughout the lobby at viper-strike speed, winding and twisting through like she's on a heroic journey to Avoid Kingsley And Rowan. She ducks underneath the crowd, tries to find her escape, but there are simply too many people here for it to be effective. Too many metahumans in this crowded world. Too many people seeking help from the Force that they will never receive in the way that they deserve. Too much selfishness. Too much admiration. Too many people talking to her, too many people perceiving her presence in the universe. Too much, too many. It's all just so much, so overwhelming. Ivy melts over the flooring, tries to keep herself intact until she can leave.

She glances back - Kingsley doesn't look pleased. Rowan has him in tow, his hand tightly clasped around Kingsley's hand, dragging him through the chase. He looks like he's tired of Rowan's antics - he must do this often - and he has the body language of someone who would rather be a corpse than be in the current situation.

But when he catches Ivy's gaze, he manages a smile and an awkward wave with his other hand, and it's entirely infuriating. Today was a mistake. Today was, potentially, the biggest mistake of her whole existence. She transforms into something mistaken, a shimmering, shifting inhuman being composed only of fallacy and untruths. She melts, again, over the flooring, and she groans when she pulls her gaze away.

The ridiculousness of the situation does not escape her. It's not as Kira suggested; they're not stalking or harassing her. For some reason, she wishes they were stalking or harassing her instead of the unfathomable, insurmountable truth, which is: they care about her. They're chasing her down to wish her goodbye after meeting her. They're being kind. Ivy is not too familiar with kind; she is, however, familiar with intimidation. It's easier, sometimes, to deal with facing violence than to accept the opposite.

She finally reaches the door, and the cold air bites her face with violent gnashing as she runs into the parking lot. Kingsley and Rowan follow her, because of course - or because they parked out here too, she's not sure - and she stops for a moment to almost consider feeling guilty about this. She has to maneuver herself into guilt, see. It's rather inconvenient; she doesn't know how to feel it on her own.

She knows what she should be doing. She should be opening up and allowing herself to grow. Maybe she can even make a friend. Two friends! She should allow herself to spread her wingspan out over the skies and escape the confinements of herself. She shouldn't be running like this. It's almost embarrassing; her movements are slow and jerking, her body winding down with each step toward her car. She needs to rest.

She looks back, on unholy instinct, and her puny little human heart sinks into itself when she notices that it looks like Rowan has given up. He's hugging Kingsley; they must have reached one of their cars. The car looks historic - and extremely expensive, coated in a light pink shine. They're about to go home.

Silly Ivy, that's what you wanted, she thinks. That is what you wanted, right?

Right?

Ugh. 

She curses under her breath, exhaling the word fuck so many times it's like a new, invented hymn, but she does walk over. In the opposite direction from her car. Away from her car. She does not walk towards her car. She walks away. This is a very important fact that has to be stressed, underlined, emphasized: she walks away from her car, into the metaphorical skies and the literal road, towards Rowan and Kingsley, towards the path of freedom she has impulsively decided to carve. And she keeps walking.

When she approaches, her hands find the inner pockets of her coat, which are surprisingly spacious, the inner fabric soft. She refuses to make eye contact when she says it: "Hi," and then: "Sorry."

"Whatever could you be sorry for," Rowan asks in blatant sarcasm. Kingsley gives him a look. "Well, it's okay," he continues. "We just don't know a lot of people here."

"We wanted to say goodbye," Kingsley chimes in. "You really helped us out today. We wanted to thank you."

"The treadmill thing," Rowan exclaims, lighting up in intrigue. "Kingsley told me about it. Cool as fuck."

Her mouth stumbles open, and remains there for a few seconds before she can parse what she's hearing. "Uh… wow. It's - it's no problem, really. I mean, join the Reposing Force to help people, right?"

"Yeah, I mean, in an ideal world, that'd be the main motivation, yes," Kingsley says, a saddened laugh.

"Well, it's… my motivation. I think," she lies. 

"So, what else are you gonna do if you get in?" Rowan asks.

Ivy considers it. She didn't think that far ahead. She wonders if anyone does, if most people apply to join the Force after establishing an intricate, detailed plan of how they're going to spend their time within it. In an ideal world, as Kingsley said, that would occur. She feels selfish. She is selfish; she applied for her own well-being instead of wanting to maintain the well-being of others. But who takes care of Ivy? Who believes in her enough, who is kind enough, who is brave enough, to look after her? No one in this city can manage such a difficult feat.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Um, once I get back on my feet? Might start… uh… painting in my free time?”

She can’t quite figure out why she expects them to laugh, but her first instinct is to expect ridicule. That doesn’t get you anywhere in life, her father once said. You need to make something of yourself. Don’t embarrass us.

Kingsley’s face only lights up at her words. “Oh, you paint?” 

“I used to,” Ivy replies, blatantly awkward. “I haven’t since… a while. But I always said I’d come back to it when I could.”

“If you do, I’d love to buy one of your paintings,” Kingsley tells her, and she hates him for it. She was never supposed to see them again, they were supposed to get lost in the city waters; she wanted to see them again, she was supposed to make a friend. Her desires are failing, and conquering. Defeat, victorious. She wants so many different things, distinct wants and needs and fears, all contradictory, enough to fill up a city. She hates him for it and she wants to fall to her knees in shocks of sobs and she wants to hug him and she wants, above all, to die. It’s not very logical.

“Wow,” she says, her tone flat now. “Thank you.”

“I think I heard they sell their members’ art in auctions sometimes,” Rowan offers. “So, you know, if you get in, that might be something to look into.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Kingsley turns to Rowan. “I can drive you up the parking ramp, Ro,” he says, and then turns back to Ivy, grinning. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” she says. “Nah, I’m good. So…”

“I can walk you to you car.”

She screams, wails, in her internal world. In the external world, within the constraints of reality, her body speaks of its own accord: “That’d be nice.”

“And I am getting in ours,” Rowan announces. “Sorry. It’s, you know, cold. But it was really nice to meet you, Ivy.”