Schroedinger's Arrow
“Everything is so clean in the comics.”
The edge of the knife bit into the skin of the apple, revealing a pale swath of flesh as the skin was peeled away in a single, steady curl. Over the smell of ammonia and blood, the scent of the apple was tart and unpleasant. It made my stomach give a weak wrench, and I had to swallow the sudden flood of salty saliva in my mouth before I retched again.
“Wade Wilson, Deadpool. You know him? Supposedly he’s got this super-active cancer that’s at war with his super healing. Supposed to make him look like a piece of bubbling meat. Instead, he looks like a Tom Cruise with a bad case of acne.”
The apple peel fell to the ground, a brighter spiral of red amongst the darkened splatters of blood on the cream Berber carpet. The knife made a soft wet sound as it carved a wedge from the apple.
“Cyclops. What’s his name… Scott Summers. Laser beams from his eyes that can demolish entire city blocks. You think they ever show folks getting bisected or hell, just blown to pieces? Giant chunky gaping chest wounds? Nope. Anybody he shoots is either resilient as heck or just has flesh wounds.”
The section of apple, pierced on the edge of the knife, was held out to my face, pressed against my lips. I tightened my jaw, struggled not to inhale the nauseating stench. After a brief pause, my captor shrugged and ate the slice himself.
“But you know who the worst offender is?” He set the rest of the apple on top of my head. “The one that should be the goriest but always comes out squeaky clean?” When I tried to shake the apple off he slapped me hard across the face, hard enough that the world rocked and blessed darkness yawned and stretched out hands to drag me into unconsciousness. But I didn’t pass out. Breathing sharply through my teeth, I glared at him, willfully wishing with every shred of my being that I could set him ablaze with the raw strength of my hatred.
He didn’t combust. His smile would have been warm were it not for the flat, reptilian glow of his yellow eyes, luminescent in the standing lamp beside me. “The worst offender,” he said, “is Kitty Pryde. Shadowcat. You know, the phasing chick?” He set the apple on top of my head again and looked down at me. I didn’t shake it off. Still smiling, he walked across the room.
“Shadowcat can phase through just about anything. Any incarnation, the movies, the comics, the cartoons, that’s Kitty’s schtick. She phases. Yeah, sure, writers have been creative with what she can do, but seriously, does no one see how many problems could be solved by having Shadowcat sneak into whatever installation some villain is holed up in and having her phase out their heart? The woman knows how many martial art styles, and not once does she frickin’ phase someone’s head off from their body? Hell, just have her tackle someone off a roof-“ He turned to me then, arching an eyebrow. “Oh right. You know how that one goes, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. His blow had split my lip. I felt blood running down my chin in a tickling trickle.
He chuckled. From behind the couch, he retrieved my bow. Found one of my arrows near the fireplace where it had fallen. He nocked the arrow, but didn’t draw as he looked at me. “Kitty Pryde, man. You know what I would do if I had her powers?”
This time he waited, the amber glow of his eyes narrowed on mine. I forced my bruised throat to function. “What would you do?” He smiled at my obedience, perfectly aligned bleached white teeth baring.
“For starters, I wouldn’t be in that chair.” He nodded at me, at the ropes around my wrists. “I wouldn’t have been captured to begin with. Kiddy Pryde wouldn’t lose a fist-fight. Nothing would touch her. But look at you: bleeding, tied up, beaten. ” He chuckled again, amused by himself. “The second thing I would do is find the nearest bank, and just walk out with everything. And I mean everything. And if anyone tried to stop me? I’d just rip their hearts right out.” He lifted the bow. “I wouldn’t move right now. Don’t want to have any accidents.”
My stomach churned again, an acid bath of fear. “I don’t have Kitty Pryde’s powers.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” He drew the arrow back, silver and black fletching almost brushing his ear.
“This isn’t a comic book!”
He grinned. “Then this is going to suck, isn’t it?”
“Chad!” I shouted, lunging forward in the chair, but the rope held tight. The apple tumbled off my head.
The arrow punched through my right arm, high along the bicep, and I let loose a breathless shriek of pain. I sagged, panting and struggling to bite back the animal whimpers that threatened to escape me. I didn’t quite succeed.
Chad sighed, tsked. “You moved.”
I didn’t hear him as he came close to me. The arrow had gone through cleanly, straight into the wood of the high-backed chair I had been tied to, nailing me in my seat. It was taking all of my willpower not to start making a mess of myself from the sheer agony in my arm. Fighting vertigo and nausea, I willed myself not to pass out from shock.
He plucked the apple from where it had fallen on the carpet. The previously pale flesh had begun to turn a sour, bruised yellow, speckled with dirt from the floor. He continued past me, through the doorway to the kitchen. I heard the sound of running water.
“So, what do you do, Anna?” He lifted his voice over the sound of the sink. “You’re a Second, right? But I’ve never seen you do anything.” Drawers rattled as he searched them.
I was breathing fast, near-hyperventilating. My arm was soaked with my blood. I wanted to vomit. Or cry. Or just start screaming hysterically until Chad came back and shut me up for good. I couldn’t afford it, couldn’t afford any of the things I wanted to do or was terrified of what would occur, for a very important reason: Chad wasn’t watching me.
I jerked my left arm. The motion set off sharp pain through my body. I ignored the pain, curled my hand into a fist, and jerked my arm again, hard, against the rope tying me to the armrest. Jerked again. Whimpered, bit my lower lip to stifle it, and pulled.
The rope was obdurate, refusing to give. My arm was another story: it lifted half an inch, then a whole inch, and then more, the rope slipping through the flesh, muscle and bone of my arm as though my limb was no more solid than a bowl of gelatin. And it hurt, far outstripping the pain in my right arm, the throbbing ache in my head. It took no more than eight or ten agonizing seconds for my arm to slip through the rope, but by the time wrist popped free with a sick squelch I was covered in sweat, my vision dark with swirling spots of vertigo.
I sat for several blissful seconds that I couldn’t afford and simply enjoyed the normal pain of being shot with an arrow. My left hand from the wrist down was tingling from the brief cessation of blood.
I looked at my other arm. I didn’t know if I had the willpower to try translating myself through the rope, and I didn’t want to risk fainting with a physical object halfway imbedded in my wrist; the arrow was bad enough. I forced my numb left fingers to attempt the knots in the rope, my grip clumsy.
Chad had not ceased talking. “I know what they call you: Schrodinger’s Cat or some crap like that. That supposed to be like some sort of superhero name? I tell you, it’s a shitty name. What does it even mean? You can’t just have some vague name like that. It has to be descriptive. Cyclops had one massive eye beam. Spider-Man could do what a spider could. Me? I’m Bulletproof, and guess what? Bullets bounce right off me!
“So you have to tell me what you do, Anna, so we can get this Schrodenwhatever crap cleaned up, because seriously, what is that supposed to be?”
The rope wasn’t budging. A sob escaped before I clamped down on it quickly. I had to do this, and I had to do it right now, before Chad came back into the den. I didn’t count, didn’t think, just threw my entire body forward as hard as I could, feeling the immediate pain as the rope and arrow tore at my arm.
Christ!
I must have made a sound louder than a sob, because Chad rushed back into the room. “What-“
Screaming, I wrenched myself free and out of the chair, threw myself sideways into the lamp. It and I toppled over with a crash, shattering the bulb, plunging the den into darkness.
Sweet, merciful darkness.
Chad had a gun. He opened fire as I scrambled forward, tearing my nails on the carpet and not feeling as I dove prone behind the couch. I felt a burning pain as one of the bullets passed through my chest, disrupting my heart for an unsteady beat, but leaving no lasting damage. In the darkness I was untouchable.
I felt the floor quiver with Chad’s footsteps as he circled the couch. He had a flashlight. The beam shone bright on the floor.
I visualized the room in my mind: the couch, the coffee table in front of it, the fireplace to the right. I held my breath, and jaunted myself through the couch to the other side. Jaunting- I couldn’t do it without sufficient darkness, but it sure as hell hurt a lot less than the semi-solid state I had used to get out of the chair.
Chad’s beam swung to where I had been lying. I heard him curse. His light cut a short arc towards me. I jaunted past the coffee table and dropped as flat as I could.
“Where are you?” From where I lay I watched his boots thud into view. The flashlight swung past the table, in a quick arc across the room. “Where are you?”
I closed my eyes. Released a slow, shaky breath to try and calm myself.
“When I find you, I’m going to-“
I never found out what Chad was going to do. I jaunted to my feet, behind him, and with the beautiful darkness facilitating my powers, plunged my arm to the wrist through his back. Chad froze, his breath cutting off into a choked gasp.
I leaned against him. “Heart-ripping. I can do that.” I jaunted away, to the wall, and hit the switch for the lights over the fireplace.
Chad collapsed, eyes wide and already vacant, dead before he hit the carpet.
I dropped the hot, sticky mass of tissue in my hand without looking at it. I was tired, battered, and I very dearly wanted to collapse, but instead I limped into the kitchen. Most of my gear was still scattered on the countertop. I found my cellphone and dialed the number by memory.
“Joanie’s Pizza.” The voice was perky, pleasant, and androgynous.
“Got him.” Chad’s blood ran from my fingertips, dripping onto the linoleum.
There was a silence. The voice spoke again, all perky and pleasantness gone. “Come home, Arrow.”
“Understood.”
The edge of the knife bit into the skin of the apple, revealing a pale swath of flesh as the skin was peeled away in a single, steady curl. Over the smell of ammonia and blood, the scent of the apple was tart and unpleasant. It made my stomach give a weak wrench, and I had to swallow the sudden flood of salty saliva in my mouth before I retched again.
“Wade Wilson, Deadpool. You know him? Supposedly he’s got this super-active cancer that’s at war with his super healing. Supposed to make him look like a piece of bubbling meat. Instead, he looks like a Tom Cruise with a bad case of acne.”
The apple peel fell to the ground, a brighter spiral of red amongst the darkened splatters of blood on the cream Berber carpet. The knife made a soft wet sound as it carved a wedge from the apple.
“Cyclops. What’s his name… Scott Summers. Laser beams from his eyes that can demolish entire city blocks. You think they ever show folks getting bisected or hell, just blown to pieces? Giant chunky gaping chest wounds? Nope. Anybody he shoots is either resilient as heck or just has flesh wounds.”
The section of apple, pierced on the edge of the knife, was held out to my face, pressed against my lips. I tightened my jaw, struggled not to inhale the nauseating stench. After a brief pause, my captor shrugged and ate the slice himself.
“But you know who the worst offender is?” He set the rest of the apple on top of my head. “The one that should be the goriest but always comes out squeaky clean?” When I tried to shake the apple off he slapped me hard across the face, hard enough that the world rocked and blessed darkness yawned and stretched out hands to drag me into unconsciousness. But I didn’t pass out. Breathing sharply through my teeth, I glared at him, willfully wishing with every shred of my being that I could set him ablaze with the raw strength of my hatred.
He didn’t combust. His smile would have been warm were it not for the flat, reptilian glow of his yellow eyes, luminescent in the standing lamp beside me. “The worst offender,” he said, “is Kitty Pryde. Shadowcat. You know, the phasing chick?” He set the apple on top of my head again and looked down at me. I didn’t shake it off. Still smiling, he walked across the room.
“Shadowcat can phase through just about anything. Any incarnation, the movies, the comics, the cartoons, that’s Kitty’s schtick. She phases. Yeah, sure, writers have been creative with what she can do, but seriously, does no one see how many problems could be solved by having Shadowcat sneak into whatever installation some villain is holed up in and having her phase out their heart? The woman knows how many martial art styles, and not once does she frickin’ phase someone’s head off from their body? Hell, just have her tackle someone off a roof-“ He turned to me then, arching an eyebrow. “Oh right. You know how that one goes, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. His blow had split my lip. I felt blood running down my chin in a tickling trickle.
He chuckled. From behind the couch, he retrieved my bow. Found one of my arrows near the fireplace where it had fallen. He nocked the arrow, but didn’t draw as he looked at me. “Kitty Pryde, man. You know what I would do if I had her powers?”
This time he waited, the amber glow of his eyes narrowed on mine. I forced my bruised throat to function. “What would you do?” He smiled at my obedience, perfectly aligned bleached white teeth baring.
“For starters, I wouldn’t be in that chair.” He nodded at me, at the ropes around my wrists. “I wouldn’t have been captured to begin with. Kiddy Pryde wouldn’t lose a fist-fight. Nothing would touch her. But look at you: bleeding, tied up, beaten. ” He chuckled again, amused by himself. “The second thing I would do is find the nearest bank, and just walk out with everything. And I mean everything. And if anyone tried to stop me? I’d just rip their hearts right out.” He lifted the bow. “I wouldn’t move right now. Don’t want to have any accidents.”
My stomach churned again, an acid bath of fear. “I don’t have Kitty Pryde’s powers.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” He drew the arrow back, silver and black fletching almost brushing his ear.
“This isn’t a comic book!”
He grinned. “Then this is going to suck, isn’t it?”
“Chad!” I shouted, lunging forward in the chair, but the rope held tight. The apple tumbled off my head.
The arrow punched through my right arm, high along the bicep, and I let loose a breathless shriek of pain. I sagged, panting and struggling to bite back the animal whimpers that threatened to escape me. I didn’t quite succeed.
Chad sighed, tsked. “You moved.”
I didn’t hear him as he came close to me. The arrow had gone through cleanly, straight into the wood of the high-backed chair I had been tied to, nailing me in my seat. It was taking all of my willpower not to start making a mess of myself from the sheer agony in my arm. Fighting vertigo and nausea, I willed myself not to pass out from shock.
He plucked the apple from where it had fallen on the carpet. The previously pale flesh had begun to turn a sour, bruised yellow, speckled with dirt from the floor. He continued past me, through the doorway to the kitchen. I heard the sound of running water.
“So, what do you do, Anna?” He lifted his voice over the sound of the sink. “You’re a Second, right? But I’ve never seen you do anything.” Drawers rattled as he searched them.
I was breathing fast, near-hyperventilating. My arm was soaked with my blood. I wanted to vomit. Or cry. Or just start screaming hysterically until Chad came back and shut me up for good. I couldn’t afford it, couldn’t afford any of the things I wanted to do or was terrified of what would occur, for a very important reason: Chad wasn’t watching me.
I jerked my left arm. The motion set off sharp pain through my body. I ignored the pain, curled my hand into a fist, and jerked my arm again, hard, against the rope tying me to the armrest. Jerked again. Whimpered, bit my lower lip to stifle it, and pulled.
The rope was obdurate, refusing to give. My arm was another story: it lifted half an inch, then a whole inch, and then more, the rope slipping through the flesh, muscle and bone of my arm as though my limb was no more solid than a bowl of gelatin. And it hurt, far outstripping the pain in my right arm, the throbbing ache in my head. It took no more than eight or ten agonizing seconds for my arm to slip through the rope, but by the time wrist popped free with a sick squelch I was covered in sweat, my vision dark with swirling spots of vertigo.
I sat for several blissful seconds that I couldn’t afford and simply enjoyed the normal pain of being shot with an arrow. My left hand from the wrist down was tingling from the brief cessation of blood.
I looked at my other arm. I didn’t know if I had the willpower to try translating myself through the rope, and I didn’t want to risk fainting with a physical object halfway imbedded in my wrist; the arrow was bad enough. I forced my numb left fingers to attempt the knots in the rope, my grip clumsy.
Chad had not ceased talking. “I know what they call you: Schrodinger’s Cat or some crap like that. That supposed to be like some sort of superhero name? I tell you, it’s a shitty name. What does it even mean? You can’t just have some vague name like that. It has to be descriptive. Cyclops had one massive eye beam. Spider-Man could do what a spider could. Me? I’m Bulletproof, and guess what? Bullets bounce right off me!
“So you have to tell me what you do, Anna, so we can get this Schrodenwhatever crap cleaned up, because seriously, what is that supposed to be?”
The rope wasn’t budging. A sob escaped before I clamped down on it quickly. I had to do this, and I had to do it right now, before Chad came back into the den. I didn’t count, didn’t think, just threw my entire body forward as hard as I could, feeling the immediate pain as the rope and arrow tore at my arm.
Christ!
I must have made a sound louder than a sob, because Chad rushed back into the room. “What-“
Screaming, I wrenched myself free and out of the chair, threw myself sideways into the lamp. It and I toppled over with a crash, shattering the bulb, plunging the den into darkness.
Sweet, merciful darkness.
Chad had a gun. He opened fire as I scrambled forward, tearing my nails on the carpet and not feeling as I dove prone behind the couch. I felt a burning pain as one of the bullets passed through my chest, disrupting my heart for an unsteady beat, but leaving no lasting damage. In the darkness I was untouchable.
I felt the floor quiver with Chad’s footsteps as he circled the couch. He had a flashlight. The beam shone bright on the floor.
I visualized the room in my mind: the couch, the coffee table in front of it, the fireplace to the right. I held my breath, and jaunted myself through the couch to the other side. Jaunting- I couldn’t do it without sufficient darkness, but it sure as hell hurt a lot less than the semi-solid state I had used to get out of the chair.
Chad’s beam swung to where I had been lying. I heard him curse. His light cut a short arc towards me. I jaunted past the coffee table and dropped as flat as I could.
“Where are you?” From where I lay I watched his boots thud into view. The flashlight swung past the table, in a quick arc across the room. “Where are you?”
I closed my eyes. Released a slow, shaky breath to try and calm myself.
“When I find you, I’m going to-“
I never found out what Chad was going to do. I jaunted to my feet, behind him, and with the beautiful darkness facilitating my powers, plunged my arm to the wrist through his back. Chad froze, his breath cutting off into a choked gasp.
I leaned against him. “Heart-ripping. I can do that.” I jaunted away, to the wall, and hit the switch for the lights over the fireplace.
Chad collapsed, eyes wide and already vacant, dead before he hit the carpet.
I dropped the hot, sticky mass of tissue in my hand without looking at it. I was tired, battered, and I very dearly wanted to collapse, but instead I limped into the kitchen. Most of my gear was still scattered on the countertop. I found my cellphone and dialed the number by memory.
“Joanie’s Pizza.” The voice was perky, pleasant, and androgynous.
“Got him.” Chad’s blood ran from my fingertips, dripping onto the linoleum.
There was a silence. The voice spoke again, all perky and pleasantness gone. “Come home, Arrow.”
“Understood.”