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A Chance for Something Else
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Frank Chance had a powerful affect to him. A sort of 'presence' that forced people to notice him. That made him a good bouncer. The man often needed only to look at a trouble-maker and the conflict was over before it ever became a conflict. And in the stubborn cases, well... Frank had earned a number black belts and a greater number of scars growing up.
That's how Katsuro noticed him. Frank was introduced to a whole new scene. Bright city lights. Call-girls. Drugs, prostitution and guns. It was a living, good money, a chance for something else, and it would have been more, for better or worse, if Frank would only compromise his morals. That particular coin had two sides, both for Frank and Katsuro. Frank's 'code', his integrity, quickly earned him Katsuro's trust. It also angered the gang boss that his most promising and respected bodyguard refused promotion time after time. He wouldn't make hits.
So, Frank stood by Katsuro's side. He made sure nobody could lay a finger on the man's sharp suit. He met an enigmatic woman, Emi, one of the many Japanese call-girls Katsuro employed, and fell in love with her. It was a generous gift to a trusted bodyguard when the gang boss released Emi from her debt and her services were terminated. Soon after, it was announced that she was pregnant with Frank's baby, and they were both truly happy for once.
Two weeks before Emi and Frank's baby, to be named Emilia, is born...
"Frank...?" Emi looked worriedly at the door. The ra-ta-tap was sharp and precise and it had been too long since they had seen visitors. Too quiet, like the single moment in time, stretching for eternity, when a predator holds its breath and tenses its muscles, ready for the kill.
Neither of them were surprised to see a pair of men, in clean pressed suits, standing in the hallway between apartments when he swung the door open. "Katsuro sends his regards," the man with the slicked long hair said crisply.
"Look, if he's asking me to come back again," Frank answered an unspoken question, "tell him I appreciate his interest, but I can't. I have other responsibilities in my hands, now."
The men nodded, watched him turn toward his fiance. They watched Katsuro's favorite bodyguard, ex-bodyguard, put a supportive arm around Emi's back where she sat wearily on the bed, her slim frame bulging at the tummy with a child eight and a half months in the womb. "Nobody leaves."
That's how Katsuro noticed him. Frank was introduced to a whole new scene. Bright city lights. Call-girls. Drugs, prostitution and guns. It was a living, good money, a chance for something else, and it would have been more, for better or worse, if Frank would only compromise his morals. That particular coin had two sides, both for Frank and Katsuro. Frank's 'code', his integrity, quickly earned him Katsuro's trust. It also angered the gang boss that his most promising and respected bodyguard refused promotion time after time. He wouldn't make hits.
So, Frank stood by Katsuro's side. He made sure nobody could lay a finger on the man's sharp suit. He met an enigmatic woman, Emi, one of the many Japanese call-girls Katsuro employed, and fell in love with her. It was a generous gift to a trusted bodyguard when the gang boss released Emi from her debt and her services were terminated. Soon after, it was announced that she was pregnant with Frank's baby, and they were both truly happy for once.
Two weeks before Emi and Frank's baby, to be named Emilia, is born...
"Frank...?" Emi looked worriedly at the door. The ra-ta-tap was sharp and precise and it had been too long since they had seen visitors. Too quiet, like the single moment in time, stretching for eternity, when a predator holds its breath and tenses its muscles, ready for the kill.
Neither of them were surprised to see a pair of men, in clean pressed suits, standing in the hallway between apartments when he swung the door open. "Katsuro sends his regards," the man with the slicked long hair said crisply.
"Look, if he's asking me to come back again," Frank answered an unspoken question, "tell him I appreciate his interest, but I can't. I have other responsibilities in my hands, now."
The men nodded, watched him turn toward his fiance. They watched Katsuro's favorite bodyguard, ex-bodyguard, put a supportive arm around Emi's back where she sat wearily on the bed, her slim frame bulging at the tummy with a child eight and a half months in the womb. "Nobody leaves."
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Comments
Two things though.
1. In the beginning I believe you should have used 'effect.' Whenever you are using effect as a verb though, it becomes 'affecting.' From what I can see in the first sentence it does not seem to be used as a verb, rather more like an adjective or noun.
2. Just be weary of your comma usage, I could see sometimes in the story where one was not needed. I'll show one of them for you.
Pretty sure you can take off both commas surrounding "pressed suits." You might also be able to break up that long sentence into two more compact ones. Like this.
"Neither of them were surprised to see a pair of men in clean pressed suits standing in the hallway. They were both between apartments when he swung the door open."
Wiki: Affect, like the adjective affective, refers to the experience of feeling or emotion.[1] Affect is a key part of the process of an organisms interaction with stimuli. The word also refers sometimes to affect display, which is "a facial, vocal, or gestural behavior that serves as an indicator of affect." (APA 2006)
Affect display refers to the impetus for observable expression of emotion; for the human being that expression or feeling displayed to others through facial expressions, hand gestures, voice tone and other emotional signs such as laughter or tears is a part of a series of non-conscious or conscious cognitive events. Many aspects of the expressions vary between and within cultures and are displayed in various forms ranging from the most discreet of facial expressions to the most dramatic and prolific gestures (Batson, 1992).
AFA tha commas- as you say, both could go. However, for clarity either:
clean, pressed suits... Separate the adjectives.
Or: men, in clean pressed suits, ...Set off the descriptive clause.
Oooh. Thanks for the feedback, both of you.
Erall has it right, as for how I was using 'affect', but I did clean up the commas. I didn't actually remove any, but I was dissatisfied with them as I'd originally placed them in that line, so I moved them to set out the descriptive clause as Erall suggested. And yeah... I recognize I need to watch my commas. Sometimes, I find, I have more commas in my sentences than I have 'E's! :P
Two simple words shot from the doorway, bullets with Frank and Emi's names traced elegantly in blood. Their crime was simple: aspiring to be happier, to be greater, than the victorious son. Katsuro prided himself on having the best life possible and proving to the world beneath him that it was better. Frank and Emi threatened that by being happy in mediocrity. And Frank had shaken the foundations of fear that held Katsuro aloft when he left the gang by his own will.
Katsuro had sent these two men to right that imbalance in his little world. To claim victory from the palm that slapped his face. The trained killers didn't hesitate to spit lead into the room. Four pistols flashed repeatedly, piercing the night with screams of terror and the anguished cries of a shattered future. As quickly as it started, the nightmare ended.
The assassins unloaded 32 bullets from paired Colt Double Eagles, the newest semi-automatic pistols Katsuro could equip his hitmen with, and turned away from the grisly scene. If either of the targets lived still, they wouldn't for much longer. Emi's neck was pierced. Crimson sprayed from the gaping hole with each frantic pump of her heart, desperately and futilely churning blood through a body riddled with holes. Only her torso and stomach, and the precious contents within, were spared perforation, shielded at the last moment by Frank's own body.
"F-f-frank." Emi's stuttered whisper pushed against the stunned silence of a world faded to shades of grey. He was still alive, and in this surreal sludge at the edge of death, so was the mother of his child. "E-emilia. T-take - take k-c - love her..."
Frank didn't stop to wonder how he had lived. He didn't pause to ask why he was washed in more of Emi's blood than his own. She died in his arms before the police arrived. Before the paramedics raced her lifeless body to the emergency room. Monitors beeped and bipped irregularly; there was still hope for his daughter.
While Frank waited, watching a team of surgeons carefully extract the unborn child from Emi's lifeless womb through a pair of tiny windows, Katsuro's assassins had reported back. While Frank ignored the accusing growl of men flanking him, his police 'escorts', Katsuro berated the hitmen. Word had already reached the would-be crime lord that Frank was alive and well, and awaiting the delivery of a premature baby from a dead call-girl.
Hours passed. Frank Chance watched the hustle of doctors and surgeons surrounding his lover's dying wish slow to a crawl. He choked back a tear at the sight of his Emi's carefully dissected corpse while four more of Katsuro's well-dressed thugs inquired politely about a recently arrived couple and their unborn baby.
Well done, as always. Guess I have to get on the stick...so to speak...]
(( ))
*snrk* Just trying to get the jump on ya. I'm still the tortoise and you're still the Energizer Bunny of emo.
"Just tell me if she's gonna live, Doc," Frank interrupted. The stammering doctor had grown close to the bouncer over the years, and that friendship had carried through his time working under Katsuro, and been extended to Emi in turn. Doc Martin and Emi had turned to serve as Frank's conscience when he questioned himself, when he did the math, how much he could buy off just one of Katsuro's big hit payouts. What kind of life he could live, raise his family in. The doctor felt Emi's loss in a different way. He feared for what Frank would do, where he would end up, and where that would leave his daughter. Frank's tone and that intractable furrow between his eyebrows worried his long-time friend even more. "Tell me how long she's got."
"Sh-she's healthy, Frank," Martin stuttered. "She... she's gonna make it."
"I wanna see her."
"You can't. Not yet," he emphasized quickly under Frank's scathing glare. "She's being taken to the N.I. -- Frank, she needs neonatal care! You have to wait!"
Shorter by inches, but lighter by a third, Dr. Martin was the least imposing barrier to the anxious father. Standing at 6'2" and 230 pounds, Frank packed a lot more lean muscle than even his imposing build suggested. Though trim, Martin knew the man rivaled or outclassed professional bodybuilders gloating rippling pecs and bulging biceps half again his girth, and more importantly, the man knew how to use it. The police escorts didn't know him as anything more than the prime suspect in a pregnant call-girl's murder. One whom their captain had agreed could stay in the hospital to await news of his unborn daughter.
He had that news, by their reckoning, and now it was time for him to come back to the station. There would be questions, but first, there was gunfire. The hospital erupted in panic as four of Katsuro's men, shoulder-length black hair combed and slicked back just above the black collar of sharp suits, lit up the policemen and the walls behind them.
When the screaming of nurses and interns, and the terrified pleading of sick patients finally rose above the subsiding cacophony of death, Frank lifted his arms in surrender and turned to the new group of assassins. Behind him, the good doctor cowered against the admittance door, no longer a secure and sanitary portal by any stretch.
The men in the suits lowered their pistols and Frank raised his eyes to meet them, jaw set in foolhardy determination. Frank was outgunned and, even though Katsuro had taken so much from him already, he still had more to lose than all four men combined. And something in their smug grins told him they knew exactly what that was.
"Katsuro gives you a great honor. He will kill you himself."
"What's in it for me?"
"He will not kill your little girl."
"Doc... make sure Emilia gets a good life. Give 'er to a good family."
How would he keep Emilia, Emi's dying wish, safe from the life he'd become so deeply entrenched in?
Would Katsuro keep his promise? Would he reconsider his intent to kill if Frank came back? If he finally took that promotion and lowered himself to doing Katsuro's killing for him? Or would Frank's death be the only chance Emilia would have at a normal life? And would that be what Emi wanted?
What Frank didn't give any weight to, while asking himself questions that only time could answer, were the intent stares aimed at cowing him into submission. Like headlights turned on a cardboard cutout of a deer, Frank gave Katsuro's men no satisfaction. So, when they arrived, not only were the four men bristling with ill-placed confidence for bringing in the man of the hour... they were also stinging from a wounded pride. Frank was shoved out of the limo, then pushed angrily under the wide aluminum door into the warehouse Katsuro would make Frank's tomb.
"You..." echoed Katsuro's voice from the shadows ahead, accompanied by a slow, insincere clap, "are a very difficult man to kill, Frank."
"I sent two of my best men," he recounted when Frank said nothing, "and they returned with empty clips. So, when I heard, not even ten minutes later, that you were alive and well... and awaiting the delivery of your precious little girl... I had to see you die with my own eyes. By my own hand."
"Lucky me." Frank shifted his eyes to take in his surroundings. Some empty crates offered a place to hide, but wouldn't do much to stop a bullet. The room was poorly lit, but with ten triggers chasing him, including Katsuro's modified pistols, they wouldn't need to see him at all. "You haven't killed me already," he negotiated with a flat calm barely containing desperation that would echo hollowly throughout the large, open room. "You must want something."
"What do you want, Frank?"
Under the gun, the ex-bodyguard knew Katsuro was looking for an honest answer. He was mocking, and respecting, the integrity that had both made and broken Frank's career, and soon, his life. Playing hardball could only drive a foul, so Frank bared himself. "I want to raise Emi's daughter. My daughter."
"What? Do you really think you can raise a child? Provide her with any kind of life? Frank, do you really think you're the best future for your little girl? Let her go to a good family," he sneered derisively. "You just have to return, Frank... and I'll leave that darling baby of yours to live without ever knowing her daddy was a screw up!"
Before Frank could react, Katsuro spun a pistol from its snug holster hidden under his clean black suit. Lead streaked from the blue-tinted barrel, doubling Frank over like a Louisville Slugger cracking against his tightly-ridged stomach. The second shot rang out before Frank hit the floor, and then another, expertly aimed to tear his shoulders from his torso in a bloody mess.
'YOU MADE A JOKE OF ME!" Katsuro screamed. Deliberately, the shamed gang boss ejected the clip from his gun. He watched Frank push himself to his feet, with a grunt and a grimace, as he chambered a single signed bullet. Met Frank's defiant eyes, and leveled his special edition Double Eagle at his chest with an acrid smile.
Katsuro's signature flashed in the dim light, echoing its battle cry through the warehouse.
Frank stumbled a half step back. His stomach was bleeding. His shoulders ached. And his chest stung where a father's signed death warrant had impacted.
"Looks like the rules of have changed. You killed Emi. You threatened to kill our daughter," he intoned with a low growl and a faint English accent. "I think our contract's up for renegotiation."
Officers Cross and Marks expected to find nothing but blood, bodies and casings when they arrived at the warehouse. Shots had been heard, rival gangs or mobs marking their turf perhaps, and it was called in to dispatch. They expected the blare of sirens screaming down the street would have scattered anyone still alive. But this was Millenium City. So they moved into position and wated for back-up, putting the methodical thud and responding grunt coming from beyond the tin roll-up door out of mind. Lieutenant Grier was only seconds away, with another officer, and then they would rush in. Safety in numbers.
-Crack!-
"Freeze! Don't move! Hands behind! On the! Your head! Ground NOW!!!"
Four voices swirled in under the door and quickly scattered to surround Frank. Their footsteps echoed hollowly among mixed curses and epithets as the ex-bodyguard laid himself prostate in Katsuro's pooling blood. "It's alright. I'm done 'ere." Frank's mild accent underscored a deep satisfaction and stoic resignation to his fate that washed over the the officers as they took in the brutality of the scene. "Were you lot on his payroll?" he asked idly as Officer Cross cuffed him and sympathetically lifted him out of the blood, to his knees.
"No," Lieutenant Griers chuffed. "These kids're too young for that. Mighta been, though. Given time, they mighta been tempted."
"There'll be someone else," Frank grimaced as he rose to his feet. The new cops saw then just how four men, along with Katsuro himself, were lying dead in their own blood. Taking comfort only in the threat of their firearms, Cross and Marks both turned, imposing themselves between Griers and the brawler.
"Aw, leave him. He's not going anywhere. Why don't you two mark off my crime scene? LeTournay, make sure they do it right," he grumbled, waving the two rookies off, in the care of his partner for the day. Griers dragged a cigarette from the scrunched pack in his pocket and did his best to smooth it out while taking in the scene. Five dead bodies, all blunt force trauma. A silver, embossed lighter flicked flame off his fingers and he took a long drag from the wrecked Marlboro as he paced slowly around Katsuro's body. "You did this?"
"We had a disagreement about my contract."
"MmMm..." Griers shook his head slowly. "Bad business for Katsuro."
"Lieutenant, the Inspector will be here in ten. We've got the warehouse taped off."
"Eh? I guess he wants a parting blow with Katsuro's killer. You know he was in his pocket? I guess you do know that, being his right hand for some time, eh?" Griers rambled on at length. He stared at Katsuro, shaking his head a few more times, then asked absently, "How's Emi, Frank?"
"Dead."
All three Officers looked up at Frank. Like an exaggerated tragedy, they followed his mournful gaze to where Katsuro lay, his pretty-boy face pummeled and riddled with bruises, and his neck twisted at an impossible angle. "I'm sorry, Frank," Griers gruffed quietly, breaking the silence with the sentiments they weren't close enough to express. Most of the precinct knew Emi from the local strip joint, but it was high class and didn't serve alcohol, so only a rare few had had occasion to meet Frank, let alone get to know him. "She still pregnant?"
"Born just an hour ago. Healthy baby girl, the doctor says."
Five men stood, offering the memory of Emi a moment of silence, standing over the corpse of her killer and at the side of her avenger. It was Griers who broke the silence again, with a quiet growl that the rookies would remember for years to come. "Any you boys seen anyone when you walked into this warehouse?"
Faces pinched in anger and regret, none of them spoke a word. Hesitant to give any answer at all until Officer LeTournay spoke, "I didn't see nothing but a bunch of dead scum," then the rookies both shook their head tightly. "Didn't see nobody."
Griers sidled up and unlocked the handcuffs, tossing them back to Cross. "Get out of here, Frank."
He's still a grump
He got himself a new place soon after, and read through the hospital's material on raising babies. Called in some favors for a few hours of work here and there to put food on the table. He made arrangements with some of the dancers he trusted, good girls, clean and sweet, to watch Emilia while he was out. And he raised his daughter the best he could.
Frank survived the terrible two's. He weathered the mindful development of a stubborn personality through the equally terrible three's, doing his best to instill his values in her early on. By four, Frank thought he was getting the hang of being a single father and wore a proud sparkle in his eye as his little girl explained why GI Joe always won and then went on to demand ice cream. It became their bonding ritual; after martial arts class, they would share a double-scoop of neopolitan with gummy bears on top. He would eat the vanilla and she finished the rest.
About this time, Frank was certain he was raising a normal, beautiful daughter, and was ready to guide her through a normal life.
"Daddy!" Emilia's terrified cry sank deep into Frank's heart. He had tried so hard to protect her from this scene, and for five full years, hand been successful.
She didn't understand why those men had struck him. Didn't know why the dirty one was rattling a pistol in his direction. Couldn't figure out why Frank was slowly raising his hands in surrender. He was her dad and he was the good guy, and the good guy always won in the cartoons. Nobody ever got hurt. and worst, to Frank, was she didn't know why the bad man wouldn't let her out of the truck.
"You can have it," Frank said slowly. His assailants were frantic, hyped up on drugs, and new to the life of crime. According to their careful plan, Frank was supposed to fall to the ground when the crowbar slammed into the back of his head. But he didn't. The thugs didn't know what to do next and that just made them more dangerous. "Just let me and my daughter go and you can take the truck."
"H-hand 'em over! The keys!" the man with the gun shrieked, swinging it from Frank to the window Emilia was trying to roll down, and back to Frank. "Th-throw 'em on the ground! And your wallet!"
He did as he was instructed, first tossing his keys at the feet of the temporary ringleader, then his wallet. Frank had been shot before. He knew he could smear these five muggers into the concrete of the parking garage. But he didn't want Emilia to see that. And he wouldn't risk a stray shot, or worse, one of them getting the bright idea to use her as leverage.
Time slowed as Emilia clambered out of the window and dropped to the ground. The thugs ignored her, snapped up keys and wallet, and piled into the extended cab, hollering their score to the echoing parking garage as she ran and clamped onto his leg. Frank scooped up his daughter and turned her away, watching the thugs drive off with his truck.
It took several minutes to calm the frightened girl. Frank held her, cradling her head to his shoulder. Through his calming coos, he wondered why he felt a stinging pain in his back, where Emilia clung tightly to him. Though he said nothing, he felt warm blood trickling down his back. When she finally agreed to stand on her own, Frank crouched down with her and took her hands.
"Huh," he remarked, softly running his thumb over razor sharp claws stretching out from her fingertips. "Guess I'll have to find a teacher who can train you in tiger claw kung fu," he said half-jokingly.
"I'm sorry, daddy. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's alright, pumpkin, you didn't know."
"I told you not to call me that!" she commanded, stamping her foot imperiously. The lingering fear ringing young hazel eyes flared with irritation. Both fear and irritation were quickly consumed with worry. Looking down and scuffing her toe across the pavement, she confessed, "Yes, I did."
"You knew? How long Emilia?" he asked, trying to gentle his voice. Frank had long hoped that whatever had happened to give him the strength of ten men and skin like an armored tank had skipped Emilia by. That she could live a normal life. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"A while... I didn't want you to think I was a freak. All the kids at school made fun of Jessie when he --
"Shush, shush pumpkin. Nothing you can do will ever make me think you're a freak," he consoled, scooping her back into his arms as he stood. "How about we go get that ice cream, eh? And when we get home, we can talk about this."
"But daddy," she argued with a child's omniscient exasperation. "You've got blood on your shirt."
"Oh yeah? Well, if anyone asks, I'll tell 'em I was attacked by a vicious alley cat," he replied fluidly, as he started climbing the long, circling ramp up from the bottom level of the garage. He had parked near Emilia's dojo, and her favorite ice cream shop was only a few blocks down from there. But home was several miles; she would be asleep by then. "And you saved me by calming it down."
"Tiger," she corrected with a quiet titter. "I saved you from a giant tiger."
"That you did, I must've been mistaken," he agreed with a smile. "My brave little girl saved me from a giant tiger. How big were 'is fangs, d'you think?"
"'is fangs," she giggled again, imitating his accent, "were as big as your head. And his claws as big as your arms!"
"Whoa. He could've eaten me if you hadn't calmed him down. How much did he weigh?" he continued, encouraging her imagination. From garage to ice cream shop, they went on like that, Frank prodding his daughter the whole way to distract her from any thought of freaks and muggers.
Wait...Frenzy attacked Frank?
"I - I'm sorry Mr. Chance. I have to report this. I could lose my--
"You're going to forget we came in 'ere," Frank interrupted, his mild English accent weaving a hint of calm authority into a low growl. "Am I making myself clear?"
Emilia had clung fearfully to her father. Frank, usually calm and centered, was a powerful, intimidating man when he needed to be. She could feel the weight of his unspoken threat and was sure the doctor was cowering under it. He'd used so many big words that she didn't understand, and that hadn't put her fears at ease in the least, but it wasn't until the man had said two striking words that she wanted to cry again. Social Services.
Frank had immediately scooped her up from the man in the white coat, away from his wooden sticks, cold stethoscope, and away from the light he'd shone in her eyes and ears. Emilia Chance couldn't remember a time in her short life when she'd felt so frightened.
"What does an...tero...grade am...nesia mean?" she whispered quietly into Frank's shoulder, sounding it out and repeating it the best she could as he carried her out of the hospital.
_____
"Frank, I'm not fully certified in Emergent Mutagenics yet. I don't even --
"I know, Marty, I know. But I trust you."
"Well... I'll see what I can do. No promises, though," Dr. Martin agreed, resting his eyes on Emilia. It was the first time he'd seen either of them since he'd delivered the girl and Emi's memory crinkled a bittersweet smile in his eyes. "You said Dr. Corbin's diagnosis was anterograde amnesia?"
"Yeah, that's what he said. He also said he had to report me to Social Services 'cause she'd suffered some kind of trauma."
"Well, he's just doing his job. Frank, don't worry about that. I'll give him a call. Just tell me what happened. You said you two were mugged last night, and everything was fine when you put her to bed, right? What about this morning?"
_____
Earlier that day, right around the time Emilia would need to wake up and start getting ready for school, Frank was busy toiling away behind a stove. With a frying pan in one hand and spatula in the other, his daughter was both the first and the last thing on his mind. As the irresistible sizzle of bacon and scrambled eggs with cheddar and Tabasco sauce - Emilia's favorite - teased his nose, he smiled proudly. She was a quick study and learned routine well; only five years old, and she would push her tired, growing bones out of bed and prepare for the day without fuss. Frank had turned her alarm clock off two months ago, and not once had she been late. Oh, she would still fight him on one thing or another. Mismatched shoes, wearing shoes without socks, going to school in her pajamas and brushing her teeth with Pixy Stix were just a few of the arguments he'd had. But when all was said and done, the girl always relented to his wisdom.
And that morning, like any other, he finished heaping eggs and bacon onto two plates and filling two glasses with orange juice just as he heard he rustling about in her room.
But Emilia didn't usually scream when she got out of bed in the morning.
Frank bolted from his chair and barreled into her room. Fearing the worst, his heart leapt into his throat, choking back a strangled cry of alarm at the sight before him. Cowering in the far corner, amid tumbled books, GI Joe figures and a shattered lamp, was a small child-like figure. Covered from head to toe in small white scales, glistening like a freshly hatched snake, the girl looked about the same size and weight as Emilia, and she had the same hazel eyes.
Already wide in terror, staring at her own hand, the trembling child-thing's eyes darted wildly to Frank when he crashed through the door. She pushed herself tighter into the corner and screamed again, tiny white fists balled fearfully in front of her mouth.
"Emilia?" Frank asked cautiously, eyebrows clenching worriedly as he took a slow, careful step toward her.
"Wh-where am I? Who are you?!"
Frank's heart relinquished its death grip on his throat and plummeted, sinking to the deepest pits of his stomach, but he held a firm, gentle tone. "It's me, Emilia. It's daddy."
He crouched, halfway into the room, and reached out toward her encouragingly. Uncertainties in one hand gave way to a renewed fear, shared and opposed in the eyes of his transformed daughter. He knew the girl was Emilia, with a single parent's intimate empathy. Her eyes, her voice, mannerisms, even the way she clenched her fists and pursed her lips. But she didn't know him. Her eyes betrayed the panicked terror of a wild cat stolen from the alleys while it slept, and dropped in a room with unfamiliar scents all around.
"D-daddy?" she finally croaked, recognition coaxed with patient outstretched arms and an unshakable, steady calm, a mask Frank could never allow to betray the agony inside. Emilia's eyes snapped to him and she surged forward. She buried her face in his shoulder and her claws in his back again.
And she bawled.
Emilia didn't know where she was. She didn't know his name or her own. Didn't even know what she was supposed to look like, or if she had always been covered in white scales. What she did know was that in Frank's arms was a sense of security, and everything would be right in the world. He would fix everything that hurt or scared her. And that must mean he was daddy.
He tried waking her gently, before she woke herself a number of times. All that accomplished was giving him a firsthand view of her transformation. Tender skin separated into small diamond scales rising to a rounded point at the bottom angle, with smaller, flatter scales interlocking smoothly along her face, hands and joints. Her hair thickened to translucent wiry bristles and everything but her eyes, lips and inside of her mouth paled to a glossy white. Like a guiding star to her father, a plea for help, for recognition, Emilia's eyes never changed. Hazel gems contained within a darker ring always brightened Frank's most desperate hour of the day, and reminded him at night what it all meant to him.
Frank took quick steps to ease this terror for his daughter. He learned that very first day that the scales were temporary, kinda like a placeholder; she would begin mimicking whatever seemed familiar to her which, although it needn't be said, made for quite an unusual sight. He fished up a picture of herself, taken at the park not two months before, and mini-Frank once again looked like Emilia. Soon after, he had that photo blown up and hung above her bed. A sensitive motion detector came next, with an alert wired into his room so he could be there the moment she woke, and then a half dozen books on the Dr. Corbin's hasty diagnosis. The symptoms matched, but Frank knew there was more to it. Anterograde amnesia didn't usually rearrange flesh into scales. Still, the references offered immeasurable insight into Emilia's troubles, and Frank took some solace in knowing her heart didn't hang as heavily as his.
Six weeks passed by with the ponderous gravity of decades to Frank, but only days to Emilia. She understood her condition within those first days, and it was by her own suggestion that she started a journal - advice shared by a leading expert, according to Frank's new medical texts - so she could remember her triumphs, feel like she was growing up. That gave Frank some hope and swelled his eyes with pride, and the inexorable pair worked together to overcome this shared obstacle.
It was hardly a miracle then, that Emilia woke up one morning and immediately called out for daddy. She still didn't remember her name, where she was or what she looked like, but in her heart, Frank's little girl recognized him as daddy the moment he stepped through the door. It was a victory, and no small victory at that, but it was only the beginning.
She soon began sleeping through the night without losing her memory or her flesh; when she could go a week without suffering a memory loss, Frank put her back in school. It wasn't easy, forgetting her lessons every few days, but Frank's patience and Emilia's resilience carried them toward what was looking more and more like a tunnel someone had left a lantern at the end of.
"You're going to school," he countered her bid for world domination with stern amusement.
"No, I've thought about this, and I think it's best for everyone," she explained confidently.
Frank watched his growing daughter climb into the chair across from him. She speared a clump of scrambled eggs melted together with cheddar cheese and looked up, meeting his steady gaze with her own.
"Alright then Pumpkin, let's hear it. You convince me it's a good reason and we'll go to the park instead."
"Daddy, I'm seven years old. Stop calling me pumpkin," she demanded imperiously. Emilia's lips pursed together while carefully rehearsed words gathered on her tongue. They were ordered, constructed and deconstructed like Frank had taught her - think before you open you mouth. "I'm not learning anything because I keep forgetting and the kids don't like me 'cause they think I'm different," she said, staring intently at her fork. Frank opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a quick, raised finger as she finished, "and my friends are all getting hurt whenever I forget them."
Frank demonstrated his own advice, mulling over his daughter's points before giving her an answer. He filled the sudden silence with a bite of bacon and she finally relieved her fork of its scrambled audience. "Alright. We'll take the day off. But that doesn't solve any of the --
"I know," she interjected quickly, slid off the chair and bounded off to her room. Before he'd set down his fork and reached for a napkin, she ran back out with a G.I. Joe folder. Loose pages peeked messily from the top and sides. "I got a bunch of information about homeschooling for you to look at," she said, eagerly placing the colorful folder in front of his plate. Almost as if to mock him, the cartoon's trademark tagline, Knowing is half the battle, reflected brightly from the dining room lamp.
"We'll talk about it." Frank couldn't contain his pride, so he pulled Emilia into a tight hug. "We'll talk about it," he repeated for his own benefit after she'd returned and climbed back into her seat. Despite what anyone else would class a severe development handicap, his daughter flourished. She formed strong habits, reinforced with patient repetition, and remembered them after losing her memory; considered problems insightfully, even if she didn't have a strong foundation of other peoples examples and mistakes to springboard off of; and no matter what, she never simply gave up.
"Principal Dufus wants to talk to you," she said quietly, youthful voice slipping into his paternal pride like a rainbow over an already perfect picnic in the park.
"Dufenhof," Frank corrected her, flipping open the folder. He thumbed through a few packets and pamphlets she'd collected and looked across the table. "About this?"
Emilia shook her head, lips clamped stubbornly. When Frank didn't pursue the reason for her principal's social call, she finished her breakfast and sat staring at her plate, chewing back a heavy question. "Can we see Marty today?"
"Sure, pumpkin --
"Daa-aad!"
"Isn't there anything else you can think of, Marty?"
"There is another test... they use it to test regenerative sympathy and sensitivity. But Frank," he grimaced, shaking his head, "she's too young."
"I'm not a baby anymore," the youth in question protested through the glass wall. Emilia was sitting in one of the plastic chairs outside Dr. Martin's examination room, with her back to the wall-length window, waiting anxiously for the grown-ups to finish talking about her. Her legs swung idly a half foot from the floor and her head was bowed, eyes intent on the fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I'm seven years old now," she continued her protest, turning to look at them through the window. "I'm not too young for anything."
Frank hardly had the door halfway open and Emilia was squeezing through it. "Hi Dr. Marty!" she greeted with a big smile and a wave. He was one of two people that she could remember on sight after losing her memory. Frank was the other.
"Sheeesh, Frank, you're gonna have to stop feeding this kid," he teased, feigning shock as she climbed onto the paper-covered bed. "You're getting so big, Emilia!"
"It's Emma today," she corrected, tilting her head indignantly. Rolled eyes were quickly chased back into her head with a creased brow and the worried plea of a child told that Santa isn't real and begging her mom and dad to assure her it was just a mean joke. "Daddy says I'm gonna be as big as him. I'm not, right?"
"No, Emma," he chuckled, humoring her name preference. She changed it every time she lost her memory, but always some variation of Emilia. "I don't think you're going to get as big as your dad."
"Good. That would be gross. Sooo... what am I too young for?"
"Well..." Emilia shifted uncomfortably as the men traded meaningful glances. She could make out what they weren't saying easily enough. Do you want me to lie? No, she's too smart for that. This could hurt her. She's a tough little cookie. "There's this neural twitch -- we watch your brain while your body heals an injury."
"It's okay," she shrugged after a moment. "It doesn't really hurt that much."
Frank watched Dr. Martin attach wires to Emilia's head. She was being brave, and he was proud, knowing her courage wasn't unusual, but hesitation pinched his lips. He knew the test involved cutting her. Emilia had told him before that she'd been hurt and watched herself heal, but he'd never seen her hurt with his own eyes. He never wanted to.
"It's okay, daddy," she repeated again, sensing his concern. "I wanna know what's wrong with me."
Frank nodded, smiling tightly. Emilia winced when Dr. Martin cut her hand, after offering her a guilt-free ticket to back out, which she batted away with an irritated expression she'd learned from TV. Blood rose in a line along her palm, but the shallow cut began to close before the scalpel finished its path. Marty cleaned her hand and disinfected her - merely a precaution - and turned to the data captured in that fleeting second.
He turned, head shaking side to side, and looked up at Frank. "Just... normal pain response. Nothing."
Wheee! Thanks for the feedback!
"It's alright, Mr. Dufenhof," Frank rebutted, dropping a comforting hand on Emilia's shoulder. She could barely see over the principal's stout oak desk, an arrangement designed to intimidate children and exaggerate the import of an educated man like Dufenhof. Frank's firm hand charged her with confidence and the measure of the desk was lost; she sat up straight and prepared herself to listen quietly as her father and Mr. Dufus talked about her. "She can hear anything we need to talk about."
"Mm. Very well," the principal agreed, biting back his hesitation. Dufenhof wasn't a malicious man or abusive of his position, but he did comfort the strains of his job with a bubble of authority and control. It was a far simpler matter to engage parents in an increasingly disrespectful society when he floated securely above them, out of reach of father and mother blindly protective of a child who could do no wrong in their eyes. And with one simple gesture, Frank popped that bubble.
"Mr. Chance, I'd like to place Emilia in some assisted learning classes," he stated clearly, anticipating immediate argument. When none came, only an encouraging squeeze of the girl's shoulder, he continued. "I always like to schedule a face-to-face with the parents - or parent, in your case - to address any concerns you might have before adjusting her schedule.
"Assisted learning. What kind of environment does that put my daughter in?"
"They're..." He hesitated, glancing at Emilia momentarily. "They're remedial classes Mr. Chance. The classwork is designed to be easier to follow, and the classrooms are smaller. More individual attention is given to each student--
"But the learning curve is slower," Frank finished, voicing the principal's unspoken thought. "Mr. Dufenhof, my daughter's already fallen behind a year with medical problems."
"I understand your concern fully, Mr. Chance. Emilia is a brilliant young girl when she sets her mind to her work. But I'm afraid she doesn't retain a majority of her lessons between semi-weekly tests."
Emilia's legs kicked nervously, swinging forward and back like counter-balanced pendulums ticking away Frank's thoughts. Lips pursed as her own mind reached back to the folder still resting on the kitchen table. it didn't take long for her distraction to startle everyone in the room. Emilia blushed a deep shade of red, mumbling a quick apology, and jerked her legs to stiff arrest under her chair after a hard kick reverberated loudly off the desk's front panel.
Frank took the opportunity to set his decision and looked up at the principal. "Can you recommend any good home-schooling programs, Mr. Dufenhof?" he asked, bringing a distasteful frown to the principal's eyes.
"Not personally, no, and I can't say I personally approve, either. Home schooling requires far more attention than most parents can spare, particularly in single-parent homes."
"I'll make the time," Frank responded readily. Emilia, still flushed with embarrassment at so thoroughly destroying a quiet moment in thought, looked up at her dad. She caught his eyes and smiled brightly. The vigor and undying hope of youth glowed like a warm campfire in Dufenhof's cloistered office.
He watched them for a moment, watched Frank give his daughter another reassuring squeeze, and nodded. Mr. Dufenhof lowered what remained of carefully constructed defenses forged through years of what he was certain would lead to society's irreversible downward spiral. "I'm sure you will," he acknowledged with another slow nod, "Frank. Your daughter is very intelligent for her age. I have recorded a number of comments on her personal files from teachers impressed with her ability to solve problems involving context alone."
"Yeah, she's a smart little cookie," Frank boasted, rising from his seat proudly. He extended his hand across the desk, thanking the principal with a firm shake. "I'll go down to the administrative office and withdraw her today."
"And then ice cream and the park?" his daughter asked, eyes lit with the joy of a puppy let free of her chain to bound across grassy fields. Emilia Chance couldn't remember a time in her short life when she'd felt so happy.
History and geography books were piled into the corner. English literature, they both agreed, could be sacrificed for some science and a new book, "How Things Work". Emilia spent an hour each day working through the abstract problems and several more reading and rereading the same books until she was satisfied enough to move on. After each memory lapse, they would test her retention.
Over months of study, she would remember bits and pieces. Enough that she wouldn't be seen as completely clueless and uneducated in most conversation... but not enough to pass. Still, they both were grateful that her scores ranging from the 20s to 30s, sometimes as high as the mid 50s were being scrutinized in context instead of with a blind red pen. She got to reading pretty quick, too, rolling through her 3rd grade history text in three days, then two, then a number of hours.
"I figured it out, daddy," young Emilia proclaimed proudly, carrying a well-worn steno pad with her. She marched right up to the couch as Frank turned, and balked. "Ohh... what happened?" she worried out loud, aiming a sad finger at the television screen.
"Matthew Shepard, pumpkin," he responded and let the television finish his answer. Emilia didn't even protest the distasteful name she couldn't manage to shake as she listened. Protective instincts aside, Frank didn't hide all that was wrong in the world from her. Especially with her memory, Frank wanted Emilia to know to be careful. But he didn't want her dwelling on it and frightening herself beyond caution. He turned forward to watch the newscaster relate her gruesome account of pain and hate, giving a comforting squeeze on his daughter's arm, then reached for the power button.
"But... wh- ... Why would anyone do that?" It was difficult teaching caution to a girl whose first unspoken lessons had always involved 'do the right thing' and would forget everything else. And even moreso to see the compassionate youth feel so empathetically about a man, young boy really, she never knew and never would know. She would make a good nurse, or, she's smart enough, a doctor, Frank thought to himself as he motioned her to sit across from him.
"He was different, pumpkin. Some people don't understand that, and it makes 'em scared," he explained, English accent and bass voice soothing her distress. "They do crazy things when they're scared like that."
"That's why I have to think about things before I do things, right?" It wasn't a rule Frank explicitly laid out, but his pride swelled to hear his pumpkin voice it. A side effect of focusing on problems rooted in context: Emilia would think for herself, and Frank was certain the school system couldn't have matched that with any amount of assisted learning. The regular classrooms hadn't done it for him; his first real lesson was a beating he took in the school yard. "How was he different?"
Frank wasn't ready for the birds and the bees - or the birds and the birds, for that matter. Especially knowing it would be a discussion he'd have many, many times. "He didn't fit in with the other boys," he simplified.
"But he wasn't doing anything wrong?"
"No, pumpkin. He just wanted to live differently. What's this you--
"Stop calling me pumpkin!"
"Alright, alright," he lied, chuckling at her 'angry' face, lips pursed defiantly and eyebrows furrowed. "What's your name today, then."
"Emmy."
"Alright, Emmy. What's this you figured out?"
She glared at him for another endearing moment, then opened up the steno pad. It was filled with dates and notations - several dozen pages worth, double-sided, and each half-sheet chronicled to the bottom. "I've been keeping track of when I lose my memory," she explained, flipping to the beginning. Over a year's worth of records, starting just after he'd taken her out of school, detailed each night and the next morning's status. "And I think I know why it happens."
"These all say you got hurt during the day," Frank commented, running a finger across the lines marked 'forgot'. "Is that it," he asked, looking up at her. "When you get hurt?"
Emilia shook her head and flipped a few more pages. "No, look, I cut myself here and I still remembered in the morning. Buuuut... if you look here," she turned the page over again, pointing at a line with no injuries beside it. "I looked back in my diary and that day, I was trying to make my hair pink. I wrote in the diary that I could get it, but it never stayed, so don't worry about pink hair."
"But that means..." he trailed off, ignoring the mental image of a pink-haired pumpkin, to encourage her.
"That means that I lose my memory whenever my body has to do stuff. Sooo... my theory is that, when I get hurt, I heal and I'm all fine, but my body still goes into like a cleaning mode when I sleep. Kind of like why you dream when you sleep. And it's the same with when I shapeshift."
She finished abruptly and looked up at him, awaiting her father's approval. Little fingers mashed nervously into each other and her lips pursed as he lifted his eyes from her research. "You did this all while you were losing your memory?" She nodded, pinching a crooked smile. "That's my smart little girl."
Emilia beamed under daddy's praise and looked down at her pad. Slowly, the joy steeled into resolve. She was determined to ask, whether she wanted to know the answer or not, "Daddy? I'm growing right now... and I think that's making it so even little things make me lose my memory. Do you think it'll stop when I stop growing?"
"I don't know, pumpkin," he shook his head slowly. "We'll --
"DADDY! I'm NOT a pumpkin!"
Em's cute
Frank knew Phoebe from his time as a bouncer, before she started studying the arcane arts. They'd had a few drinks together and he'd warned off some overly friendly customers. When he called her, she'd been more than willing to fly out and see what kind of sprocket her old guardian could have spawned. Emilia was nine, then. The girl had just figured out what prompted her memory loss and that, plus some abracadabra was enough for Phoebe to dash off to the library.
Frank had Phoebe working at a cure for Em's condition from the magical side and Marty from the scientific side, and all the while, his Emilia was quickly losing the joy of a life remembered.
"Daddy, I want to grow up," Emilia announced in a forced casual tone falling just short of sounding adult. Hazel eyes lifted from the corn flakes swimming in her spoon like a hesitant child hopeful for a raise in her allowance.
Frank met her gaze across the simple oak table pushed up against a bright kitchen window. It had been a long time since she'd needed a booster seat, though she was still short enough that Frank chuckled when she slouched, sinking slowly under the table's edge until only her eyes peeked over her plate - that usually meant she was done eating. His eyes sank into the memories, lost in eyes that had never lost that determined spark Emilia's mother had used to lure him into her arms so many years ago. How quickly she had grown. How quickly they had both grown despite and because of her challenges. Their challenges. "You've got plenty of time to grow up, pumpkin. Don't rush it."
"Daddy," she pleaded, choosing to ignore being called a pumpkin once again, despite her many protestations. "I still look like I did when I was five. I need a new face."
Another little part of Frank died as he stood, nodding at his daughter. Her face was still the same five year old girl he'd snapped a photo of in the park. It hadn't changed while her body grew. She didn't know how. She grew taller, he suspected, only because her body already had a frame planned out for her, but the details she pasted onto that mold were, as he saw, highly mutable. He knew she was right, and he knew what her new face would involve. Frank's little girl would find another face to mimic when she woke up in the morning, and every last visual cue that she was Emi's daughter would be gone.
"I'm meeting with Phoebe today," he answered, pinning his number beside the door like he did every time he had a babysitter coming. "We'll talk about your face later."
"Phoebe, again?" she questioned, innocent face dropping into a suspicious detective mode. "This is the fourth time, daddy."
"Fifth. You remember her?"
"No," she shrugged. "But I was reading my journal today."
"Smart kid." Frank grinned at Emilia and continued his babysitter prep. "My cel's here. Any trouble, you --
-- call immediately. I knoooow, daddy. Sheesh."
"Good girl. The babysitter--
"Is she your girlfriend, daddy?"
"Who? The babysitter?"
"Noo! Gross!" laughed Emilia. "Phoebe. Is she your girlfriend?"
"No, pumpkin --
"Not a pumpkin!"
" -- we're just friends."
"But you see her a lot... and she's preeettttyyy..."
Frank chuckled her implications aside and mentally thanked the doorbell. He knew Phoebe was pretty, but didn't want to explain to Emilia why that didn't matter. How the work that he was doing with her was far more important than some fleeting romance. They were close to unlocking the mystery of his daughter's memory loss, Frank just knew it.
"Hi Mr. C!" bubbled Gail as he motioned her in. Tall and lanky and wired up with shiny braces that made her look like a girl scout two years too dangerous, but she was smart behind the bright smile and had a sense of standards that Frank could approve of. Four years older than Emilia, he'd interviewed and grilled her thoroughly after the last babysitter left his daughter watching TV while she snuck off with her boyfriend. A year later, Gail still skipped over on a moment's notice. And Em remembered her now. "Em! I brought a whole bunch of movies with ... oh."
"It's alright, I told him."
"Told him what?"
"Daddy, we're doing research."
"With movies?" he asked, casting a skeptical look at Gail's bag, spilling with DVDs. Harry Potter bumped magical effects with Lord of the Rings. Spiderman slung a web across the galaxy, catching Star Wars: Attack of the Clones; and 2 Fast 2 Furious screamed its whiny exhaust pipes in front of Save the Last Dance.
"Yeah. Em and me thought we'd put down a list of who was the strongest and toughest chics in movies and she could try to make a face from --
"Emilia?" Frank cut the babysitter off with a stern question shot at his daughter from a suddenly rigid face.
"It's okay, dad! I told her... umm... I don't remember how long ago..."
"Last week, when we watched Fast and Furious, Em. No, it's totally cool, Mr. C. Your secret's safe with me. And... don't be mad at her, it was totally my fault. I was just saying how she looks so young and... you know..."
"Yeah... I know," he finished when Gail withered under his gaze. Frank didn't know whether he should be upset or relieved. The latter would feel better. Give him the sense of comfort knowing that his daughter could make friends, even if she forgot them every time they visited for the better part of a year. It also came with an ounce of guilt - the thought that Emilia might have friends whom she'd confide her troubles with hadn't ever crossed his mind. "Alright," he nodded when he imagined the girls were beginning to turn blue. "But schoolwork first. And you point her to good role models, Gail. None of those MTV girls."
__________
That little part of Frank that had died earlier in the day sprang back to its feet and danced a happy salsa when he came home late that night. It was well past Emilia's bedtime, but there she was - or someone with her eyes and beaming smile - standing excitedly beside Gail. She was completely foreign, even a little odd looking. Puffy cheeks sat high on a heart-shaped face beneath hazel eyes pinched between tight eyelids slanted just enough to still look like the mixed Japanese she was born as. And freckles. Her lips pursed and her eyes sparkled. Emi was still inside his child.
And she was happy - she didn't look five years old anymore. Frank worried, an afterthought, maybe he should have made her wait another five years, or at least until he could explain how dangerous birds and bees were. But there she was, smiling, beaming, proud... and he hadn't the slightest idea what odd movie heroine or heroines could produce that face.
Frank didn't need to ask. He smiled and scooped Em up in his arms, earning a delighted squeal and a barrage of thank you's just for approving, while Gail explained. "We thought she was perfect, Mr. C. She's almost the exact same size as Emma and she's just cute without being all... well... MTV. And she has this kind of weird look that Emma and me both said suits her just right, cause you know, Emma's her own unique little person, so why not let her have her own unique little look, right? Well, along with, umm..." Gail stopped chattering long enough to sift through the DVDs and for Frank to set his little extreme makeover back on her feet. She flipped over 2 Fast 2 Furious and scanned the name listings. "Eva Mendez...? Oh, eww. Not her. Completely MTV."
Emilia snatched the case from her babysitter and friend and pointed at the character of Suki on the cover with a pursed grin, "Devon Aoki."
You and your Devon fetish... ;)p ]