As close to her father and mother as she felt in that moment, she nevertheless felt conspicuously distant. She felt more like a historian than their daughter, less the product of a union between two disparate people and more an impersonal analyzer of their personal affects. It was frustrating, deeply so. So much that she couldn’t help but feel the tingle of rebelliousness that welled up from time to time in the rather strict household when her father had run things.
Her eyes drifted to the locked trunk under the window. She considered what she was planning for a mere moment, then grabbed the set of lock picks from the corner of the desk and glided toward her target. It may be breaking in… but doesn’t it make me closer to him? Besides, she had to install her own lock on her door, considering his own faulty concept of privacy. Further, to complete the rationalization, her father was dead, making his stuff officially hers.
Kneeling, she unfurled the lock pick set onto the floor, taking out the torsion wrench and one of the simpler picks. It didn’t seem too difficult, just slide the pin in, feel around to make sure the tumblers were in place, twist and…
Wait. This wasn’t a standard lock. There were additional tumblers that shouldn’t be there… security tumblers. Julia made a face and began to extract the pin before she felt resistance. Her heart sank at the sensation. Her father, in his attempt to secure the trunk, decided that he would make the lock inaccessible if someone failed to open it. If she stopped, there was no way to open it without the key. A key she didn’t feel like finding.
Slowly, very slowly, she worked the pick inward, pushing the tumblers up before sliding the torsion wrench further in and managing to keep the lock from shutting her out. It was several breathless minutes before Julia had realized she was actually smiling. Focusing on something other than herself, her father, the world, or anything important, was refreshing. When the moment finally came that she was confident the lock would give, she gave a whoop of triumph she was immediately thankful no one heard.
“Found something good?” The statement coupled with the creak of floorboards behind her made her snap around, a prickle of fear spreading down her back when she recognized the figure in the doorway. Claymore stood, slumped and exhausted looking. He hadn’t changed out of what she presumed was the uniform he had on when she called him last night. A smile, the same ingratiating one he always had, crossed his face, prompting an annoyed tic.
She rose from the chest and dusted herself off, half-smiling insincerely. “Do you normally just barge into people’s houses?” she growled as she crossed back to the desk.
The smile faded from his face. He took careful steps forward as she began to collect the papers spread out on the desk. “I tried knocking.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think the doorbell works, either.”
Julia looked back at him and stared for a moment. She shook her head. “And instead of thinking I wasn’t home or didn’t want to talk…” The sentence was punctuated by the force of her irritation.
He made a face halfway between ashamed and indifferent before it went completely to the latter. “I thought you were asleep. I knocked on your room door…”
“You what?” she cut him off, anger and panic in her voice. “You did not break into my room…”
His hands shot up defensively. “Whoa, calm down. When you didn’t answer, I assumed you were somewhere else.” Julia’s heart dropped from her throat back to where it belonged. She must have visibly relaxed, for Claymore took another step forward. “I am not the bad guy, Gunslinger. Whatever you’re going through right now, I am not the cause of it.” The pause between them was only broken by the shuffling of paper from Julia. “I’m sorry about the Fort.”
“Are you?”
“For heroes’ sake, yes.” He wasn’t shouting despite Julia’s attempts to goad him into it. This served to annoy her further. “I was right, wasn’t I?” he said, bringing his hand up. “We all lost pieces of ourselves, didn’t we?”
She looked up at him and felt a wave of guilt, minor but still there. “Okay, fine. It was… stressful.” With a gesture to indicate both of them, she continued: “But what we have is a professional relationship, alright? There is no ‘us’ outside of work.”
To her surprise, Claymore nodded. “I’m alright with that.” She suspected it was a lie, but he seemed surprisingly earnest. Maybe having an appendage lopped off was the solution to a dangerously high libido. “I am concerned about you, you know.” He neared the desk and leaned on it, bringing his head to her eye level. “You haven’t grieved since your father’s death, or even talked about it as far as I know.”
Julia puffed a half-hearted laugh out of her nose. She broke eye contact and looked down at the desk. “You’re right. But I don’t think this is the time to think about it.”
“And that’s why you’re here, right?” he said with a cocked eyebrow, his head gesturing to the room. “To not think about your father.”
Julia couldn’t help but smile awkwardly like a kid with his hand in a cookie jar. “You’re right.” She chuckled sheepishly. “He always kept this room locked. Since he’s no longer around, I thought I’d just take a peek.”
Her guest pushed himself off the desk. He shoved his tongue between his gums and lips, took a look around, then returned to looking at her. “Anything interesting?”
She gestured to the papers in front of her. “My father and mother wrote a lot of letters to each other.” She scratched absently at her forehead. “It’s the closest I’ve ever been to having the two of them in the same room.”
He took a step forward. “What happened to her?”
“Cancer,” she said simply, not looking up.
The pause was suitably long. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” came a quick response. She looked up at him. “My father said it was quick. She wasn’t Bestowed, so it didn’t drag out as long as it could have.”
Another pause, but it was clear that it was unwelcome. Claymore shifted awkwardly in place, gazing at nothing in particular. “I think I’d almost prefer that… you know, seeing your death coming. Having time to prepare for it.”
Julia looked at him, his glazed expression at once sad and frightening. In that moment, she didn’t see him as the self-involved glory hound. The brush with death in the Fort had altered him, turned him into something else. He was still the same Claymore, but instead of walking with death he was running screaming from it. Or, at least, he was moments away from doing so. Her revulsion for him hadn’t vanished, but pity had now entered the picture… and pity had dangerous potential.
She shook her head to clear it. “A lot changed the night in the Fort.”
“Which is… kinda what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said pensively.
Damn it, he’s going to ask me out again, she thought, kicking herself for daring to think that he could change. “What is it?” she asked with a fair amount of dread. He swallowed, opened his mouth, then bit his lip. He was pacing back and forth, agitated. The sight was worrying. “Claymore?” His eyes flicked to her, but only for a second. After that, he turned away and covered his face with his hands. Julia considered telling him to come back later when he dug into his trench coat pocket and grabbed a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and slapped it on the table. Slowly, Julia picked up a computer-generated mug shot of a freckled girl with straight red hair and green eyes. She was young, probably eighteen at the oldest, and it took a moment for Julia to register that, if anything, Claymore’s reaction had grown more agitated. “Did you… kill this girl?”
Immediately, he swept beside the desk and was next to her, his eyes darting. “No, no she’s not dead, Julia. But I don’t think she exists at all.”
The phrasing was bizarre, made all the worse by how strange his words were. “What?”
“I saw this girl at the Fort right before… right before Dervish died.”
“Right before you killed him,” she corrected.
His eyes grew wide, then returned to normal. “Sure.
” He waved his hand. “But no one else saw her, okay?” He swallowed, looking over his shoulder before returning to her gaze. “She walked past Enforcers like she wasn’t even there.”
Julia was looking into his eyes, gauging him. He was absolutely certain that this happened. “Alright. So, what happened?”
Claymore grew more agitated, then took a steadying breath. “All the official reports say things that I know didn’t happen.” He leaned in close to whisper. “Dervish didn’t kill the Enforcer.”
She squinted. “You’re saying the entire rationale behind declaring all villains rogue…” He nodded. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes!” he shouted, then immediately shrank at the sound of his voice. “This… girl appears… and then I fight Dervish… and then… it was an accident, Julia, do you believe me?”
“I believe that, in a high stress environment, sometimes…”
“I wasn’t fucking stressed!” he yelled. Julia instinctively backed away. “I saw her with my own two eyes, and then this… wave of fucking heat hit us… and the Enforcer hit.” He pounded himself in the chest. “Me.” Again. “First.” His body was trembling. “I thought I was stabbing Dervish, and it was Johnson, Officer Johnson.” He pointed at the picture on the desk. “That girl knows what happened, she saw it. I thought something was wrong with me, and then… I saw her again.”
“When?” Julia took a step back.
“Last night… before Medina was killed.” He turned away. “We busted some neutrals trashing a convenience store, and she ran out, taking someone with her.”
She was still backing away. “No one else saw her?”
“No one mentioned it. And then…” He laughed, dangerously. “Fucking Medina… dead.” He looked up at her, noticing for the first time that she had backed away a considerable distance. “You think I’m lying?” he said, clearly hurt.
“I think you saw what you saw, but Claymore…” She was torn between the human desire to comfort others and the equally human desire to stay away from crazy. “It was a warzone.”
“But I never saw anything clearer in my life.” He took a half step back, if only to show that he wasn’t trying to be threatening. “Her face… the sight of her crying over Dervish… it’s etched into my memory.” His voice was fading, becoming less panicked and more introspective.
Julia nodded, trying to remain calm. His demeanor had shifted suddenly, and there was no saying when he’d shift right back. “Did you ask Overseer to reference the image…”
He cut her off. “Against registered villains, yes.” He looked away. “No one in New York, New Jersey… two hundred hits, and none of them are her.”
“You said she was crying over Dervish–”
“No listed villain affiliates,” he cut her off dismissively. “If she’s a relative, she’s not a villain. Which means she wouldn’t have been there.” The heel of his hand went up to his head as he twitched.
She looked at him, feeling the gnawing sensation of pity again. “Claymore, it was chaotic.”
“I saw…” he started, his voice rising precariously.
“I know what you saw,” she cut him off. “But you’re talking about something no one else remembers.” Claymore brought his hands up to his head and took a few, stumbling steps backward. He looked a complete mess, growing redder and more frantic by the moment. “We did things… saw things that we wish we could take back.” She swallowed, not sure she should admit her relationship with Tim to another hero. In the pause, Claymore had fallen backward, against the wall, sliding down with a thud to the floor.
“I’m no hero,” he said, meekly, his eyes glazed and staring at the floor. “I’m a murderer.”
Against her better instincts, Julia crossed to him and knelt. In that moment, she didn’t care if she condemned herself in his eyes. His eyes refused to meet hers. “Claymore, I saw a man I care about…” She trailed off, disappointed by her choice of words. “A man I loved… die.” It was a simple thing, a switch of a single word, but it had the same impact as a car slamming into her. Tim, the man who had always been there for her, the man who cared for her, came to her in the night and vanished, was the man she loved. It had such force that she didn’t notice Claymore’s attention turn to her.
“Who?” he asked with a tinge of accusation.
Julia realized that she had pushed herself into a corner. She hoped to skirt the question by sitting on the floor by Claymore and sliding against the wall before shaking her head. “You wouldn’t know him.”
To her surprise, her partner looked forward and nodded quietly. “I’m sorry.” He pushed himself up the wall. “You clearly have more important shit to deal with.” It was hardly even out of his mouth when he was striding toward the door, his hands balled into fists.
It was so sudden that it shocked her. Julia scrambled upright more out of expectation than actual camaraderie. “Wait a minute!” she cried out.
Claymore spun on his feet to face her and jabbed an accusing finger in her direction. “I came to you for help, Gunslinger. As my partner, I thought you’d have my back.”
“I do!” she shouted. “What do you want me to do?”
“I lost my fucking hand and foot, things aren’t adding up, and you feed me some bullshit line about a dead booty call.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe I thought you were different.”
Julia laughed at the absurdity of it. “Excuse me, Sir Whores-a-lot?”
He threw his hands into the air, palms out, a smirk on his face. “A lost little girl with daddy issues. Just like all the others.” With a heel turn, he was once more on his way out. “Have fun pining over your imaginary boyfriend.” He slammed his way down the hall, punctuating his retreat with a foundation-shaking door slam.
Julia shook with anger, trying to wrap her mind around the conversation. It dawned on her why he had actually devolved so quickly into a child: she had turned to a different problem, one that wasn’t his. He was probably telling the truth about everything. But he was using it as a way to get closer to her and was furious when she had her own issues to deal with. “Asshole!” she yelled, kicking at the wall before heading to the chair and slumping in it.
It wasn’t a matter of indifference; she just couldn’t deal with his problems and her own. Everyone had lost someone in the Fort, or at least knew people who did. She couldn’t imagine foisting her problems on any other hero who had fought that night, let alone someone who was supposed to be her partner. It’s what professionals were for. That whole delving into the psyche and talking thing…
She stopped at the thought. Maybe there was a way to help Claymore, even if she had burned that bridge. Archetype could probably dive into his head, work out what he thought he saw, and maybe make him more comfortable with the truth. And if not, it would at least get a third party involved so she didn’t have to deal with the brunt of his aggression and sexual frustration.
The revelation of her partner’s situation merely blunted the edge of her anger, but didn’t completely annihilate it. She was still trapped in that partnership until Arbiter deemed it appropriate to promote her to a more official position than ‘bodyguard and advisor’. And, more and more, it seemed like any possibility of that was quickly shrinking. She had been dressed down twice in less than a week: once for failing to stop Tim and again for ‘losing’ Talia at the VWN building. Still, his anger was preferable to the brooding silence she had grown all too accustomed to.
Her jaw worked in angry contemplation as her stomach slowly undid the knots it had tied itself into. It was amazing how life had gone downhill and didn’t seem to stop. Her father… Zombress… Fort Justice… Tim… Julia brought one hand to her forehead as she rested the other on her hip. She felt the warmth of her palm, centering her despite the chaotic rambling of her mind. Confident she was alone, she shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, wishing that her father had not gotten himself killed… perhaps he’d know how to handle this.
Maybe not the whol
e Tim thing, but the other stuff.
Her eyes snapped open as she suddenly remembered her earlier effort to better connect with her progenitor. The trunk was still unlocked under the window, her tools sticking out of it like a pair of steel tongues. She crossed over to it and knelt down, never more aware of the room’s unpleasant coolness despite the summer heat just on the other side of the glass.
She extracted the wrench and pick, undid the clasp on the trunk, and opened it with an expectant joy that quickly faded into confusion. Wrapped gifts, all in different styles of paper, lined the bottom. What was so important about this that her father had felt the need to keep it private? Her fingers touched the nearest box, a powder pink-wrapped one of middling size. She ran her finger over the surface, brushing away a thin layer of dust and ending up on a tag.
Julia flipped it over, expecting it to be an eccentric gift from her late father to her late mother. But the sight of the recipient’s name made her stomach twist. ‘Julia Lovelass’. A surge of adrenaline started to make her shake. She turned the gift over in her hands, trying to find who it was from. Giving in to impulse, she tore the paper off. A card dropped to the floor once free of its prison. Carefully, she picked it up. A smiling bunny was on the front, proclaiming that it ‘hopped’ she had a good birthday. It was a card for a small child, designed to briefly entertain the age demographic most likely to find puns powerfully funny. On the inside, in cramped handwriting, she found the name of its sender.
Arthur.
Her chin quivered involuntarily as she opened the freshly unwrapped box. Inside was a stuffed pink rabbit with a blue ribbon around its neck, preserved exactly as it was the day it had been wrapped. She had loved rabbits growing up, from cartoons to the ones she had seen at the zoo. It was the kind of gift a teenager lacking the guidance of their parents would get. It was simple and adorable, lacking the sometimes overwrought displays of yet-older siblings operating off of inside jokes and deeper knowledge of the recipient.
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