by Brett P. S.
Chapter 2
Chez Ramen
Kolding, Denmark
Sofie Rousseau. Age 21. Red haired masked mademoiselle by night. Punk rock dreamer by day. Also, she sleeps in … a lot. Sofie stretched her hand out to reach a blaring alarm screaming at her to get the heck up, but she couldn’t manage the fine motor skills. Unwilling to handle the shame of defeat, she eyed the plastic button on the top of the clock and pushed it down with her mind.
She rolled around in her mattress, trying to find a more comfortable position. Beds were for homeowners. Just slap a mattress on the floor, and it was good to go. Her efforts to relax ended in vain, however. The smell of half-eaten noodles stunk up her apartment, and the litter cluttered up the place.
“Dammit all!” Sofie shouted.
She sat up and wiped out her eyes, smearing the elaborate face paint from her around her lashes when she realized she slept through the night in her costume. By the time she disembarked from the train ride over, she was already in a daze, but this was ridiculous. She stood up, shambled over to her kitchen area while she moved a cup with her mind, and filled it with a dash of sweetened tea from her icebox. She prepared a nice big jug of it, and the process helped her master the fine motor skills necessary for plastic manipulation.
For the last year and a half, Sofie found she could both feel and manipulate plastics of varying kinds. It started with water bottles and dishes. Over time, she moved onto intricate objects, such as action figures and eating ware. However, her chief sensing ability came to her about six months ago. It kept her apartment afloat, even though she lacked the interpersonal skills to manage a job for more than a few months. Sofie moved to Denmark from France a few years back. She told her parents she planned to attend a college in Kolding, which wasn’t a lie. However, she hadn’t told them about how she dropped out last semester.
“Pizza or Chinese?” she said to herself.
Sofie navigated a cup of tea into her hand and paced over to her notebook, a black three-ring binder filled with loose-leaf paper. She brought it to her and opened up a series of numbers. Everyone in Kolding had a number. At least, most people with a checking account did. Granted, most people across the world had one, but her sensing ability reached about as far as ten miles. Any further and she might get some numbers wrong.
Sofie could feel the grooves and ridges of plastic shapes in the city. She wasn’t omniscient, but if she focused on a particular area or credit card number, she located targets quickly and efficiently. There were enough numbers in Kolding that she could use every one once and never have to pay rent for the rest of her life. She flipped through a series of pages with numbers crossed out until she came to a spot in the center of the binding. She moved a pen and struck out a credit card number before slipping the cap back on.
“I’m thinking poulet,” she said. “Yeah, chicken sounds excellent.”
She set the notebook down and hopped over her couch before she planted her bottom on her mattress and turned on the television. An old black and white tele she picked up from a rummage sale. It worked, more or less. She fiddled with her hair to pull in back before she leaned forward and switched it to the local news. The anticipation boiled in her blood at what last night’s report might cover. The screen flickered on and noise turned to images of a reporter speaking about the situation.
“… are calling it an indiscriminate attack on Denmark,” the reporter said. “The perpetrators remain unknown, but the Oden police force …”
“I don’t get it,” Sofie said.
She put in all the extra effort and flair, but not a single person remembered enough to say something? Outrageous! Preposterous! She practically had a field day with the furniture in the hotel and not a single soul even bothered to list eco-warrior as an assailant? Heck, she’d take terrorist at this point or … hang on a moment.
“Mon Dieu! It’s a cover up,” she said, slamming her fist into the mattress.
Sofie sipped a bit more of her tea and rolled the remaining liquid around while she pondered her next move. She about had it with those EEA goons, though she was certain they intended to meet again. Second time around, she planned on striking absolute fear into their hearts. Who would question a supervillain? Nobody, that’s who. She set the glass down and turned off the tele.
“Guess I’m ordering carryout,” she said.
She nodded to herself. It was time to pay the wizard a visit.