The second person was… an experiment, I guess. I don’t want to give this character a gender, because I think that fits in with the sort of identity-less thing they’ve got going on. (Interestingly, you’re the first person to use the ‘she’ pronoun for the character. As well as he.) I’m finding the second-person difficult to use in an as-yet uncompleted follow-up, though, so I’ll probably change this to first person.

Ack, telling vs. showing. *headdesk* I will definitely fix that.

Hmm. I’m not sure about moving the explanation of the power to earlier – the reveal is tied to the climax, and I don’t think it would work as well (read: would be boring) without it. Do you think heavier foreshadowing of the power could work better?

Thank you for all your help, B. Mac! Your input is highly appreciated.

So, what do you all think? Ridiculous? Strange? Which parts need work? It’s a lot different to what I normally write — I haven’t used second person seriously before (yes, second person!)

By the way, the Shaw quote is just because I’m thinking of writing similar pieces. Also, I thought it was oddly appropriate (and it is a good quote, haha).

—-

The Perfect Retribution
“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.” –George Bernard Shaw

You never really thought of yourself as a hero.

You can’t remember the day you discovered that you had powers, that you were different – superhuman. As far as you know, you have been that way since you were born. Not that anybody can tell you for sure. Your earliest memories are all of care homes, or occasionally foster parents with more compassion than sense.

It wasn’t really a bad life, you decide, just not perhaps the best upbringing you could have had. You have tried to trace your origins but never quite managed to find them. You wonder if anyone else had this power; your mother or your father, whoever they are. You wonder if that’s why you ended up in the care of the state.

You stop wondering at that point, and just deal with the fact that you’re unique. Some facts you like more than others.

This city suits you. You like being anonymous. It’s loud, big, bright and there are more people here than you have seen anywhere else in your life. Here you are simply one of a crowd, not the odd one out. No one knows you here. Hopefully, no one will ever know you here. Not by your real name.

Not that you are too sure of your real name yourself. That is another part of your origins that was told to you but you have been unable to confirm. This does not bother you unduly. What is a name, after all? Only a title by which others can refer to you. It is necessary to write it on documents and faxes and cheques, but nobody needs to call you by your name. Well, perhaps that is incorrect. You have no one who needs to call you by your name. The man passing you on the street; the woman crossing the road at the moment – they have friends and relatives, perhaps even children.

You have none of these, and would not want them. You prefer anonymity. Nobody is invulnerable, of course; you know this very well. It is, however, easier to hide your vulnerabilities if you keep to the shadows. Don’t let anyone shine the light on you, and they won’t know how to hurt you.

It has occurred to you that this may come across as paranoia, or perhaps insanity, but you disagree with that. You like isolation, and in the line of work you are starting to get involved in, isolation brings great benefits. Isolation is essential, even. It’s a dangerous game, this hero business, and all the others in it who died had somebody. Parents, siblings, a partner – even children, some of them. People who could be used; who could be hurt.

This actually surprised you when you first heard it, given their line of work, but you suppose that even those kind of people (your kind of people, now, you remind yourself) like to have weaknesses. You don’t have any, and don’t want any, but you can see the attraction. It’s a silly thing, really, to think that you can understand the feeling, just because you had a small attachment to a pet – it actually belonged to one of your earlier foster parents, but it felt like yours. You weren’t careful enough, though. It died. And then you were moved into another care home.

Not that it matters. The point is that you understand the gist of it; you understand the need of some to have a weakness, because the feeling you receive in return is worth taking risks for. If you hadn’t decided to pursue this life, you would probably seek it out yourself.

But you don’t like the thought of your weakness being hurt because of you, not again. So whilst you’re in this line of work, you won’t have weaknesses. You will only do your job.

You stumble on the sidewalk suddenly and automatically reach out your arm to catch yourself. You fall anyway, landing heavily on your knees and your right hand. Too late, you remember that you don’t have a left arm below the elbow, at least for the time being.

There are eyes of passers-by on you, but none of them move to help you up. You did not expect them to. Scrambling to your feet awkwardly, you continue on your way, until the stares have stopped and you can become anonymous again.

Your hand stings. You glance at it, briefly, seeing that some of the skin has been has been grazed. You are bleeding lightly. Quickly, you lower your hand again. That could have been dangerous, but fortunately nothing happened. It would have been awkward to manage without either arm, you think. You break into a smile. Of all the reasons you could have for not wanting it to happen, the first one that occurs to you is the simple inconvenience. How, after all, would you explain to your new employers that you’re currently incapable of signing the contract?

Shaking your head at the image, you try to keep the smile from spreading but fail. Well, nevermind. Smiling will not do you any harm. You receive a few odd looks from the people you pass; they are probably wondering what you have to be so happy about. You needn’t worry, though, as they’ll forget you soon enough. It’s a big city and you are not the only odd person. That’s why you like it here.

You take the next left, and then the second right, and dart down the small alley opposite the pizzeria. The directions were complicated and it took a while for you to memorise them, but you are certain you got this bit right.

The alley is not the cleanest place in the city, and the smell hits you with all the strength of a baseball bat, but it probably isn’t the worst place you’ve ever been in.

There is a door on your right, just like Valignant said there would be. You try it, and step inside when you find it unlocked – just like he said it would be. It makes a nice change to know somebody who is reliable.

Things have already been explained to you, so it doesn’t take very long to get everything finalised. There is a contract, but not the sort that is legally binding; Valignant’s assistant, who doesn’t have a name, tells you that bad things will happen if you go against the rules of the contract. He doesn’t answer when you ask exactly what. The contract is suitably specific, though, so you’re confident that whatever his ability is, it won’t have a chance to affect you. You knew the risks when you agreed to join them, anyway – even if you don’t have weaknesses like the others…

An hour later you step back into the alley, remembering to breathe through your mouth. Valignant has told you to get back in contact with them when your left arm has finished regenerating. You think it will be a month, but you haven’t lost half an arm before, so you’re not certain about that. Valignant is understanding and says some delay is to be expected; it doesn’t matter if you are a little late. He thanks you for agreeing to work with them before he closes the door softly behind you.

So now you have a job. It is not the sort of job they encouraged you to take when you talked about it in the care homes. They probably wouldn’t think of it as a job at all, in fact. You disagree. Just because it is not, per se, government sponsored does not mean you are not currently employed. Anything that employs you counts as a job, in your opinion – if it doesn’t, then it should.

As you step out of the alley, you glance upwards. You can see the building Valignant talked about from here. Even in a city of skyscrapers, this one is impressive. You only know it as some kind of corporate headquarters, but it is several storeys taller than others you’ve seen in the city, and looks nicer – where the others are square concrete, this one is gently curved and made mostly of glass.

You don’t like to think about how much it cost to build. You’re not sure you’re even capable of imagining that much money. Valignant has been quoting numbers at you for several weeks now; profits in numbers so large that they don’t even seem real. You can’t remember how many zeroes there were, you just know that there were far too many. Valignant definitely thought so.

A month, you remind yourself, as your eyes flicker from the curved glass to the sidewalk. A month, perhaps more.

It suddenly seems like a long time to wait.

*

You have realised – thanks to various events over the years – that you are very hard to kill.

It is, of course, because of your ability – your unique ability. Unique as far as you know. As far as Valignant knows, too. If there was somebody else with this power, he would not be so desperate to work with you.

You haven’t seen Valignant in six weeks, although you spoke to him only recently. You already know what your job is, so there was no reason to speak to him face-to-face. You only needed to confirm the time and that the job was still going ahead.

Valignant assured you that it is, and that he would love for you to do it as soon as possible. Today is the day.

Smooth glass doors slide open for you, almost without a hint of resistance. You step into the building’s lobby and begin to work your way up the stairs. Nobody stops you. You look the part, in a sharp business suit, and carrying a briefcase. Valignant gave you the money for these, but the employees here don’t know that. You’re certain that if you turned up in your usual clothes, you wouldn’t even get to the first floor.

You’ve chosen these stairs on purpose, because they are the easiest place to access the structural weaknesses of the building. Besides that, nobody in their right minds would use the stairs in a building this tall. It will take you a while to get to the top, but it’s necessary. You don’t mind the exercise.

There’s a cut on your left forefinger that keeps bleeding. You have to admit that you feel slightly annoyed; your left arm has only recently finished regenerating, and you don’t like the thought of being without it again, just after you got used to it being available. You are right-handed, though, and need both legs to walk, so you don’t have any other options.

Losing your head is simply a ridiculous idea.

You press your finger against the wall intermittently as you ascend the stairs. The red dots of blood left behind stand out to you, but the chances of the building’s employees spotting them and making the connection is somewhere between slim and impossible. The chances of them doing something about it in time are even lower. Valignant is a good planner, whatever else you think of him – not that you’re sure you have an opinion of him yet. You think his heart is in the right place, but you don’t know if his methods will work. He discussed this with you when you first met – you hadn’t moved to the city yet, then. Valignant said you would understand when you were here.

You can see what he meant by that, but you are not wholly convinced yet. You still have a job to do, though. You keep climbing the stairs. Your finger keeps bleeding.

If only your blood were safe in any body but yours, you would make a wonderful donor.

It takes you a long time to walk to the top of the building; you had to move to a set of stairs in a different area every ten floors. Maybe a few hours have passed. You aren’t sure. You weren’t counting, and have never been very good at keeping time. You don’t think it’s important, anyway. What’s important now is that you are almost done. The most crucial bit has yet to happen.

The briefcase you were carrying is digging into your skin painfully. You had to swap it from hand to hand several times during your journey from the ground floor, so now both your arms ache equally. You feel almost glad to be rid of one of them.

You open it and find the promised instrument inside. Cautiously, you press your finger against it – not your left forefinger; that one is already bleeding – to test the edge. If it is the slightest bit dull, the plan will be ruined. The blade is sharp, however, and you breathe a sigh of relief. The thought of cutting through your own arm is bad enough – but you refuse point blank to even attempt it with a dull blade.

Normally you would not try it with a sharp blade, either. The last time you lost your left arm, it was a very painful accident, and you are not eager for that to happen again. Valignant, however, knows somebody with an ability that suits you quite well. You trust that this will work properly – quickly, that’s the most important thing. You’ve seen how easily something like this can cut through things, at least when touched with that ability. Your left arm should be no trouble at all.

You are under no illusions. It will still hurt. You’re used to the pain, though – it comes with your ability, the thing that makes you superhuman. This isn’t because of some silly prejudice, but because you were unlucky enough for your ability to require some sacrifice.

You swing the blade down. At least you know your arm will grow back.

It hurts, like you expected, but the pain is dulled automatically by a body designed to cope with this and as long as you grit your teeth, you think you are unlikely to scream.

You can hear other screams. The chain reaction has already started. The building shakes and starts to collapse. The screams sound confused. Your ability is unique – at least you think it is – and it is unlikely that the employees here have training in how to combat it; any idea, even, of what it is.

Most superhuman abilities are believed to have evolved out of a need for survival. Valignant believes yours is different. He seems intelligent and his idea is not unreasonable, so you have accepted this information. It answers some of the questions you have about your past, but by no means all of them or even most of them.

There are some species in the animal kingdom that, whilst not being able to defend themselves on an individual basis, leave such an unpleasant imprint on the predator’s mind that they will rarely attack a member of the same species more than once. A way of ensuring the survival of the species as a whole, even if it does require sacrifices.

Valignant thinks that your ability evolved along similar lines. Every time your blood is spilled, it is impossible to remove. This doesn’t do much until you acquire a more serious injury – you lose a part of a finger, for example – but then the effects can be catastrophic for the people around you. If they were trying to kill you, it’s not something they would want to try a second time. Assuming they survived, anyway.

Your blood has explosive properties, but an explosion is only triggered by sudden trauma – the larger the trauma, the larger the explosion. You are no biologist, so you’re not sure how this works, or even if it should be possible – but you don’t worry about that, because a lot of superhumans have impossible abilities. Science doesn’t explain everything, no matter how hard it tries.

Thankfully, this ability doesn’t kill you. It’s painful, yes, but you have a regenerative ability that allows you to survive. It’s not immediate, though – you don’t have the metabolism or calorie intake for that, unlike Valignant. You have to be content with slow regrowth, and what little instant recovery occurs to stop you bleeding to death.

Your body is a complicated thing, to say the least.

Valignant thinks your ability is one of the strongest he’s ever seen, given your ability to replace blood incredibly quickly. That’s why he asked you to do this.

By now the building is crumbling around you. You’re not really very worried by this. You’re pretty sure you can survive almost anything at this point. This is why normal people are scared by superhumans. Your ability is inexplicable, dangerous and powerful. There are probably others stronger than you, though you have no reason to fear them if they have no reason to fight you.

If they do have a reason to fight you, you have a simple but effective way of dealing with them. You have used this on occasion, albeit accidentally. It normally results in their death. You don’t feel bothered by this – it’s a natural response, and you have little control over it.

Valignant is quite poetic, you think. He put it like this: ‘Every drop of your blood spilled will hurt them a hundred times over. It’s the perfect retribution.’

That’s how Valignant came to give you your name.

Vengeance.

The dust settles as the building collapses all at once, almost burying you with it. You manage to blast away a large piece of rubble by losing part of your little finger. You can live without that for a few weeks.

Carefully, you pick your way out of the remains of the building, ignoring desperate pleas for help and the sound of whimpering you can hear. It’s almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your main concern right now is getting to Valignant’s safehouse before the authorities arrive. You don’t really care about anything else.

You never really thought of yourself as a hero, anyway.

I think Arvid is a little awkward as a name. In any case, since it’s such a special name, it makes me expect more from the character. If he’s a normal kid and not an epic hero (and this story is supposed to be depressing), then I’d suggest a very normal, run-of-the-mill name. It’s hard to believe (at least subconsciously) that a person with a name that special is a normal, and even depressed, character.

Im not sure I get the last part about the division bar jokes, but maybe I don’t have access to enough material.

As for which one you should work on, I’d say you should go with whatever you have the most material for. Personally, I’m biased toward the fantasy story.

I don’t need detailed feedback right now, just some thoughts. Would it be worth continuing the story in a similar style? Should I work on this project instead of Zoe and Victor? I haven’t written anything in that for so long. I’ve got a really bad block on it.
—-

Arvid pulled the toast out of the toaster and stared at it. It was black, like charcoal. He sighed and dropped it straight into the bin.

“Hey,” his dad said, “That’s a waste.” His eyes were black.

Arvid glanced at the black circles under his eyes in the shiny surface of a saucepan. The curved shape made his face look weird and bloated. Different to Dad’s black eyes.

“Hey,” his dad said, “Are you listening?”
“I’m going to school,” he muttered, dragging his feet to the hall and putting on his coat.
“Hey,” his dad said, appearing in the doorway. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Arvid looked down at his cold feet. “Shoes.”
His dad laughed, but his eyes stayed black. “Dozy kipper. Were you up reading all night?”
He stuffed his foot into his shoe. “I’m going to school,” he said again.

Mrs. Trill was back in school.

“Hello, Arvid,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he said.
“That’s good. You look tired. Were you reading again?”
“Yes. I’m half-way through.”
She seemed pleased. Her smile reached her eyes. “That’s good. Are you enjoying it?”
Arvid nodded. “Mrs. Trill, do you believe in karma?”
“Who told you about karma?”
“I read it. In a book. Do you believe?”
Mrs. Trill looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t know, Arvid. Why do you ask?”
“But people get what they deserve, don’t they?” he insisted. “That’s karma, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t work all the time,” Mrs. Trill said quietly.
Arvid looked at the floor. “Mum said bad things will come back to get you. She said that people don’t get away with bad things.”
“Arvid . . .”
“Did Mum do a bad thing?” he said. “Did she do a bad thing and it came back to get her and died?”
“Arvid, don’t be silly. Your mother didn’t do anything wrong. Some people are just . . . unlucky, is all. I’m sorry. Do you want me to call your father?”
Arvid thought about Dad’s black eyes and the charcoal toast in the bin. “No.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Are you going to do some work today?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Mrs. Trill said. Her eyes smiled. Blue, not black. “Go sit down now. Tyler will help you with the work you missed.”
Tyler was no help at all. But Arvid just said, “Okay.”

Mrs. Trill tried to teach them division later. She drew a straight line on the board, and then a smaller, curved line from the left side. On the right she wrote 275. On the other side of the curved line went 5. She said it was a bus shelter, but even Tyler knew that bus shelters didn’t have curved edges.

“What do you think it is, then?” she asked.
“Lines!”
“A monkey!”
“Ryan, don’t be silly. That’s nothing like a monkey.”
“It’s a flat monkey. He got hit by a car!”

There was a sudden, collective gasp. Ryan blushed and hung his head in shame. Arvid said nothing. He looked at his desk and traced the numbers in the textbook with his finger.

“Arvid, are you alright?” Mrs. Trill asked.
He looked up at the board for a few seconds, ignoring the numbers. Eventually, he said, “It’s a river barrier. From the Thames.”
“River barrier!” Tyler shouted.
“I don’t think it looks like the river barrier,” Louise said, frowning.
Tyler stuck his tongue out. “River barrier river barrier.”
“Tyler, that’s very rude,” Mrs. Trill said sternly. “Now say sorry for being rude to Louise.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Trill sighed and turned to write something on the board. Louise stuck her tongue out at Tyler as her back was turned. Tyler did the same back. They both giggled. Arvid looked back down at the textbook and traced the numbers with his finger.

—-

Arvid and his classmates are about 9-10, in my head. I think they might come across as younger though. I do have ideas for the way this story should continue. I think I’m going to steal an earlier idea and adapt it.

What do you think?

Hmm. That’s a good point (plus, South Africans have lovely accents). I’ll try and incorporate something like that. I really want to nail Kettrick’s character voice, so everything helps.

Thanks.

-I think it believable that Victor holds on to the bauble. Most teens have a particular interest in things that look cool and glowy. If that’s not reason enough, most teens love money. He may think it’s valuable.

- By appearance I feel that Kettrick is an outcast. I’m not feeling it as much in his speech. Have you ever heard a native African learning English? They create a very interesting sound. I suspect you could incorporate some phrases that would show that he’s a little different.

Maybe phrases like:

“You are not from this place, are you?”

“It would be very wise of you to remain here.”

I think these work better in my head because I can hear the accent saying them.

What do you think?

I disagree with Asaya. I think stupid smart ideas works. The idea is a smart one, but her way of going about it was stupid. I understand it.

“but if somebody was following you it was rarely good.”
-comma between you and it, I think.
-This line feels akwardly intrusive. Does the narrator know he’s telling a story?

Hope that helps ya some.

-’cursing Zoe and her stupid smart ideas’ stupid smart ideas seems a little contradictory and unneccessary. Maybe just-

‘cursing Zoe and her stupid ideas’

-’Or if he eventually did, he’d never hear the end of it and wish he’d let her stay lost.’
This sentence seems kinda unneccessary, too.

- ‘Turning, he was about to yell something and attempt to wrench his arm free when he recognised the figure and the words died on his lips.’

You should cut out ‘and attempt to wrench his arm free’.

Sorry, I don’t have enough time to finish. I’m not that experienced at reviewing, but I hope this helps in any way possible.

Any idea on this current chapter?