[Smells Like Teen Spirit]—❈—15:: The Move

And I'm back with this.

Sorry, it took so long, life was life-ing.

Enjoy the chapter.

—❈——❈——❈—

It's Sunday and we're moving.

Most of the stuff we own is, to put it nicely, ill-fitting for our new abode, so most of what we move from our old house today, we will be giving to charity.

It's just me and Mom and Hannah here to do the work, and honestly, between my super strength, Mom's improved physique, and the simple truth that we don't own much, we don't even need Hannah for the work.

I very much doubt we need her for security either, which is her stated reason for why she absolutely had to come with us.

All the same, the more the merrier, and in the (all too possible, as I've recently learned) event that someone starts shooting at us, or rather me, it would certainly be useful to have someone with us whose whole thing is shooting back.

The work is smooth and hardly stressful, even with the elevator out of commission like it's been since forever.

Mom and I do most of the lifting, Hannah stating a need to keep herself unencumbered in the event of danger.

While we're strong enough to do the work with relative ease, many of the items we're carrying do require two sets of hands, even if only to avoid looking suspicious.

Ergo, the work, while not stressful, still takes time and numerous trips up and down several flights of stairs.

On either the third or fourth trip to the apartment, we hear banging and screaming coming from down the hall.

I scowl. That guy again.

“You fucking whore,” we hear. “Who's he? Who the fuck is he?”

“Walt, please,” his sobbing girlfriend cries.

A smack. A scream of pain. More shouting.

My jaw clenches.

Every time, every freaking time it's always something; where were you? Who is he? Who were you talking to? Why didn't you pick up? Every question accompanied by a slap, a punch, a kick, crying and screaming.

For months I ignored it because there was nothing I could do. Then for weeks I've ignored it because… why? I'm not supposed to use my powers? I'm not supposed to risk exposure as a cape? I'm not supposed to risk putting a target on my back?

Well, guess what? There's already a target on my back. Even before I had powers there was, and it's only gotten bigger since then.

Same with the exposure.

Coil tried to have me killed in the middle of a busy street, and while, yes, The PRT managed to keep the few videos of the event from leaking online, the fact remains that it did happen.

Not to brag, but I have very memorable face, if most of those people saw me again, odds are good that they'll remember me.

And even if that wasn't the case, what kind of person refuses to do the right thing just because they don't want people to know who they are?

A coward, that's who. And I'm no coward. I'm a hero. I have the signed contract and everything.

Besides, my ultimate aim is to pull assholes like Kaiser and Lung out into the light. It wouldn't do if I'm afraid to stand in it myself, would it?

I gently set down my end of the fridge, causing Mom to look at me, and with a single glance, she knows.

“Aiden, no,” she says firmly.

I lift an eyebrow at her. “What happened to be the change you want to see in the world?” I ask.

Her eye twitches; she never likes it when I use her words against her.

Especially when I'm right.

“Aiden, you're only doing this because you're angry,” Mom says.

“Damn right, I'm angry,” I say, barely restraining the anger in my voice. “He's hurting her. He's always hurting her. And no, Mom, you taking a meal to her every once in a while doesn't freaking help.”

My words hit Mom like a physical blow, and the understanding that I've hurt her douses my rising anger like water on a flame.

We stand staring at each other for several seconds, the screaming that started all this escalating a few apartments down.

“What’s her name?” Hannah asks and Mom and I turn to her; for a moment, we'd both forgotten that she was here.

“What?” I ask.

“The lady being beaten,” Hannah explains, throwing on her jacket. “What's her name?”

“Rose,” Mom says, then adds; “What are you going to do?” as Hannah heads for the door.

“My job,” she says and steps out.

Mom and I glance at each other, then we head to the door and look out right as Hannah reaches the apartment.

Hannah pounds on the door, right as Walt, asshole extraordinaire, is calling his girlfriend a whore for what feels like the millionth time.

“Rose. Hey, Rose, you okay? Open up,” Hannah shouts, doing something with her voice that makes it sounds deeper. Masculine.

“Rose, baby. Open the door,” Hannah says.

There's a moment of eerie stillness inside the apartment for a moment, then Walt says; “Is that him? You brought him to my fucking house?”

“Hey, Walt, you piece of shit, come out here and face me like a fucking man,” Hannah shouts.

The stomping of feet announce Walt's approach to the door, and Hannah readies herself.

The moment the door opens, she kicks it in, then follows.

Angry yelling, struggling, then a drawn-out scream of pain from Walt right before a body hits the floor.

Mom rushes over and I'm right on her heels.

At the door, I take in the scene, Walt, passed out on the ground, Hannah standing over him, and Rose hiding in a corner, a bleeding nose, black eye and several other injuries a testament to the horrors she's suffered.

Mom heads to her, and with a few words she has the younger woman clinging to her for dear life and bawling her eyes out.

In the end, the hardest part of the whole thing was convincing Rose that, yes, we can make Walt go away for a very long time, especially if she's willing to testify against him.

It's…unsettling. To see that a person can be so battered and broken down, that they damn near rebel at the idea that their problem is really not impossible to solve. Or even particularly difficult.

What does it take to become that? I wonder.

Eventually, the Rose matter is resolved for now, with Hannah calling the cops to take in Walt and Rose going to a friend's place to stay.

A few hours after that, our packing is done, and as we drive out of the neighbourhood, I stare at the apartment buildings around us, wondering how many women (and men, rarer though it may be) like Rose there are in every one.

Mom takes my hand in both of hers.

Hannah's driving, leaving the both us in the passenger seat of the small moving van we've hired.

“You were right,” Mom says. “I didn't do enough.”

“Mom, I didn't—”

“It's okay,” Mom cuts me off gently. “You were right. I'll do more. Just… you be the big hero, handle the big things. Let me take care of the little ones. Okay?”

I would argue that Rose's safety isn't a little thing, but I know Mom doesn't mean it that way.

I nod.

Mom gives me that look she sometimes gives me; like I hung the moon, or something.

It's embarrassing, and uncomfortable, and silly, especially since I know I haven't done anything to deserve it, but, just like always, it stokes a fire in my chest that leaves my spine straighter and my chin higher.

“My beautiful boy,” Mom says and kisses me on the head.