Greg Vs Raid 9-26 – Interlude: Pink Tears

The kitchen island was cold under her palm, the big hunk of marble Mom had needled Dad into getting freezing as always. Even with the late afternoon sun beaming down right on it, the surface was barely any warmer than the fridge. 

“Emma-doll, sweetie…” The last two syllables stretched long and sweet like bubble-gum, a voice floating out from the hallway. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a plate?” The question came halfway breathy but somehow completely calm, Zoe Barnes always sounding like she was speaking to a bunny with anxiety issues.

“I’m fine, Mom.” Her shoulders dropped as she kept her fingers pressed flat on the counter, almost hard enough to turn her knuckles white, as a quick breath left her nose. “Literally fine. Just gonna go out back.”

Her mom stepped into the kitchen proper, blonde hair in an extra-expensive blowout that framed the smile on her perfectly moisturized face. “Oh, oh… right, of course. Umm…” A manicured finger tapped against the side of her designer purse for a few seconds. “Well, I’m going to be heading over to the Andersons’ in a little. It’s the book club rotation, and you know how Linda gets if we don’t start the wine pouring exactly on time.” 

A laugh left her mother’s lips; light, tinkling and clearly something that expected an echo.

“Okay.” She didn’t give it to her, Emma just shifting where she sat as plush house slippers scuffed the floorboards. “Have fun.”

Zoe Barnes didn’t even flinch, too used to moody teenage girls to miss a beat. “And Anne should be home any minute now, Emma-doll, so you won’t be all alone too long, okay?”

“Mom, obviously. I know how schedules work.” She almost sucked her teeth, taking in a breath instead as she turned back to face the counter. “Jesus…”

“…Oh, sweetie.”

Before Emma could blink, arms wrapped around her from behind, a chin resting on her head as a heavy floral scent flooded her nostrils. Her mom’s keys clinked together as she squeezed Emma even tighter, the hug rocking her side to side and almost out of her seat. “Trust Mommy, I know what you’re feeling right now.”

Green eyes stared straight ahead at the stainless-steel fridge doors, distorted reflection of red and yellow staring back at her. “Y-you…” Emma swallowed, pitch straining a bit too high for a second. “You sure about that, mom?”

Zoe Barnes stepped back, silk blouse smoothed down with one hand as she leaned a hip up against the counter. “Of course I do, doll. Your mom may not be cool anymore but I’m not stupid.” Keys dangled and jangled, transwered from one hand to the other until they hung off her index. “You missed your sweet sixteen, I get it. The hospital stay was bad enough but I know how much you were looking forw—”

“Mom, I need some fresh air.”

The words slipped out faster than she meant them too, brittle and pitched definitely too high as she hopped off the island chair, but Emma couldn’t stop it if she wanted to. Pretending not to notice the wounded flutter of her mom’s eyelashes, she stomped through the kitchen and slid the patio door open with a bit too much force. I need…

The Maine summer afternoon heat forced her to take a breath as Emma stepped out, door sliding shut behind her before her mom could say anything else. …some fresh air.

She didn’t bother walking anymore than she had to, hopping down the three wooden steps of the back deck until her plush slippers sunk slightly into the manicured grass. Sun hanging low in the sky, long bruised shadows spilled over the aggressively green lawn as she walked all the way to the center of the yard. Heavy humidity pressed against skin as her white t-shirt clung tighter, cutoff jean shorts stiff against her thighs. Sweet sixteen.

Emma threw her head back and sighed. Jesus Christ.

A sweet sixteen was supposed to be the best day of her life; a massive catered event at the Captain’s Hill country club with an ice sculpture and a custom designer dress that she would wear exactly once. The same exact day her dad would lead her out to the driveway with his hands over her eyes like she didn’t know a silver Lexus was going to be waiting for her in the driveway. 

Instead, her birthday had vanished into the gaping void that was that fucking coma. 

Another sigh left her, one hand pressing tight into her closed eyes. She wanted the party, obviously. 

Hell, she deserved the car. 

But right now, she had infinitely bigger things crushing the breath out of her lungs and taking up too-important space in her own head. Emma opened her eyes up as she let herself drop down on the green, grass stabbing into her bare legs as her hands caught her.

She sighed again. I miss Greg.

Her stomach twisted, a violent stormy pit at the bottom of her gut. Greg Veder. The absolute bottom-feeding loser of the Winslow pecking order that she had messed with just to make someone else suffer. 

At first, at least.

But she missed him.

She really did.

And it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to fix it, it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to get her boyfriend back where he belonged.

Almost three weeks ago, before the siren sounded and the ocean swallowed half of Brockton Bay, she had done her very best even. She had tried to bring him all the way up to her room and tell him that she knew what he was hiding. It had taken weeks to work up the courage after the hospital, the memories of her coma fading away as Greg stood above her with his hands glowing bright gold and blue. She remembered it both times too; the boy she had just been messing around with had saved her life.

But the idiot had just stood there at her front door, and all he wanted to do was talk about fucking Taylor.

Taylor. Emma almost hissed the name, teeth grit tight as she stared at the tall white fence. She had tried to fix her relationship with Greg, the two of them back together happy and smiling, and he just threw it right back in her face to ask about the crying little victim that belonged in a locker.

Emma dropped her hands from her face and reached down, perfectly painted pink nails hooking into the dirt beneath the grass. …why did I slam the door?

Yeah, she was pissed because he’d made out with Hebert of all people, and straight up lied to her about it, but she didn’t think that would be enough to make him leave. Emma had even waited on the other side of the door, waiting for him to knock or beg or anything.

But he didn’t do any of that.

He just… 

Emma let out a groan.

He just actually walked away, leaving her completely alone.

She pulled, ripping a clump of green out by the roots, dark soil packing itself under her manicure as her head kept spinning. Alone…

Family was family, but all of her friends had barely bothered to message or call after she got out of the hospital. And Sophia…

Sophia wasn’t answering her phone. She hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t returned a single call since the moment Emma woke up. Her enforcer, her partner, the jagged edge to Emma’s shining polish; the two of them were untouchable together. 

And Madison… well, Emma obviously hadn’t called Madison. But Madison hadn’t called her either so she didn’t even matter.

Who even cares about fucking Madison whatever her name is? Green eyes squeezed themselves shut, a half-panic attack in her chest as her lungs refused to work with her as she drew in a tight breath. 

She forced it through anyway, sucking in another gasp of fresh summer. You’re good. You’re better than good. You’re strong. Another inhale filled her lungs. Stronger than ever.

The worst part, though, the absolute most mind-shattering, unacceptable reality of all of it, was the Wards.

Emma Barnes forced her eyes open, staring at the ripped grass in her denim-covered lap, her vision swimming as she was forced to think about something that made even less sense than everything else.

Taylor Hebert, of all the people in the whole wide world, was a cape.

The world hated her — it absolutely had to — the way it was playing a joke like this. 

An absolutely sick twisted joke if there ever was one.

Emma had watched the broadcast on her laptop her first few days home, sitting on her bed with her door locked. Staring at the footage of the newest Ward stepping up to the podium, she had felt the pain and the taste of copper on her tongue as her teeth nearly tore through her bottom lip. The hair was a dead goddam giveaway; those huge, ridiculous, frizzy twin poofy pigtails framing that long, awkward face because that dumb red domino mask wasn’t fooling anyone with half a brain.

“Welcome Lady Bug!”

And the audience had welcomed her.

Hell, they’d welcomed her like they’d never seen a fucking cape before, whooping and clapping their stupid little hearts out as Taylor Hebert danced up there like a clown with her little polka-dotted purse.

She showed the video to her family — one by one, then all together — expecting them to see exactly what she saw, to be just as shocked as she was.

But nooooo…

Her dad, her mom, and sister had just looked at her like she was out of her mind, Anne even asking if she needed to rest a little more. Whywhywhy… She hissed in another breath, shaking her head. Why can’t they see it?

 It was so incredibly obvious. 

It was just Taylor. It was just Taylor playing dressup.

Yeah. Yeah, that was all it was. 

Taylor Hebert standing up there on-stage as a Ward, using a fake cutesy voice, doing little anime-girl poses for cheering kids in the crowd. Taylor fucking Hebert acting exactly the way she used to act back when they were stupid kids in middle school, like all of this wasn’t a pathetic cry for attention from a girl who broke apart inside a metal box.

A low groan spilled over the grass, wind blowing as the sun dipped lower and lower. What kind of stupid power is controlling ladybugs, anyway? No matter how pretty Taylor made it look or how well the bugs danced, it was a power perfectly fittted for a girl who belonged in a pile of trash.

But it was still a power.

No matter how pathetic the ladybug control was, the Protectorate had seen Taylor as worthy enough to be in a costume and get her face plastered on posters and her logo slapped on merch. 

They’d put her on TV and made it clear that Taylor was objectively better than normal people.

Better than her.

“No.” The whisper slipped out, as jagged as glass as it lef her lips. Not better than me. Never.

Emma held her right arm out over her, another sharp breath leaving her as she pulled on the tight, coiled pressure sitting just under her skin.

She flicked her wrist.

Pink.

Hot pink — no different than her nails — flared out atop her palm, swirling and dancing from finger to finger to thumb like a living flame. It was beautiful. It was stage-lighting perfection. It was one hundred times better than some stupid fat-bottomed creepy-crawlies.

Unfortunately, unless she was in desperate need of a flashlight, it was also apparently fucking useless.

Emma stared at the pink fire that she still had no idea what to do with.

She still had no idea what it even did.

She could throw it, sure, but it did a fat load of nothing when she did. No explosions, no force, not even a puff of wind for her troubles.

She couldn’t burn anything with it either; freezing, shocking, melting — not a fucking thing she tried ever bothered to work and all she got for her trouble and long attempts was a migraine and a feeling like she just ran a marathon. 

All the while, the pink just sat there on her hand; a useless flare of light that didn’t do a single thing but look pretty. 

…kinda like me. Emma groaned again, head shaking side-to-side. No, no, no, she wasn’t just pretty. Even if the pink fire did nothing, she was still stronger than she remembered before the hospital. She wasn’t Glory Girl or anything crazy like that, but she could almost lift her bed over her head so that was something.

Emma let the pink die out, her face dropping into her hands. My life sucks. Fingers tangled in her hair, a single, involuntary sob almost tore free from her throat but before it could—

Thud. 

Before it could, the heavy sound of an impact against the grass shattered the quiet peace of the late afternoon.

Emma’s head snapped up as something dropped over the six-foot wooden privacy fence. She scrambled backward, house slippers almost catching on the grass. She caught herself on her hands, dirt grinding into her palms as a pair of green eyes snapped toward the dark shape crumpled in her mom’s hydrangeas.

What the…

It was a person.

A person.

Twitching and shuddering in the shadows, another groan echoed out across the lawn and this time it wasn’t from Emma. A strong smell hit her nose, stronger than the smushed flowers, and familiar at the same time. Blood?  The person was bleeding and obviously badly hurt, dark clothes slick and heavy with moisture that looked black in the fading light.

Emma pushed herself further back, chest heaving and ready to scream for anyone close enough to hear her. Then the figure shifted, the angle of the sunlight catching the side of a familiar, dark-skinned face.

Emma froze, air leaving her lungs in a sudden rush as her eyes widened even further. A choked tumbled out of her mouth.

“…Sophia?”