How to be Badass (2nd Draft)

Through some bizarre imperfection of engineering, or building, or caring, Char’s house and the house next to hers were smashed up against one another in such a way that the roof that descended from under the bathroom window was close enough to that of the neighboring house that she could almost touch it.

She didn’t think that the other window led to a bathroom. Sometimes she would sit on the roof and draw, and she’d peek in through the window because it was right there and it didn’t look like a bathroom to her. A bedroom, she thought. That looked like pillows, through the blind. Clothing.

When it got hot out, the window got opened and Char was pleased that it was a bedroom. The first time the boy that lived in it saw her drawing on her roof he dropped his glass of water, and Char had laughed and spent the rest of the day sketching his look of surprise while her shoulders blistered in the sun and the boy came onto his roof too and asked her to see every five minutes. Giggling, she did.

“You’re really good,” the boy said. “I look stupid but that’s because I was being stupid, not because you’re a bad drawer.”

“Visual artist,” Char corrected. “Drawer isn’t a word.”

“Oh. I’m Emmanuel. My family calls me Manny.”

Char wrinkled her nose. “Ew,” she said. “Emmanuel sounds nice but Manny doesn’t.”

The boy had laughed. “Okay, you can call me something different then.”

Char thought about it, and then said, “Em.”

“Em? Like short for Emma?”

“No, like short of Emmanuel.”

“Okay, okay. What’s your name?”

“Charlaine. My brothers call me Char.”

“Can I call you Char?”

“Are you my brother?”

“No.”

“Then not yet.”

“Fine,” the boy said, smiling mischeiviously. “It’ll be my mission, then.”

After that, they became friends. Rendez-vous: the roof. They went to the same school. They crashed each other’s places, and when they got older they leapt daringly from one roof to the others, and had sleepovers, with or without permission from their parents.

When they grew older still Char started to notice that Emmanuel had dimples, in his cheeks and on his back. She wondered what it would feel like to touch them, and would scold herself. By the time she was fourteen she stopped scolding herself, and later that year he kissed her.

He had been scared, but when she had only laughed and pulled him in for another kiss, he had laughed too, nervously, and his voice had cracked as he whispered, “Can I call you Char, yet?”

Char had been sharply aware of how lucky she was. Em was bold, supportive, kind. Both of them were a bit too willing to get into scraps for the sake of their own and each other’s pride. Char was more reckless when she was with him, more outgoing. She was less quiet.

When she was sixteen, and he seventeen, and they were both a little drunk, they’d ended up in one of the bedrooms upstairs at some fellow high school student’s house. It hadn’t been the first time it had happened, and they knew what they were doing; they used a condom, but neither were functioning well enough to say if they used it right. Maybe it malfuntioned completely independent of them. But the result remained the same: Char was sixteen, and Char was pregnant with Em’s child.

It was a harsh bring about of reality to their storybook relationship, but it didn’t negate the strength of the relationship they’d built together. They were scared, both barely feeling like more than children themselves, but neither had the heart for an abortion and so the trials began.

Allen woke up the next morning to a gentle knock on the door, and Dustin making a sound that clearly denoted that he was both a light sleeper and not a morning person.

Allen wasn’t much for sleep even when he wasn’t dogged by nightmares, so he got up and opened the door. It was Sparrow. “Hi,” she said. “Have a moment?”

Rubbing his face sleepily, he said, “Dustin will probably throw something at us, so let me… put some pants on and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“I’ll just wait out here,” Sparrow said. “I want to show you my office.”

Okay then. Allen closed the door to put his pants on, and then slipped out. Dustin seemed to already be asleep again.

“Sorry to wake you,” Sparrow said. “I wasn’t sure what your schedule was like.”

“It’s okay,” Allen said. “I don’t like sleeping that much anyways.”

“Said no teenager ever,” said Sparrow, starting to walk in the direction of the offices.

“Fine,” Allen said. “I might like sleeping if I didn’t have anything better to do.”

Sparrow laughed. “Okay. Oh, crap, I forgot to take my medication. Wanna wait in there while I go grab it? I’ll bring some tea too. Do you like tea? I love tea. What kind of tea do you like? Answer carefully.”

Allen blinked at the onslaught, not yet fully awake. “Um, I guess so,” he said vaguely, gazing at the doors as he passed them by. “Why are there so many different doors in this house?”

“Artistic lisence. Tea?”

“Oh,” Allen said. Bracing himself for her disappointment, he said, “I haven’t really had much tea.”

Far from being discouraged, Sparrow said, “That’s okay! I’ll just bring you something I like then.”

They had reached a door that was entirely misted glass except the wooden frame. Sparrow opened it up. “Try not to touch anything that looks like a whip, hmm?”

“A… a whip?” What kind of office was this?

“A work-in-progress.”

Allen’s lips felt out the words tentatively. “Ohh,” he said, drawing out the sound. “WIP. I get it. Okay.”

Sparrow left, stride bouncing; Allen turned around to examine the office.

‘Office’ wasn’t the word he would have used for it. Enchanting, yes. It was a room scattered with tables, eisels, desks, art supplies, and candles. Candles were everywhere. The entire place was suffused with a soft, even light that confused Allen until he realized that the ceiling was made of glass. It was the only window in the room, and it allowed a startling amount of natural light in. Today the sky was flat with bright, even clouds, and the room reflected its stark, monotone colouring.

The candles themselves were a wonder. There were simple ones, thick and thin sticks of wax, of course. But there were also ones that were art unto themselves, wrought in fine detail. There were small woodland creatures, fibinnochi sequences, and in one case, angels gifting the world with their middle finger. Allen looked into their blissful faces with amusement.

The more he woke up, the more he remembered that he was stressed, but this room was calming. It seemed removed from the rest of the world.

While there were in fact no whips, there were WIPs. On sketching paper pinned into place on an angled desk was an artfully rendered quote, “It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” The words seemed hauntingly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It filled him with a feeling of nostalgia. Surrounding the words were glittery clouds and fantastical vines. He reached out to touch it before remembering what Sparrow had told him, letting his hand fall harmlessly. Elsewhere in the room was a painting just as soft as the morning light, pastel and gentle. A girl was sat on the beach, serene and cross-legged, drinking in the dawn. The girl looked suspiciously like Kidd.

There were a few other things; a sculpture half smashed that may have once been a pig but now more closely resembled a pork chop, a fairy house carved from wood or bark.

Sparrow returned. “How do you like it?” she asked, setting two mugs of tea on a nearby table.

“It’s very peaceful,” Allen said. “But why am I here?”

“Because it’s peaceful,” said Sparrow. “I call it the candle-and-art room. Drink your tea.”

She handed him one of the mugs and Allen inhaled tentatively. It smelled like orange and spice. “I brought you something herbal because I realized that I don’t know how you are with caffeine.”

“Thanks,” Allen said, since he also didn’t know how he was with caffeine. The mug was deliciously warm, and warm and delicious. He sipped it carefully.

“Sit down, hmmm?” She took her own advice, settling on a heavily carpeted portion of the floor. Like the living room downstairs, it was patchy and varied. Allen followed suit, pulling his legs up to his chest and his tea on his knees.

“So,” Sparrow said.

Allen raised an eyebrow at her.

“What do you think so far?”

“Of what?”

“Us. The house. Us. Our house.”

“Oh,” Allen said, and stopped to think about it for a second. “I love the house. It seems very genuine.”

Sparrow beamed.

“I… most of you guys seem nice,” he added.

“But you’re scared still.”

Allen nodded, hiding behind his tea.

“No worries,” Sparrow said. “We can be pretty intimidating. And everyone thinks Fay was out of line last night.”

That made him feel a bit better. At least they didn’t all agree with her.

“Can you tell me more about the demonslayers?” Allen asked. “I only know what Dustin told me, and apparently they died out before he was born… created… whatever. So he doesn’t know much.”

“Sure, though I wasn’t involved with the guilds when they were around. I was a lost bloodline. Actually, we’re all lost bloodlines, except Mimi,” Sparrow said, “and Char, because she’s not actually a demonslayer.”

“She’s not?”

“Not technically, no. She doesn’t have magic,” Sparrow wiggled her fingers. “But she’s our tattoo artist and she knows more about rituals that the rest of us.”

“Demonslayers have magic?” Allen asked, peeking up over his mug. Something about that seemed hopeful. Demons were terrifying to Allen, but if demonslayers had magic maybe they would be less scary.

“Yeah,” Sparrow said. “Mimi is so much better at story-telling than I am, so I’ll leave the origin story to her, but we have power like half-demons do, basically, and then when we get our first tattoo, it binds it to be used instead for demonslaying. I don’t really know the underlying theory but it’s like a ritual—think creepy movie pentagon—but very efficient and permanently engrained on your skin.”

“Tattoos?” Allen asked.

“Yeah, demonslayers use tattoos to shape their power,” Sparrow said. “You get new ones as you go up levels.”

Allen chewed his lip, thinking. The idea that had snapped into place in his mind smoldered.

“What do they call people like you?” Sparrow asked.

Allen bit his lip, and then winced. “People like me?” He bit down on his panic.

“Yeah, people who can be possessed over and over.”

Allen snorted. “Convenient?”

“Really?”

“I don’t think you name something when there’s only one.”

“So you’re the only one?”

“As far as I know,” Allen said. “It’s not like they exactly keep me in the know. I’m only a tool.”

Sparrow gave him this look. Her eyes had sympathy, and her mouth was wry. Bitterness. Pity?

“Well,” she said, “that’s a relief.”

Before he lost his nerve, he said, “I will tell you guys what happened before Wednesday.”

“The day the possessions always happen? Why?”

Allen just shook his head tightly.

“Okay,” Sparrow said. “How do you feel about going shopping? You don’t have much for clothes.”

That was true. And it was a distraction. Taking a deep breath, Allen nodded. “Yeah, that would be good.”

Sparrow had decided that she was cooking breakfast before they left, but when they stepped out of the office Allen instantly smelled it already cooking—pancakes, and bacon. He inhaled greedily.

“Who’s that?” Sparrow said, clearly not expecting an answer. “Everyone should be at work. Or asleep.”

Allen shrugged. Glancing at the door to the room he and Dustin were staying in (he was having trouble thinking about it as ‘his’ room), he said, “I’m going to go tell Dustin where we’re going.”

“Oh, he can—should?—come too,” Sparrow said.

Allen smiled faintly, shaking his head. “He won’t want to get up. I know his size.”

“Alrighty then.”

Allen slipped back into his room. Resting a hand on Dustin’s shoulder, Dustin rolled over onto his back and said something that resembled, “Mmmmnnnghhhh.”

A small laugh escaped Allen before he said, “Sparrow and I are going shopping. I’ll grab some stuff for you.”

“Thanks,” Dustin said, flopping the back of his hand onto his face. He was polite even when grumpy.

It turned out it was Char in the kitchen.

“I thought you had a client this morning?” Sparrow asked when she saw her.

“I did. Come mind this pancake,” Char said.

Sparrow did.

“They cancelled on me,” Char said, moving bacon onto a towel on a plate. “I have the morning off now.”

“Hell yes!” said Sparrow, flipping the pancake. “Do you want to come shopping with Allen and I?”

“Me and Allen,” Char said drily.

“Really? Dustin corrected me on that yesterday, except it was the other way around,” Sparrow said, wrinkling her nose. Allen quietly sat himself down, watching the comfortable dynamic between the two women.

“Did you do well in English in school?” Char asked teasingly.

“No,” Sparrow said, frowning. “I was more of a maths and science person.”

“I know,” Char said, patting her.

“Now I don’t miss high school, but I do miss biology,” Sparrow said. “Maybe I’ll go back to school. I’d like to be a medical examiner.”

“Hon,” said Char, “get that pancake off. You’re very emotionally sensitive. Do you think you could deal with murder victims on the regular?”

“Oh, yes.” Sparrow moved the pancake from the pan to a plate Char had allocated for them. “I would love to help their families find solace, and I can do that by being good at bio.”

“That’s just like you,” Char said, bumping her with her hip. “Allen, you want that first pancake? And some bacon?”

Allen did.

“Maple syrup?”

“You have maple syrup?” He hadn’t had maple syrup for years. His delighted tone sounded foreign to his own ears.

Char smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Yes.”

“I would love some,” Allen said, looking down at the table.

“Alright.” Onto the table plunked a plate with a pancake and three pieces of thick bacon, and a bottle of maple syrup. It was delicious—Allen made pancakes sometimes, but they were the box mix kind. Not this fluffy, from-scratch bliss.

“You didn’t put cranberries in it,” Sparrow said with a sigh.

“You can blame Allen for that,” Char said, brandishing her flipper at him. “I didn’t know what he liked yet and he’s new so I wanted to make something he liked. Everyone likes pancakes.”

Allen couldn’t argue with that.

“What do you like in pancakes then?” Sparrow asked. Conspirationally, she whispered, “Cranberries?”

Allen shrugged as he prematurely swallowed a bite of pancake to answer. “I haven’t really tried anything.”

“Ah,” said Char. “Then let the trials begin.”

Char did come shopping with them. The car they took was a 1988 Toyota Corolla, a cramped thing. Char won the brief bicker over who would drive, and Sparrow insisted on shoving herself in the back so that Allen could take shot-gun. “I’m a saint,” Sparrow had proclaimed. “You’re even shorter than me.”

So Allen ended up in the front seat on the way to a new and used outlet. Allen was familiar with these; they were cheaper and hence where he usually bought his clothing. As nice as Char and Sparrow were, their high-energy and comfort around each other was somewhat exhausting for Allen. He was too new to them—and to the whole concept of interacting with more than one person at a time in the first place.

It occurred to him while stepping out of the car that he could probably quite easily step into the crowd here and disappear. Go home. Dustin was still with the demonslayers but—

He stood outside the car with the door open for a moment, looking out into the crowd. If he went home now he doubted anyone would notice that he’d been gone. No one kept tabs on him. Why would they? He was, as far as they knew, completely subservient.

Well, they hadn’t been wrong. He hadn’t left—he’d been taken. Now he could choose to stay away, though. Anxiety squeezed his chest. He doubted again that they could truly help him. He was so very, very stuck. He couldn’t even stop the demons from possessing him. Why would the demonslayers be able to? If they couldn’t, was there any reason to stay?

Maybe they could isolate him, at least. Control him. Save his mom.

This is their job, Allen thought. Professionals performed miracles in their fields.

Swallowing hard, Allen followed Sparrow and Char onto the sidewalk.

At eleven, Char had to leave to make it to her next appointment. It was a small piece, and would probably only take the one session to complete. She remembered again Allen say “You have maple syrup?” with childish excitement and her lips twitched. He really was just a kid, even through his trauma and anger.

They’d found some clothing for him; a couple pairs of jeans and plain tees. The boy had insistently plain tastes. Sparrow had wanted to get him more exciting clothing but he hadn’t seemed at all interested. Char had hinted at getting him more exciting clothing but it’s possible that he hadn’t even noticed. At least they had wrangled him into at least getting stuff that fit him properly, unlike what he had been wearing.

Char’s studio was a small place in the upper east side of New York City. She hadn’t started there, of course, but tattoo art paid surprisingly well if you were good at what you did, and Char was. As she let herself in, she let herself extrapolate on the situation at home. She hadn’t fully admitted it to herself yet, but it felt a lot like when Kidd had been adopted in. A bird with broken wings that needed shelter and some time to rest before it could learn to fly. A ruler who had been overthrown who needed some time to find their inner nobility.

Char didn’t often give in to the romantic side of her, but sometimes she did. She remembered a time when Em jumping onto her roof was the most romantic thing in the world as she took out the tattoo for the client and started setting up her machine in a screened off area. If it had been anyone but Em she probably would have clocked them. As it was, after the first time he did it (completely scaring the crap out of her, not that she’d admit it), she just counted down until she could do it back to him.

Her client came in and she put on her customer service face. Act cheerful until you need to stand up for yourself. You don’t have to take anyone’s shit. That was one nice thing about being self-employed.

Today it was a woman around Char’s age; late twenties and absolutely short. Char was small enough that she almost never felt big and awkward compared to other people but this woman accomplished it. Char was distracted by her own thoughts while she tattooed her, and hence didn’t keep up as much of a conversation as she usually tried to with her clients.

She was mulling. Mulled wine was crappy wine warmed and with spices added. Mulled thoughts were bad ideas warmed and with revisions added.

Bad idea: Visit Em and Sam.

Warmed: She is stronger than before.

Revisions: Call Em and discuss potentially visiting Sam.

Bad idea: Start caring about Allen.

Warmed: He’s a dear.

Revisions: She didn’t have anything for this one. It was still a bad idea.

Bad idea: Set Mimi and Queri up on a blind date.

Warmed: They really need to get their asses kicked.

Revisions: Maybe instead just talk to them.

Thank goodness the piece was a simple one or her distraction might have had consequences. As it was, everything was fine, if a little quiet. As she put the finishing touches on the bumble bee she decided she was going to wait on calling Em. She didn’t even know where to contact him, and she was going to have her hands full enough with Allen without going out of her way to make life more complicated.

Allen was glad to have clothes, though he was also glad to have escaped Sparrow’s insistence on more eccentric clothing. She didn’t seem to like anything that didn’t scream your uniqueness or presence to the world.

Still, Allen had managed to get himself things that he could wear, though they were tighter than he’d normally like. He’d even managed to snag another pair of harem pants. He realized his hand wraps were still at home and sighed. He didn’t even know where he could go to fight here.

That night, before dinner, Allen was invited to sit in on a practice session. Allen was fascinated by the fighting style; the intent was not to disable, but to make connection without hurting the vessel. It was fluid, precise, like a dance. He was instantly enchanted. He wanted to learn. He came back every time for three nights to watch them. On the third night, Allen brought Dustin, and Mimi had them do something new—the fighting style they used was instead brutally strong and efficient, quick and hard-hitting.

“This is what we have to use for half-demons,” Char told him during a break, after chugging down some water. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were bright. “I love fighting like this.”

“It looks fun,” Allen said.

“Did you get into fights a lot?”

Allen nodded. He’d gotten into his fair share of fights at school, as well as the underground fighting rings.

Char grinned. “So did I. Still do, s’matter of fact.”

Allen smiled back at that, just a little. “So do I,” he said.

“Who’s up for practical training?” Mimi called, indicating that the slayers should regroup around her.

Everyone gave their consent and then Mimi looked at Allen and Dustin. “You guys are going to have to leave for this. It’s not safe to have untrained individuals that could get caught in the crossfire.”

The crossfire of what? “What are you going to do?” Dustin asked, sparing Allen the need.

“Mimi is going to repossess a demon, and we have to try to get rid of it while she tries to beat the snot out of us,” Fay said. “It’s good practice for her and for us.”

“I’m sorry,” Dustin said politely. “Repossess?”

Mimi smiled, and it was savage. “I drag a demon into my body,” she said, sounding malicious, “and then I possess it.”

“How… You can do that?” Allen asked, his voice breaking into a whisper.

Mimi looked at him and something approximating sympathy flickered in her face before she went back to looking business-like. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a skill that only level fives and sixes—the two last levels in the demonslaying hierarchy—can do. I’m a level six.”

Allen looked at Mimi with new respect. He’d gotten the sense that she was strong. She was their leader. But the highest possible level of demonslaying—that was a whole new level of impressive. Not to mention he was filled with so much hope and longing at the thought of repossession that he felt he might burst.

Mimi looked at him, and Allen looked right back. He was painfully aware that his hope was probably written all over his face, but he couldn’t help it. She sighed and said, “You can watch if you want. And I’ll test you soon to see if you’re a demonslayer, if you want. It’s not that unlikely. Often people who are more resistent to the—er—negative affects of possession—are.”

Oh, right. That would be a requirement. He’d have to be a demonslayer. And it was a top-level skill. The odds of him being able to do that any time soon was not high. But if he could—well, he wouldn’t stop until he had figured it out.

“Thank you,” Allen said, pulling his legs up to his chest and staring at Mimi unabashedly.

“We’re going to try something new,” Mimi announced. “I want you to try to kill or banish the demon while trying not to hurt me.”

There was a confused silence for a second, and then Queri said, “Why?”

“So that if the kid ever gets possessed by something more powerful, we can get it out of him without hurting him. Capiche?”

“Aww, you do care,” said Sparrow sweetly.

Mimi rolled her eyes and didn’t bother to respond.

It was clearly not something she was self-conscious about. Allen supposed that if one trained all their life to do something so skillful he would also not be self-conscious about it. “I’m going to go in deep,” she said. Allen wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but apparently it involved lying down, because that’s what she did next. The other women waited, bodies wound tight. It didn’t seem like a particularly reliable process.

Allen felt it when the demonic presence entered the human world. It shuddered through him, the awareness. Black wound up her veins and one of her firsts clenched. She sat up, and Allen saw that her eyes were completely, inky black. Then she smiled—a smile entirely her own. That hit Allen like a freight train—how it was still Mimi. He felt short of breath as he looked at her.

“I found a decent night demon,” she said with great satisfaction. She opened her palm and blackness spilled from it, seeping along the floor and spreading down her arm and over the rest of her body. “Time to leave, children.”

Allen did, eyes still fixed on Mimi. If he stopped looking at her it might stop being true. When they got out of the room, Dustin laughed delightedly and put an arm around Allen, squeezing him tightly. “Yeah, man!” he said.

Allen laughed too, Dustin’s enthusiasm catching. “This is going to be great,” Dustin said. “I would bet money you’re a demonslayer.”

“Why?” Allen asked as they stumbled down the hallway and into the messy storage room like a drunk animal on four legs.

“It’s just—it’s right,” Dustin said. “You’ve been surviving those possessions for years.”

It was true, but things being right didn’t always make them true. Demons wouldn’t exist.

“Have you seen the library yet?” Dustin asked, still grinning broadly.

“I haven’t,” Allen said, shaking his head at Dustin’s excitement. It caused his own tentative hope to erupt. He was smiling like a fool, too. He couldn’t have dreamed something like what Mimi had done was possible. “And Dustin—you don’t have any money to bet on my being a demonslayer.”

“I don’t but it doesn’t matter because I’d win,” Dustin retorted, letting go of Allen so they could climb down the ladder to the second floor and steering them left into one of the doors Char had originally pointed out as one of those leading to the library. “This is my favourite place in the world.”

“Are you just saying that because you’re excited right now?”

“No, it’s truly wonderful.” He pushed open the door, and Allen had to admit he could see what Dustin meant. It was enormous—rows upon rows of books of all sizes set upon solid, dark wooden shelves. They appeared to be on the far end, closest to the offices and far from the bedrooms. Along the wall were reading nooks, gently carved into the wall and sporting what looked like heavily regulated fireplaces, a small bookshelf, and two criminally soft armchairs.

Allen hadn’t been one for books the way Dustin was, but he’d learned to appreciate the charms of a library with all the time he spent there. This one had plenty.

“So this is where you’ve been,” Allen said, shaking his head. Dustin chuckled softly. “I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“You’ve never been as observant as I am,” Dustin said, patting Allen.

“I doubt I ever will be,” Allen said drily.

“I found these dragon books,” Dustin said excitedly. Allen was so happy just then—new hope, a beautiful library, and Dustin excited and babbling. “I actually had to spend a solid five minutes trying to remember if dragons were ever a real thing here or not.”

Allen laughed. “Amazing,” Allen said.

“Sit, sit,” Dustin said, gesturing towards the reading nook. “I’m going to go get more of them. You can take one of my blankets if you want.”

Allen didn’t want, but he was touched by the offer nonetheless. He sat down.

“I figured out the word I was looking for before,” Dustin said from in the shelves, a couple rows down from the nook.

“You were looking for a word?”

“Yeah. The word I was looking for was poignant. It has such lovely shapes. It would be very poignant if you could learn to repossess.”

Allen listened quietly as Dustin extrapolated, “You would be taking your greatest weakness, something that’s been making you feel worthless and weak for almost a decade, and turning it into a strength. It would become a weapon for you to wield, instead of turning you into a weapon to be wielded by someone else. Poignant. Poi-gnant.”

Allen smiled softly to himself. “Thank you,” he said.

“I really hope it works out,” Dustin said. “It really is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Allen said. “Me too.”