Rift Apart [Solomon]

In the following week after the incident, Solomon had only been to his apartment twice. The first was two days afterward, in the hopes of finding his sister, after what had happened had a bit of time to wane. The first he did find, but the second… He’d come without any spells prepared or cast; indeed, he’d left all but the spell book necessary for transportation back at the FOB in an attempt at being... unthreatening, was the only way he could really put it. His defenses to Poppet’s strings had been non-existent, and she had made it good and clear that she didn’t want to talk. He didn’t need to be told twice.

The other was two days prior to today, to make the fridge was stocked. It was worrying to see that it still was.

The better part of Solomon’s week had been spent hunched over his desk in the Rein base, deep in study. The battle, at the very least, had given him a task to work on. He’d been plenty glad to pour the whole of his time and energy into it, and let it occupy the bulk of his mind when he left on the various other businesses he needed to take care of. That mostly consisting of getting food, research materials, and occasional glimpses of sunlight.

Come yesterday, the spell he’d been working on had been completed and set. He’d cleaned up the pile of cup noodles he’d amassed, his study as a whole, and was ready to go back to life as usual.

He’d tried finding faction related work, and then attempted to occupy himself with his civilian job. The first was lacking, and the second left him with too much downtime between clients. He knew it was bad when an old woman asking for love advice stopped the supposed psychic mid-reading, told him that something was bothering him, and that he needed to, in her words, “suck up already and deal with it”.

Solomon bought shortcake. It took another hour of pacing he didn’t realize until after the hour had passed, due to conflicting destinations in mind, had gotten him nowhere, thirty minutes of writing spells on slips of paper in the park he’d found himself in, and another hour trying to talk himself into and then out of it, but he did ultimately “suck it up”. He went to a cake shop, prepared exactly one teleportation spell, and transported himself into the mainroom of the apartment before he could convince himself otherwise.

He dropped his shoulder bag beside the counter, and the spell that made his civilian face along with it. The bag contained his spellbooks, yes, but the only spells he was actually bringing with him were the ones written on the sheets folded in the pockets of his jacket. He placed the white cardboard box atop the laminate counter (peeling in one corner). Two of the four remaining spells he’d prepared activated; the first removing his body’s need for oxygen, the second allowing him to establish a telepathic link with a person of his choosing. He’d much prefer not to use any of his powers, but if he couldn’t even talk to her, he didn’t have any chance at fixing this.

It may not work; it might just make things worse, both for him and her. But damn it, this time he was going to try.

He walked towards the door, heedless of Jessica or the strings until they might force him to pay attention. If he made it to the door, he would knock. If he could speak, he would call to her. If not, he would establish a mental link with her and project his voice directly into her head. He was determined to speak with her. Even if it meant doing so telepathically, through a door.

“Jenny, will you come out and talk with me?”

Solomon let out a sharp breath between clenched teeth as, much like a jump scare one was expecting, he suddenly met the wall. His body tensed with the sudden jerk, but soon relaxed. He did indeed not start speaking his teleportation spell (though his sense of self preservation had some gripes with that), but nor did he flinch at the knife or the puppet’s threat to use it. From what he remembered of that night, and of the first time he’d come back, he had little doubt it’d keep to its word.

“I suppose I’ll take this.” He sighed. He looked the doll in its lifeless eyes, paying no mind to the knife that wasn’t far away from his very much alive and nerve-filled own. “Jenny, I’m sorry. About what happened last week, that wasn’t supposed to have happened. It could’ve been avoided, and it wasn’t intentional-”

Solomon stopped himself. He was speaking formally, like a politician publicly apologizing for an oil spill, while distancing himself from the issue. This was how one passed the blame away onto vague shoulders rather than taking what should rightfully be set on them. It was for keeping relations, saving face, and done entirely out of habit. He wasn’t going to do that to his sister.

“No, it was my fault, what happened.” He said slowly. “I should know myself better, I should’ve been more careful, and yet I let it happen again. And you almost got caught-” he stopped himself again upon his impersonal statements. “I almost hurt you because of it.” He sighed. “I should have given you warning that… that could happen. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I let you see me in that state, and to have killed civilians and another super in front of you. I understand if you don’t want to forgive me. I just needed to tell you that I… regret all of it, and to make sure you were alright. And,” it was a dangerous promise, but one he was going to give anyway. “To try to make it up to you.”

No more secrets or lies? Solomon briefly took on a light ironic smile. He’d oblige; that is what he’d come to do, after all. He had doubted a simple sorry would be enough, and doubts that she’d really understand if he had told her prior ‘my power causes bloodlust and makes me kill people’ or not, he really should’ve warned her.

“That is a side effect of my power.” He began, his voice returning to an emotionless neutral. He didn’t like to talk about this aspect of his powers, but it was far from the first time he’d explained it. “I may have told you this before, but I need an energy that I obtain from people that has a relation with how long they live in order to get my abilities to function. Whenever I take that energy from people or use my powers, that energy goes directly through me first. It’s similar to an adrenaline rush, only much, much more potent. It starts to warp my perspective so that my only goals are to kill, keep using energy, and keep fighting, and I can’t honestly tell that it’s happened because the signs that it’s happening stop being concerning. If I get too much of the effects, well, you saw what happens.

“I don’t lose control very often. It takes a lot more than it used to, so it’s not normally a risk. What happened last week was all of the right factors lining up in the wrong way. The me you saw last week is not who I am, that’s my power taking control.” It was subtle, but his certainty wavered for the first time in his last statement. He left her mention of consequences only indirectly addressed. He knew them and was working through them now, and honestly didn’t know how else to explain them.