Subject 13 #1 - Family Life "Natasha Teresa Giuliano! Get your butt out here now!" Nasty looked up from her homework and sighed. She stood up, getting off her bed, and walked through the tiny apartment to the kitchen. "What?" "Get in here! Your school called me at work today." "They what?!" Nasty poured herself a glass of Coke before entering the living room. Her mother stood at the door, grocery bags at her feet and still wearing her faded grey coat. "Don't even try playing innocent with me," her mother said. "The principal called me this afternoon. Let me see your face." "This is ridiculous," Nasty protested. "Let me see your face." Nasty walked up to her mother and glared at her. "Satisfied?" Her mother grabbed Nasty's chin and twisted her daughter's head from side to side. "Roll up your sleeves." "I don't have to take this." Reaching for Nasty's shirt sleeve, her mother said, "Roll them up right now." "Fine!" Nasty rolled up her sleeves. Several fresh bruises and several more old scars marked her fair skin. "Happy? Now can I go back and finish my homework?" "Where the hell did those bruises come from?" "Gym." Nasty's mother grabbed Nasty's arm, squeezing down on one of the bruises. "You got into another fight, didn't you?" "Ow! Goddamnit! What the -? "Did you?" "Would you let go? Christ!" "You did. What have I told you about fighting?" "I didn't start another fight." Nasty pulled her arm away from her mother. "A weight fell on my arm." "How the hell did a weight fall on your arm?" "It just did!" Nasty backed off several steps, breathing deeply. "Did you ever think that the school would be calling because I was hurt?" "Hurt?" "Like a weight falling on my arm? Don't worry, nothing was broken." "You can knock off the sarcasm." "You could try caring for a change." "I do care. Now let's see your shoulder." "What?!" "Your shoulder. Let's see it, now." "Like hell." "Natasha, I'm not going to ask again." "Good, because I'm not going to show you!" Nasty stormed back to the kitchen. "Natasha, get back here!" "F*** you! You don't listen to me! You don't believe me! Why the hell should I bother with you!" "Natasha!" Nasty returned to her room long enough to grab her motorcycle helmet, then stomped back to the living room. Her mother had tossed her coat on the couch, and was taking her shoes off. She looked up as her daughter stormed through the living room. "Where do you think you're going?" "Out." "Out where?" "None of your business!" "I am your mother, Natasha." "I am seventeen, Mother." "Fine! Go! Stay out as long as you want! Don't bother calling or even coming back!" "I won't!" Nasty grabbed her jacket, then left, slamming the door behind her. She fumed while waiting for the elevator, then pounded the button for the lobby once it arrived. At the lobby, she strode out of the apartment quickly, heading for the corner store. She willed herself to slow down, to cool off. Her arm hurt especially where her mother had grabbed her. Nasty entered the store and bought several cans of Coke and a large bag of chips. She returned to her apartment, and walked down to the garage. Her motorcycle, an aging Kawasaki in desperate need of new paint, sat at the end of a row of cars. Nasty tossed the drinks and chips in her saddlebags, then mounted the bike. Nasty roared out of the garage, turning hard at the driveway's entrance. She manhandled the Kawasaki through the city streets to the highway, then wove the bike through the remnants of rush hour traffic. As she rode out of New York, the traffic became lighter and lighter. She began to relax and enjoy her ride. Several hours out of town, Nasty turned off the highway on to a small road heading back towards the ocean. A short time after that, she pulled the bike off the road completely and shut it down. She took her helmet off and shook out her red hair. Several deep breaths later, Nasty dismounted her bike and walked off the shoulder of the road into a lonely field. She sat down beside the bike, cross-legged, and sighed heavily. 'Damn her,' she thought. 'Why can't she just stay out of my life? I don't need her or that damned school.' Nasty sat, staring at the sky as the sun set. Only when the sky was dark did she move, and then only to get her chips and a Coke from her bags. Even the occasional car on the road didn't disturb her. She finished her Coke, then checked her watch. Ten p.m. She tossed her empty can back in her saddlebag, and slowly guided her motorcycle back on to the road. She put on her helmet, fastening it tight. Rotating her shoulder, she grimaced as a twinge of pain shot through the joint. "Assholes," she muttered. Mounting the motorcycle, she gunned the engine and rode back to the highway. In no hurry to get home, Nasty kept to the speed limit. The lights of the city grew bigger and brighter as she approached the city. Traffic picked up, mainly transports hauling cargo. One transport cut in front of Nasty, forcing her to swerve into another lane. Gunning her engine, Nasty pulled alongside the truck's cab. She beeped her horn, trying to get the driver's attention. "What the hell's your problem?" she yelled. The truck swerved dangerously. Nasty pulled away from the truck just in time. The cargo shifted, causing the truck to fall over on its side. Nasty turned her bike around and returned to the truck. Jumping off the bike, she ran to the overturned truck. "Way to go," she muttered as she climbed to the door. A sudden coughing fit struck her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't get enough air. She stood up on the side of the truck, finding the air clearer. "Hey! Are you hurt?" she called. Hearing no answer, she pulled the door open. "Are you hurt?" she said again. Inside, the driver hung from his seatbelt. "Serves you right, driving like that." Nasty pulled on his arm, pulling him to a seated position. "C'mon, asshole, we're getting outta here." Nasty reached down to unhook the seatbelt, then stopped. She pulled back in shock. The driver's face aged in front of her eyes, his skin drying out and stretching, his hair greying, then falling out. Nasty dropped the driver's arm. "Help me," the driver wheezed. He reached out and grabbed Nasty's arm. Nasty pulled back sharply, breaking the grip. In shock, she jumped off the truck and ran back to her motorcycle. She heard sirens in the distance. Not waiting to see if the sirens were heading to the accident, Nasty jumped on her bike and roared off. Panicked, Nasty took the most direct route should knew back home. She didn't care about what her mother would say -- better her than that driver. Nasty eased off the throttle as she turned on to her street. She parked the bike on the street and ran to her apartment building. "Where are you running to?" Nasty stopped. She saw her school's quarterback push away from the building's wall to stand in front of her. "Piss off," Nasty snarled. "How's your shoulder?" the quarterback asked. "F*** off." "We don't like trash like you littering our school." "Get the hell out of my way." Nasty felt a twinge in her hand. "No." Three of the team's linebackers joined the quarterback. "What, you can't take on a girl by yourself?" The quarterback cracked his knuckles. "Who is going to believe you?" Nasty charged at the quarterback. The closest linebacker stepped in the way. Undaunted by the linebacker's size, Nasty jabbed him in the gut. With an explosion, the linebacker flew back against the wall. He bounced, fell to the ground, then lay still. "What the f***?" "You f***ing bitch! What the f*** did you do to him?" Nasty looked at her hand, then at the downed linebacker. She smiled ferally at the remaining team members. The football players spread out, half-circling Nasty. The largest one charged, catching Nasty and carrying her into the wall. The wind knocked out of her, she gasped for breath. "What the hell did you do to Tommy?" the linebacker growled, keeping Nasty pinned to the wall. He cocked back his fist and slammed it into Nasty's gut. "What the hell did you do?" He raised his fist again. Nasty freed her right arm. She slammed her fist down on the linebacker's shoulder. She heard bone crack before the linebacker dropped to the ground. For good measure, she kicked him once before stepping over him. The last linebacker and the quarterback stepped away from Nasty. She glared at them, daring them to come closer. "Get your idiot friends and get lost!" Nasty walked away from the downed linebacker and towards the apartment building's door. The remaining football players grabbed their friends and dragged them away. Nasty watched them leave. Once they were out of sight, she doubled over. She reached for the wall to steady herself, and waited for the pain to subside. After a few minutes, Nasty felt able enough to walk to the elevator. She clenched an arm across her stomach while she waited, and once inside the elevator, leaned against the wall. At her floor, Nasty staggered out of the elevator and back to her apartment. She tried the door and found it locked. Quietly, she took out her keys and unlocked the door, only to find out that her mother had put the chain on. "Great," Nasty groaned. She kicked the door. "Mom! Mom, unlock the door!" Nasty's mother shambled to the door. Bleary eyed, she peered through the opening. "I thought you said you weren't coming back?" "You've been drinking again," Nasty accused. "I am the mother here, not you." Nasty's mother unlatched the chain and let her daughter in. "Where did you get that bruise?" "What bruise?" "On your head. It wasn't there when you left." "There was an accident." "Then why aren't you at the hospital? Let me get my coat." "I wasn't in the accident. Some moron wrecked his truck." "Then how did you get the bruise?" "I bumped my head while trying to help the guy. Okay?" "I just want to see." Nasty's mother grabbed Nasty's shoulder. "Ow! Watch it!" "You were in a fight today, weren't you, Natasha? I was with you the first time you had to get that shoulder set." Nasty tore herself away from her mother's grasp. "I was not in a fight!" "Don't lie to me, Natasha. I've bailed you out far too often for you to pull a fast one on me." "Don't believe me, then." "I can't decide whether to believe you or not if you don't tell me what happened." "Nothing happened! Is that so hard to understand?" "Something happened or you wouldn't be denying it." "I am not denying anything! I didn't get into a fight, damnit!" Nasty slammed her fist on the coffee table for emphasis. With a flare of purple light and a loud bang, she punched a hole through the tabletop. "Holy shit," Nasty whispered. "Natasha, what happened to you?" -**- Subject 1 Name: Enrico Gutierez, Jr. Birthdate: January 23, 1963 Deceased: August 2, 1997 Cause of Death: Severe trauma to head, caused by energy discharge Birthplace: New York, New York Sex: Male Description: Eyes: Brown Hair: Black Distinguishing Marks: 0.3cm long scar, hidden by left eyebrow Parents: Mother: Rosita Gutierez, nee Escoban Father: Enrico Gutierez, Sr Paranormal Abilities: Generation and projection of fire. Range is 250 metres, though Subject 1 can project further with effort. Fire is subject to the usual limitations. Indoors, the Subject 1's powers can be nullified by most office buildings' sprinkler systems. Other Notes: Subject 1 died August 2, 1997, from severe trauma to head, caused by an energy discharge from the paranormal known as American Eagle. Reports from Subjects 2 and 5 indicate that Subject 1 had fired at American Eagle, who then "parried" the flames with his own energy burst. Subject 1's body could not be retrieved at the time, but was destroyed August 13, 1997, by infiltration team. [End Issue 1] Next issue: What can a mother do when her daughter can destroy anything she hits?