Chapter Text
Michael poured a dash of rum into his tea, the same way he had done every afternoon for as long as he could remember. It barely had an effect on him, anymore, especially not in the way it once had, when he’d spent joyful nights at bars with David and Asha and…
He didn’t wait for his mug to cool before he picked it up; if there was one good thing about a prosthetic arm, perhaps it was that - The way he didn’t have to worry so much about relishing in the pain, another addiction he didn’t quite want rearing its ugly head. Not yet, at least. Not while he still had some small scrap of decency - Except what else could rock bottom possibly be? Half of his family was dead, and the other half surely blamed him. There was nothing left. Nothing at all.
He settled under a blanket in an armchair, the same, silent place he spent rotting most nights. It was a small place in the corner of New Albion, hidden enough that he wouldn’t be found or have guests, unnoticed thanks to his postie abilities, yet familiar enough that he wasn’t completely lost. There were stories out there. So, so many stories. Maybe he could narrate one, feel a taste of pain and loss that wasn’t his own, for once.
It was a quiet night, even compared to the unremarkable quiet nights that seemed to stretch on and on. Michael wallowed in misery and self depreciation, sinking further and further into his chair as he finished his tea, giving up and pouring his rum straight into the mug, without any further sense of humiliation. It was all gone. Everything.
The narrative usually followed suit when he had nights like that. Nothing happened, except the bleary rain that dropped in patters on the window, or the occasional leak that sprung, when the world took pity and decided he needed a distraction.
Perhaps that was why he barely noticed the sounds that came from his kitchen, of someone lightly unlocking his window, and climbing through. Perhaps he thought it was a misbalanced plate that fell, and that he’d clean it in the morning, and shattered ceramic would dig cuts into his feet. He simply curled in tighter, took another sip of his mug. Maybe, if he’d have the energy, he’d light a fire in the hearth. It was a little hint of warmth, but was the expense worth it when it would only be him receiving it?
He only turned to look when the sounds grew closer. A footstep behind him, and he turned his neck. He saw nothing before the hands were upon him, one trying to hold his head in place, and the other pressing something sharp to his skin. A blade. He burst into action.
Posthuman powers didn’t particularly like lying dormant, and so his sprang into movement, despite his lack of practice. Michael gasped, his hands going straight for his assailant’s, and a voice hissed in pain as his metal arm clenched around her wrist - another benefit of stronger limbs, he supposed.
He threw her off just long enough to stand from his seat and face her.
A woman, he assumed. Taller than he was. Dressed in black clothing. Her face was covered, but she looked young, and tight black curls adorned the top of her head, spilling out of the mask. Perhaps he’d misjudged the genre of the narrative.
No matter the story’s theme Michael was in no position to fight a feral assassin with sharp knives. His chest burned with the sudden movement - he was nowhere near the fighter he once had been - and the ache in his head that always came with drink was nowhere close to subsiding. He was going to have to talk his way out of it.
He was no stranger to that, at least, even if his acquaintanceship with it would have to be renewed. Once upon a time he had been the best talker of the group, but Once upon a time meant the start of a story, and Michael was years past the tragic end of his.
“Hey,” He tried, raising his hands in a sort of surrender. “We don’t need to do this, why don’t we just talk this out, and-”
“No!” The girl cried out, her voice thick with emotion. Okay, most definitely caught in the middle of some kind of intense, emotional tale, he just needed to figure out what. “No, I’m here to kill you.” She said, raising the knife.
It struck Michael then that some part of him didn’t want to fight back. Inaction would cause an end; the narrative may not affect him, but a stab wound certainly would. Maybe he could reach for the last of his rum bottle, down it and hope that was enough to dull a knife through the ribs, maybe knock him out until he never woke again.
He took a deep breath.
“Why?” He asked. “I did nothin’ to you. You sure you didn’t break into the wrong home, darlin’?”
“Michael.” The girl said, and Michael grimaced. Ah. It was slightly more complicated if she was after the posthuman, rather than the character. He raised his hands up slightly more.
She still had the knife in her grasp, but she wasn’t running him through with it yet, so he took that as a win.
“Okay.” He said. “Okay. May I ask why you want to kill me?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and a small spark shone in them. Michael shouldn't be surprised; she knew about him, she found him, it was likely she’d be a postie herself. The hue was surprising, however. The only person he'd met who shone purple before was David, but, he supposed, as generations came and went, colours had to repeat.
“You really can't see anything you've done wrong?” She asked, her voice raising far higher. “Nothing?”
Michael sighed.
“Darlin’, I've done many things wrong. My question is what I've done to warrant a stabbin’ from you, rather than a slow death drowning in booze.”
The girl faltered, her breath catching into a small sob, and the spark in her eyes only ignited.
“You don't know who I am?”
“ ‘Fraid not.”
“So not only do you abandon your family, you forget them.” The girl’s words cut like a knife, bringing a lump to Michael's throat.
“I don't forget family, sugar.” His words grew colder, sharper. “Now, are you going to tell me who sent ya to slit my throat? Or are we gonna have a postie spat on our hands?”
“It's not like you care.”
“I assure you, whatever you've heard about me abandoning my family isn't true. I'm many things, but that is not one of them. I may have failed them, but I didn't leave them.”
Maybe he could reach forward, smash his bottle and use the glass, like he had in bar fights before. Or maybe, he could steal a knife, do some fancy manoeuvre that Lloyd had tried to teach them, back at the playhouse.
“The Mother sent me to do this, and I promise, she most certainly does not lie.” The girl pulled her mask off, her jaw set firmly, as if she wanted Michael to see exactly who was getting the final blow in.
He recognised the glare, the way the eyebrows furrowed and the violet shone, the exact same David’s had, whenever he thought one of the playhouse was in more danger than simple narrative games. He recognised the frown, too, the way she had the same faint creases and beginnings of wrinkle lines that Isabela had once had, even if the older woman’s had been far more pronounced.
Michael's composure broke at the realisation, alongside his voice.
“Son?”
“Now you see who I am.” She raised the knife, and yet, all Michael could see was his little girl.
“I- I-”
“Any last words, before I finally do what I've been planning for years?”
“I've missed you so much.” Michael wept. He could barely stand, his hand reaching to rub at his eyes. He didn't care if it was a moment of vulnerability, he didn't care if it was an eons long hesitation that would cost his life. There were more important things in the world, like trying to tell his daughter that it wasn't abandonment that split them, all those years ago.
To his surprise, Son didn't approach. She stood, watching her target fall to his knees in front of her, shoulders shaking as he crumpled. Her eyes were wide, and glancing to Michael, then away.
“That's no excuse.” She tried to be confident, but her voice wavered. How old was she? Eighteen? Sixteen? Practically a baby. His baby.
“I'd never leave you, Mi-Son. I thought you died! I thought… I thought…” He wavered, and Son stepped away, cautiously putting the blade back down at the words.
Maybe Michael had finally lost it. Maybe he was breaking down in his home, alone and drunk after some heroic dose of something he couldn't remember. But the small hope of her being there made him gaze at her. Who did this to her? Who made her scared and hurtful? Who raised her to try and hurt, even though she hesitated?
Son had already told him.
Mother. Sarah.
It always came back to her.
“No…” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes still shone with the spark of a postie. She'd flowered. She'd flowered, and he hadn't been there to hold her through it, or explain what it meant. “No, no… Why else would the Mother have had to take me in, if my own father hadn't left me to die?”
“Sarah is a horrid person.” Michael got out through his shaking sobs. Son’s eyes widened, a fearful look crossing her eyes.
“She's not! You don't know - You can't know! She saved me. She kept me safe while you… what have you been doing? Drinking and staring into space?”
The words struck Michael like a knife.
“I looked for you.” He pleaded. “For days. Weeks. I thought you'd died.”
Son Mi shifted a little, unsteady on her feet, and Michael wished it was her resolve fading. That his mind wasn't tricking him into believing he was winning her back.
“She… No. No, the Mother said you'd never want me back, that I should…”
“Did she send you to kill me, Son?”
Son was silent, her eyes pointedly staring at the floor.
Michael cursed, burying his face in his hands. It was always Sarah. Always her. Digging her claws into every single thing he held dear. He didn’t care that Sarah was trying to kill him - it was to be expected, if she was crawling back into having some semblance of influence on the world. But Son?
“I… Have to.” Son said, slowly. Quietly. Like the child she was.
“You don’t.” Michael tried to stand. His little girl was so tall now. “Can I hug you?”
Son’s eyes widened, and for a moment she looked like a scared animal, about to sprint away. But then she nodded, and Michael didn’t need any more confirmation.
He clung to her as if his life depended upon it, wishing that he wasn’t an utter mess, looking every bit like the failure that she’d been told for years that he was. He clung, tightly and securely, and after a few, long moments, she clung too, taking a chance.
“I’ve missed you.” He cried. She didn’t respond, but the sniffle that came from her gave him hope.