The girl woke up on the beach as a cold wave washed over her. Sputtering, she looked at her hands. They were blue, criss crossed with half-healed cuts. Her whole body was like that, even her black sweats and Seagull’s t-shirt ensemble was torn in places. Another wave crashed over her feet. She got up, hoping she wouldn’t die from hypothermia. There’s no glory in that death.
Depending on where she was, she might only be a few blocks from the house. Walking a few blocks vs walking a few miles would definitely make a difference. She checked her one piece swimsuit for gaping holes and tears. Surprisingly enough, she didn’t look like she had been attacked by a shark. She went back into the ocean, and watched her sweats and t-shirt flow away. She jogged away from the beach, trying to make it seem like that was her normal daily exercise routine.
The girl looked at the street number and sighed. 76th Street was not very close to home. She glared at the green sign, wishing for it to change to be closer to the house. It didn’t. Luckily, she would still be able to get to the house while the sun was still shining.
As she ran back, she saw a tiny patch of dirty fur. She knew she shouldn’t but rushed up the pungent dumpster to where she saw it. She didn’t have much time to spare, but she always did have a soft spot for animals. Then she spotted what it was.. A miniscule, underfed, adorable kitten. He saw her, and weakly pressed his ears against his head in fear. Then he fainted. She made her way over to the unconscious cat who was lying on a bag of dog poo, cleaned some dirt off of him, and picked him up, and kept jogging. She knew she looked strange, but still couldn’t just leave him there to die.
She wiped the sweat off my brow and looked at her new friend. She knew she would keep him, and therefore had to give him a name. But she also figured that she’d wait until he got used to her and showed his actual personality, not the defeated one she had just seen.
As she neared the house, she noted that the front door wasn’t locked. This was most certainly bad news. She crept in, looking for anything. Nothing. No, there was something… someone. Brandon. Tied up, complete with gag. His eyes told her to leave- now, but it might have been mixed with fear. This was odd, Brandon rarely got scared, even when attacks like these occurred. She rolled hers. Has he met me? She wondered. She put the kitten behind a brown couch cushion- reasonably safe and comfortable. She then proceeded to take her spare swiss army knife out of the couch and started hacking at Brandon’s zip ties. They were almost completely cut when she heard footsteps. She rolled silently under the couch with the knife. Brandon hid his freed hands behind his back, and sat on his almost free feet.
“Chin up,” a buff guy demanded. Brandon rolled his eyes, but complied.
“Now, tell me. What’s your name?” he growled. “Your real name.”
“Lee.” Brandon was defiant as ever. Stupid Brandon.
There was a solid punch.
“I thought I said your real name.”
“I don’t go by my real name. You wouldn’t have it in your supervillain supercomputer.”
This was true. His mother had been asked what her child’s name would be when she was drinking. Wanting more, she said, “Brandy”, and not wanting for it to be known she was drunk while pregnant, that was what she named him. Needless to say, her IQ was not very big, unlike her son. They never really had the best relationship, surprisingly enough. The kids teased him about his name, but after a while, he decided he would punch anyone who dared to call him anything but Brandon. The girl had made that mistake a few times, and his punches hurt.
“Then tell me both.” the muscle man answered.
“Al is what I go by. Alcohol is on my birth certificate.”
Half truths. Nice.
The voice chuckled.
“I’ll go check with the boss, Al.”
ns 15.158.61.8da2
