[spoiler]
< My 'Tish' writing blurb chapters: 1 >
<div align="justify]Work had been rough on Tish.
Not enough to quit the job, yet, but things had certainly escalated in her short time working in Bakersfield. A secretary by day, a femme fatale by night. The story practically writes itself. Unfortunately, things weren't anywhere near the picturesque scenario comic books painted the lives of superheros to be. Super humans. Metahumans. Whatever branch of humanity you chose to categorize genetically defunct individuals. Wasn't that the first misconception? The idea that super powers made you a super person? Tish knew better than to think her abnormalities somehow made her kindness more genuine, or her work ethic more noticeable. The only prominent virtue she could boast about was her patience, and even that was running thin with her new temp position.
A hiring manager had thought it best to keep her presence as a temporary employee under wraps, stating there was no reason to announce she was only sticking around for a few months because it 'wasn't their business'. Maybe that was the plan all along. Tish could tell within the first week of working that she didn't fit into their strict and regimental daily grind, struggling to keep up with the demands of not only the man she worked for personally, but his superiors as well. With the threesome of business suit wearing dictators pulling her reigns, it was surprising she managed to get any work done at all. Visions of the company's promised retirement package were a far stretch from the uniform cubicle they had set her up in, complete with matching beige office chair and steel bottomed desk.
At least, at night, she picked what she was wearing.
Spandex didn't seem appropriate for her nine-to-five, but it was a helluva lot more comfortable than heels from Target. Another common misconception attached to superheroes: Every one of them is wealthy. Tish wasn't destitute or anything so drastic, but her outfit was handmade, if that meant anything.
Outside the bland office walls, a world needed saving, but try explaining that to her employer and Tish would quickly find herself back to looking over local wanted ads. "Fuck." She murmured offhandedly, finishing up a collective piece on why her employer needed to have Fridays off. Arguing in his stead, the paper went into great detail about the importance of defining down time and how a motivated, well rested worked was a productive one. Tish wouldn't be getting Fridays off, nor would anyone else, but like hell Mr. Richards wouldn't. Ticker typing at the speed of light (or whatever a less exciting equivalent would be), she finished just as clock hands ticked to the bold number five on the clock face, giving her reason to dutifully straightened her posture while saving the document.
She left in a hurry, trying to miss being soaked by looming black clouds dotting the skyline. Hyetal conditions in town made this a seasonal locale rather than a more popular retirement destination, but that never stopped the elderly from settling their final nests in the quaint suburbs skirting the shopping district. Tish lived on the opposite side of Bakersfield, where crack whore's argued on her front stoop about who's baby daddy was worse, and she was okay with this. As awkward a conversation topic it made for her parents when she explained she gave up her plans to move to Los Angeles, Tish was firm in her decision. Something about the cushy, albeit obscure, berg made her feel wanted.
Maybe not by the crack whores, but by someone.
The drive was done in a drizzle with soupy roads framed by tall pines and coniferous foliage that reminded her of Christmas cards no matter the season. Bespectacled eyes glanced at the digital clock on the dash, noting it only took twenty minutes if she played the 'earn a drink' game. If she made it home in a half hour or less, by the rules of the game, Tish earned herself the right to order takeout and forget about any possibilities of playing hero for the townsfolk.
Of course, just in time to see her pull into the driveway, a familiar figure made their approach to the driver's side of her car. Tish met them still seated, simply rolling the window down with a small frown.
"What's the verdict, Tish?"
"Well, I'd say you have ten seconds to tell me why you're here before I ram my front end into your knees." Her expression remained a disapproving one. "You know, because we've had this talk fifty fucking times at this point-"
"Look, chill a minute. I'm just yanking your chain, okay?" Mark was a tall guy, and he used his height advantage to lean into the roof of her car, yet somehow keep the space between them sizable enough that she couldn't outright hit him out of possible irritation. "Lemme come inside so we can discuss it privately." His chin tipped towards the sky as if rain was enough reason to get into her place.
Gritting her teeth, Tish didn't necessarily agree to let him in, but her feet hurt in these heels and she wasn't going to argue with her neighbors able to see it. Pulling away slowly, the vehicle lurched into her usual parking space, visible refuse piled on the embankment between it and the curb. When she managed to take a few slow breaths to calm her growing anger, Tish exited the vehicle and led the two of them to her stoop. Once they were inside, the door managed to click in tune with her irritation showing itself.
"So, what did you need, Mark? Did you need another fucking clue? Maybe a fucking shoulder to cry on again? Did you need Mandy or Rachel or FUCKING MARTHA?!" Even if she was belting her questions out like accusations, she didn't stop moving, heels kicked off on the doormat in time with the latter name. "Or maybe you've come to apologize? Tell me you've changed? Hm?"
Mark looked sober, his eyes set on the smaller woman like he was trying to keep his cool even if she didn't need to. "No."
"So what? What?!"
"Red Horn is missing. They found a note at his place, but it's not good." Sitting on the arm of her sofa, Mark brought a hand to rub his chin. "The Brotherhood is worried, but they're pulling some obscure shit. Sort of shit that doesn't make sense..."
Tish felt the weight of his words and let it drag away the residual anger. "You're serious? About Red Horn?"
"I fucked up doing what I did, but pretend for a second I'm not the fucking Antichrist, Tish. I wouldn't lie about this." Rising back to his normal staggering height, mark added with a grin. "Though you'll laugh when you see The Jade Wing's new costume."
"Oh, figures you throw her into this-"
"Jade. Bikini." Mark made for the door with a soft chuckle. "Just be safe and we'll talk when I get more information. Didn't mean to interrupt your takeout night."
He left before he could catch the surprise that washed over Tish's face. He remembered her takeout night rules? "Fuck."
Googling didn't find much in regards to crimes against super humans, but she knew his secret identity and used that to acquire a blurb of a missing person's report regarding Red Horn. Real name Caesar Castro, he ran the hardware store over by Wendy's. Older now, he rarely even donned his Red Horn digs anymore because of an incident a year or so back. If she could recall the details correctly, Caesar caught a bullet to the side of his jaw and they had to recreate the lower half of his face, which left him reasonably disenchanted by crime fighting. Tish hadn't realized he was pushing forty though, and almost felt sorry he hadn't retired just a bit sooner. Better to leave the business intact and become a pariah from the meta community than stick with it and end up dead, right?
So where was Caesar Castro now?
Tish ran sore fingers through lush locks and sighed, wracking her brain for reasons why anyone would target Caesar. Of all the threats to crime, a retired and balding superhero didn't fit the usual criteria. Deciding it best she take time in the morning to look into the incident more clearly, the woman shot off an email to Mr. Richards explaining she was coming down with a cold, and she wouldn't be coming in tomorrow.
Ironically, Tish was getting Friday off after all.
[/align][/spoiler]
<div align="justify]Work had been rough on Tish.
Not enough to quit the job, yet, but things had certainly escalated in her short time working in Bakersfield. A secretary by day, a femme fatale by night. The story practically writes itself. Unfortunately, things weren't anywhere near the picturesque scenario comic books painted the lives of superheros to be. Super humans. Metahumans. Whatever branch of humanity you chose to categorize genetically defunct individuals. Wasn't that the first misconception? The idea that super powers made you a super person? Tish knew better than to think her abnormalities somehow made her kindness more genuine, or her work ethic more noticeable. The only prominent virtue she could boast about was her patience, and even that was running thin with her new temp position.
A hiring manager had thought it best to keep her presence as a temporary employee under wraps, stating there was no reason to announce she was only sticking around for a few months because it 'wasn't their business'. Maybe that was the plan all along. Tish could tell within the first week of working that she didn't fit into their strict and regimental daily grind, struggling to keep up with the demands of not only the man she worked for personally, but his superiors as well. With the threesome of business suit wearing dictators pulling her reigns, it was surprising she managed to get any work done at all. Visions of the company's promised retirement package were a far stretch from the uniform cubicle they had set her up in, complete with matching beige office chair and steel bottomed desk.
At least, at night, she picked what she was wearing.
Spandex didn't seem appropriate for her nine-to-five, but it was a helluva lot more comfortable than heels from Target. Another common misconception attached to superheroes: Every one of them is wealthy. Tish wasn't destitute or anything so drastic, but her outfit was handmade, if that meant anything.
Outside the bland office walls, a world needed saving, but try explaining that to her employer and Tish would quickly find herself back to looking over local wanted ads. "Fuck." She murmured offhandedly, finishing up a collective piece on why her employer needed to have Fridays off. Arguing in his stead, the paper went into great detail about the importance of defining down time and how a motivated, well rested worked was a productive one. Tish wouldn't be getting Fridays off, nor would anyone else, but like hell Mr. Richards wouldn't. Ticker typing at the speed of light (or whatever a less exciting equivalent would be), she finished just as clock hands ticked to the bold number five on the clock face, giving her reason to dutifully straightened her posture while saving the document.
She left in a hurry, trying to miss being soaked by looming black clouds dotting the skyline. Hyetal conditions in town made this a seasonal locale rather than a more popular retirement destination, but that never stopped the elderly from settling their final nests in the quaint suburbs skirting the shopping district. Tish lived on the opposite side of Bakersfield, where crack whore's argued on her front stoop about who's baby daddy was worse, and she was okay with this. As awkward a conversation topic it made for her parents when she explained she gave up her plans to move to Los Angeles, Tish was firm in her decision. Something about the cushy, albeit obscure, berg made her feel wanted.
Maybe not by the crack whores, but by someone.
The drive was done in a drizzle with soupy roads framed by tall pines and coniferous foliage that reminded her of Christmas cards no matter the season. Bespectacled eyes glanced at the digital clock on the dash, noting it only took twenty minutes if she played the 'earn a drink' game. If she made it home in a half hour or less, by the rules of the game, Tish earned herself the right to order takeout and forget about any possibilities of playing hero for the townsfolk.
Of course, just in time to see her pull into the driveway, a familiar figure made their approach to the driver's side of her car. Tish met them still seated, simply rolling the window down with a small frown.
"What's the verdict, Tish?"
"Well, I'd say you have ten seconds to tell me why you're here before I ram my front end into your knees." Her expression remained a disapproving one. "You know, because we've had this talk fifty fucking times at this point-"
"Look, chill a minute. I'm just yanking your chain, okay?" Mark was a tall guy, and he used his height advantage to lean into the roof of her car, yet somehow keep the space between them sizable enough that she couldn't outright hit him out of possible irritation. "Lemme come inside so we can discuss it privately." His chin tipped towards the sky as if rain was enough reason to get into her place.
Gritting her teeth, Tish didn't necessarily agree to let him in, but her feet hurt in these heels and she wasn't going to argue with her neighbors able to see it. Pulling away slowly, the vehicle lurched into her usual parking space, visible refuse piled on the embankment between it and the curb. When she managed to take a few slow breaths to calm her growing anger, Tish exited the vehicle and led the two of them to her stoop. Once they were inside, the door managed to click in tune with her irritation showing itself.
"So, what did you need, Mark? Did you need another fucking clue? Maybe a fucking shoulder to cry on again? Did you need Mandy or Rachel or FUCKING MARTHA?!" Even if she was belting her questions out like accusations, she didn't stop moving, heels kicked off on the doormat in time with the latter name. "Or maybe you've come to apologize? Tell me you've changed? Hm?"
Mark looked sober, his eyes set on the smaller woman like he was trying to keep his cool even if she didn't need to. "No."
"So what? What?!"
"Red Horn is missing. They found a note at his place, but it's not good." Sitting on the arm of her sofa, Mark brought a hand to rub his chin. "The Brotherhood is worried, but they're pulling some obscure shit. Sort of shit that doesn't make sense..."
Tish felt the weight of his words and let it drag away the residual anger. "You're serious? About Red Horn?"
"I fucked up doing what I did, but pretend for a second I'm not the fucking Antichrist, Tish. I wouldn't lie about this." Rising back to his normal staggering height, mark added with a grin. "Though you'll laugh when you see The Jade Wing's new costume."
"Oh, figures you throw her into this-"
"Jade. Bikini." Mark made for the door with a soft chuckle. "Just be safe and we'll talk when I get more information. Didn't mean to interrupt your takeout night."
He left before he could catch the surprise that washed over Tish's face. He remembered her takeout night rules? "Fuck."
Googling didn't find much in regards to crimes against super humans, but she knew his secret identity and used that to acquire a blurb of a missing person's report regarding Red Horn. Real name Caesar Castro, he ran the hardware store over by Wendy's. Older now, he rarely even donned his Red Horn digs anymore because of an incident a year or so back. If she could recall the details correctly, Caesar caught a bullet to the side of his jaw and they had to recreate the lower half of his face, which left him reasonably disenchanted by crime fighting. Tish hadn't realized he was pushing forty though, and almost felt sorry he hadn't retired just a bit sooner. Better to leave the business intact and become a pariah from the meta community than stick with it and end up dead, right?
So where was Caesar Castro now?
Tish ran sore fingers through lush locks and sighed, wracking her brain for reasons why anyone would target Caesar. Of all the threats to crime, a retired and balding superhero didn't fit the usual criteria. Deciding it best she take time in the morning to look into the incident more clearly, the woman shot off an email to Mr. Richards explaining she was coming down with a cold, and she wouldn't be coming in tomorrow.
Ironically, Tish was getting Friday off after all.
BDRP Admin. Writer. Villain. Personal Blog.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.