Chương 75: 5.14 Clashing Pearssonalities

2103: 12: 31: 10: 02: 30 There was a ring and Mom stood up to open the door, my eyes tracking her before fixing on the entrance. A second of movement later and there stood Michael, eyes lowered and downcast, looking as miserable as a wet dog or maybe a kicked puppy. He clearly hadn't slept well if the bags under his eyes told me anything, and he was pale like he was recovering from a bout of illness.

Combined with the slick skin from the drizzling rain outside, it reminded me a bit of another time he came home and I was there to welcome him. It was a day which, I realized now, I'd cherished. It was our first genuine talk, and on an interesting topic as well: Malcator's Unification and its effects, the topic half his studies consisted of. Then we'd watched the rest of Doom Drums together, talking with each other and even laughing once or twice despite the movie's bleak tone.

It was also the same day he and I fought as masked. The same day Darkstar had almost managed to kill me, accidental though it may have been.

"Right on time," Mom said, except instead of cheer, there was a hint of concern. Michael lifted his head, his eyes widening for a moment as he spotted me sitting on the chair at the far end from the door. Then, after barely a second, he quickly turned to focus on Mom.

"Yes, well, it's not because of the traffic, I'll tell you that much," he said, trying to add some levity to his voice.

"I'd planned to come here fifteen minutes earlier, but the bus was held up for… one reason or another." Mom's eyes flitted to me for a moment, gauging my reaction to his presence. I didn't say or do anything, remaining seated stiff-backed in my chair. Not fleeing or panicking, not becoming angry or sneering at Michael's presence; I did nothing. Not that I didn't feel the pressure to act.

The Heroic Impulse was there, silently sounding the alarm and desperate to guide me on what it believed the right and moral action was, but it wasn't the same as before. I didn't feel the slow crawl of it taking over mind or limb as it did that day, so I had neither want nor need to either run toward him, or away from him. Let alone transform and smack my head into the window again. Seeing no reaction on my end, "Well," Mom stood aside and said, "c'mon in." Michael murmured a barely-audible, "Thanks," and did so.

"I'll, ah," he gestured toward the stairs, eyes darting to me for a tenth of a second, "I'll just go upstairs and pack my stuff." Michael did what he said and went upstairs, glancing at me several times as he walked past me. The Heroic Impulse now imparted a slowly ascending, burning panic in the pits of my mental stomach, urgent in the way like keeping a hand too long above a flame would, eventually, impel one to snatch it away. But I kept my cool and prevented it from taking control.

Once he was fully gone, I released a sigh as I felt the pressure from it disappear. I let go of the tight control I'd kept on my body, letting it sink deeper into the chair in relief. Mom saw everything, but said not a word about it. Instead, her eyes went and lingered on the staircase as she asked, "Was it just me or did he look off?" There was something floaty and uncertain about her words, like she almost didn't mean to say it.

"Like he was running a fever or something." I sniffed.

"Doesn't surprise me; he's got a lot to think on." Her head turned to me, eyebrows raised.

"Of course, but… I don't know. I knew he'd take it hard, but I still thought he would react differently." I looked at her questioningly, to which she elaborated.

"At your lack of reaction, at the situation between you and me, and you and him; at everything, really. I expected some disappointment, or incomprehension or something along those lines at your, ah… seeming acceptance. And that he'd be angrier, or colder, or maybe more distant and stoic? Anything but taking it this… harshly." I had difficulty understanding what she was talking about. Besides, "Shouldn't you already know? Didn't you two talk over the phone every so often?" It was a guess, but an informed one.

I never overheard them talking, but knowing Michael, I expected he'd try and reach out one way or the other, even if it was just through text. Then again, I didn't really know Michael that well, did I?

"Yeah, but most of that was me explaining stuff to him, especially about what happened on the lake. Even over the phone he was withdrawn; he didn't really say anything to me, to be honest. But still, I didn't think it'd be this bad."

"Really?" I scrunched my brow.

"I mean, he did almost kill me the first- the second time I met him." Mom blinked rapidly.

"Right. Yes, I suppose that would make a mess of his emotions, considering how he… you know." Treated Mom when she'd done the same to m- to other-Sam? Yes, I did know. After the silence lingered a second too long, Mom asked, "You still want to talk to him?" I shrugged.

"I mean-" how many times would I get the chance to ask questions to a villain, or get them to give up a life of villainy voluntarily?

"-he's still my brother, I guess." Then there was the whole Heroic Impulse thing to consider as well. And to hear what he has to say as well; that was probably important too, somehow. Either way, plenty of reasons to talk. Now all I needed was to, you know, actually do it. Mom's smile was a bleak one, tinged with melancholy.

"Want me to be there when you talk?" she offered. I shook my head.

"I'll be fine. Just need to gather my courage," I said, then decided to stand up. Better to get this over with quick." Needed; I think I've got it. I'll go right now. Better face the music early than stew in anxiety, right?" I said, trying my best to smile convincingly. Mom stared for a second, worried, before nodding.

"Well, if you need me, you know where to find me." I nodded back and went to the staircase. Now it was all up to me. X The door to Michael's room was open, and only now did I realize that I'd never entered it before. When Mom had given me the house tour way back when, she'd introduced it as Michael's room and we'd walked by without taking a look inside. At the time, I hadn't had the confidence to ask, precarious as I'd perceived my position as not-really-but-also-kinda-her-daughter to have been.

Later, I simply lacked the motivation, and the room had been all but put out of my mind. It might as well have been another storeroom, or a laundry room, or whatever else for all it mattered to me. When compared to mine, which even now only differed a little from when it'd been other-Sam's room, Michael's was much more spartan.

Where mine had plushies I hadn't cared to remove, posters of bands and movies I didn't like, pictures of places I'd never been, and various knickknacks and souvenirs I didn't care for, Michael's room was a blank space devoid of decorations. The colors were mostly dark, with grey walls and flooring; blue-and-dark-blue closets, cabinets and rug; wooden desk and bed painted black; and a little green in the form of the couch, with the only bright being the white on the ceiling.

There were no posters, pictures, art, or anything decorative outside of a houseplant near the window. It was hard to imagine someone living here, but then again, Michael had moved out instead of vanished like other-Sam had, so it made sense for him to have packed his stuff and taken it with him to New York.

The desk was empty but for the laptop that'd no doubt get taken with, and the opened closet was already robbed of all its contents, which Michael was now trying to stuff in a suitcase with as much care as he could muster – which was not much at all. Again, at the sight of my sort-of brother, the Heroic Impulse sounded in alarm, but knowing that it couldn't – or hadn't, at least – do anything further, I kept myself as relaxed as I could while watching him pack.

It took until he'd managed to zip the second travel bag closed for him to finally look up and see me standing behind him, looming over.

"Ah, Sam." He tried for his usual smirky, sardonic self, but the tension made his smile look wry and perfunctory.

"Heard you wanted to talk?" I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow – an echo of Mom's. His smile wavered and disappeared as he licked his lips.

"Fair enough," he muttered.

"Look, I'll explain and, ahh…." He looked around the room for a second.

"You take the couch, and I'll take the desk chair, okay?" Part of me – which part, I didn't know – wanted not to listen, and instead to have him sit while I kept looming over him. But for all the social skills I lacked, even I could tell that wouldn't be productive. So, I took my seat while Michael wheeled his over. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Once seated, he let a few seconds pass while I kept half-glaring at him.

"First off, I'm… I'm sorry for what happened at Christmas," Michael said.

"I didn't- Mom explained to me what happened between you two at the lake right after. If I'd known that before, I wouldn't have pushed you so hard for an answer. So for that, I'm sorry." A heavy breath left through my nose – not quite a snort, but something carrying more than a bit of frustration.

"Really? That's the only reason why you shouldn't have pushed so hard?" I said. He fidgeted a bit in his seat, and with the way he sat – half hunched over, arms crossed and legs together – he looked a tenth his normal size.

"How about not dragging your sister into this vendetta you have against Mom?" He worked his jaw, tensing and clenching and grinding in unnamed emotion, until he forcibly relaxed.

"You're right," he said with an exhale.

"I'm sorry. I was just afraid that- that she'd have told you things that weren't true, or not told you everything, or tried to hide specifics that painted her in a bad light. I just wanted to know if you knew the truth, that you knew-""Did you?" I interrupted, half-surprised by my own bitterness.

"Did you really?" He opened his mouth, but I was quicker.

"I've only known Mom for four months, so I might not know her like you do – I'll admit that much. But can you really, honestly, truthfully stare me right in the eyes and say that Mom would've lied to me?" Avoiding the issue? Yes. But outright lying? After going through all the effort of setting up a vacation while heavily hinting she would tell me everything? I highly doubted even Michael could convince himself Mom would do that.

He avoided my gaze and remained silent, either unable to refute or unwilling to confront. I felt an irrational, foreign rage at that, itching and demanding I do… something about it. Yell? Shout? Scream? Grab him by the shoulders and violently shake him? The sensation… it didn't feel like the Heroic Impulse, or like something else that would try and take full control of me like it would. So I let it in, and used its energy instead.

"Thought so," I said, vindication fueling the anger further.

"What was the plan here, exactly? You know I'm Jester, I know you're Darkstar, and we both know we neither can nor want to do something with it – unless you want the Jannacht to have another Treaty-breaker? And it can't be another attempt for you to try and 'convince' me your grudge against Mom was justified; you know you two are now even on that front." Michael winced at both accusations, and I felt simultaneously horrible and gratified at the sight.

But, after a couple of false starts, he eventually did open his mouth to respond.

"You're my sister, Sammy." He said it with such heartbreaking sincerity that the vice-like grip of anger that had taken hold all but melted away.

"And I just- I really am sorry for everything, I swear. Both for what I said, for what I did to you. You're back and- and I-" Tears fell down.

"I know I fucked up- I really fucked up, and- God, I'm so, so sorry." The anger, one I suspected born out of some half-formed, cobbled-together version of other-Sam's personality reconstructed within my malfunctioning personality matrix, now completely retreated. In hindsight, it might've been a bad idea to try and hastily build one with the scraps of Mom's memories and stories she fed me, but ultimately, what alternative had there been? Yet as one half-foreign rage disappeared, another, colder wrath surfaced.

The specter of my Heroic Impulse loomed large over me, its cold tendrils entering through the gaps in my moral matrix. But It didn't take over; I wouldn't let it. Instead, I gripped and channeled it, granting it controlled access to force guidance rather than become its puppet. And in this instance, I felt, we were aligned, both morally and in purpose.

"You're a villain, Darkstar." This time, he didn't wince; he flinched.

"You're everything I hate. You say you're sorry for what you did to me, but that's where the line ends, where your morality ends. Pearlessence, Kat Astral, the God-knows-how-many other heroes you killed; you don't care one whit about them, or all the civilians your crimes have harmed in the process." He looked angry now, and bitter, and his tear-stained cheeks made him look sad too.

"I- It's not that simple, Sam. Nothing's that easy." That seemed enough for my Heroic Impulse to judge, to try and strike once again. But again, I managed to wrestle it down.

"Then explain it to me," I said, to his apparent surprise.

"You started out as a vigilante, and while an overly violent one, it's something I can understand – obviously. So why, when and how did you become a villain?" He leaned back in his chair and took a moment to think.

"You already know why I turned vigilante, I suspect."

"Chronomaniak," I said. He nodded.

"Yes. I hated villains with a passion back then. With as much passion as you do now, I suspect." He grimaced.

"Though I went in harder, and much more violent than you did. Not lethal- or, not intentionally lethal at least, but I didn't care enough to make that much of an effort, and back in those days, I understood my powers less than I do now. Had less fine control, less volume, less area, less things I could affect; less everything. I thought that all I could do was summon orbs that pulled things toward them, with power decreasing by range, and area, and non-discriminate in its targeting." He saw me raise an eyebrow.

"This is relevant, trust me." I let him continue.

"Then, after I found out about Mom, I became angry and went in even harder. Killed three villains that- that probably didn't deserve it in the span of a month, all by myself. But unlike before, where that would've shocked me, or at least calmed my anger some, it didn't work. Nothing worked. They were… I don't want to say the wrong targets, but that was how I felt at the time.

"That is, until-" He croaked, scraped his throat and licked his lips.

"Until one day, an Acolyte found me. Juezito; a flying super. Now, while I doubt the Acolytes were allowed to engage and try to take in vigilantes, the Guardians as a whole had the same stance towards vigilantism it does now – worse, even; they actually tried and capture them back then." He took in a deep, shaky breath.

"Anyway, he found me right after a battle with a villain by the name of Barry the Blackfang. I wasn't doing great – the guy was a shifter; you know how that affects my power – and had to flee, so I still had more than a little adrenaline in my system. So when Juezito tried arguing, then shouting, then finally resort to violence, I lashed out. He was too close to it, and I'd unintentionally put all I could into my orb. It was… it was not a pretty sight."

He remained silent for a while after that, looking at his hands intertwined on his lap. Whatever else could be said about that – and there was a lot – it was clear he regretted it.

"I ran away from home for a while after that. Found a youth shelter. Still went to school, kept my grades and stuff, but… while I now know why Mom never tried that hard to find me – although Peakstar did – I didn't know that at the time. Can you blame me for feeling like- like she abandoned me?" There was a plaintive tone to his voice, but even if I understood, I kept my stare neutral and cold. He continued.

"And then, one day, while out as a, ah, I guess a solo villain by that point, Soliloquy found me. I attacked. I didn't recognize him, but it was clear he was a villain, and even if he wasn't, by that point it didn't matter. He beat me handily, of course, but afterwards we started talking. Without any other outlet, I shared what Peakstar had done to my father and my little sister, and he just… listened.

"We kept meeting, and… well, you already know he's Alfons; you can imagine the trajectory our interactions took. He provided refuge from the heroes, taught me about masked, how my powers worked, about villains and heroes, etcetera. He even revealed his civilian identity, and once we got closer and I did the same, he personally went out of his way to sponsor me.

I figured out later that he had a goal in mind with all of that – though not just with me, but Charm as well, apparently – but by that point what else could I do?" It was a touching story. A very humane, humanizing one that at the very least made me comprehend how he became what the world now knew as Darkstar.

Groomed to a position of power by Soliloquy taking over the role of the father he lost and a horrible, terrible tragedy taking place by a misguided action on the part of a young hero, he descended into villainy and became one of the Jannacht Syndicate's strongest junior-graduates, the rising star amongst the rookies. A trajectory that was both logical, and understandable on an emotional level. It also wasn't enough.

"You could've become a hero," I said.

"You were still a minor at that point." He scoffed.

"I suppose the Treaty allows for stuff like that, but who would even take me? I couldn't join Prospectus because of Mom, and the Acolytes were out because of Juezito. Besides, these heroes," he sneered, "Peakstar was responsible for killing you, and they just let her go? Let alone the shit the Guardians get up to – no organization is clean, but my God if you knew some of the stuff they've done for the sake of their alleged 'heroism'.

Crowsong's mentor, Blackhawk and the shit that flowed out from there is just one example, but in my time in New York alone there had been seven scandals of Guardians taking, ah, 'excessive advantage' of their status with their fans."

"You could've stayed a vigilante," I argued back.

"I was already branded a villain by that point; what difference would that make? I'd be fighting heroes, and villains, and vigilantes without end, and without support."

"The point would be doing the right thing," I said coldly. He shook his head.

"Things aren't that easy."

"Aren't they?" I asked.

"Because it seems to me you took the easy way out and called it a day." He sat his jaw.

"Nothing about it was easy, Sam."

"Not what I said," I countered.

"But there were dozens of other things you could've done, other routes you could've taken. Confessed and turned yourself in – you were a minor, and it was an accident; show a bit of regret and you would've been sent to juvenile reform and be out before you know it. You could've done anything but turn yourself into a villain."

"Do you think I was in any place to consider that?" he said.

"I was-""You could do the same now," I interrupted.

"If you really do care about morals: turn yourself in. You could-""Turn myself- The world's not that black and white, Sam!" he yelled, then startled at his own outburst a second later. He continued, calmer.

"Do you think that I enjoy it, Sam? Killing people? Committing crime, being a villain?"

"Yes," I said. He looked shocked.

"If not, why do it?"

"The Jannacht was there for me when no one else was," he said. There was a barely-restrained anger leaking into his voice, but also… something else. Something bitter.

"And with every city we expand to, every criminal underground we control; we improve things wherever we go. I've seen the numbers, Sam; witnessed the effects first hand. Crime goes down. Death tolls go down. Casual violence, drug abuse, and everything else criminal; it all. Goes. Down."

"And all you have to do is beat, and rob, and peddle drugs in their place," I countered.

"All you have to do is kill heroes like Mom. Like me." A moment of quiet followed my words. Michael looked down and away, biting his lips as I scrutinized him. There was a doubt there, a likely long-buried, rarely-thought-of one.

"This… masquerade thing, Sam?" he said hoarsely, bitterly.

"It is a game, and you know it. You say the villains don't improve things, but do you really think that what the heroes do changes anything? It's all a distraction. At best, it's a way to keep… beings like us occupied so that we don't get caught up on politics, or become superpowered warlords and start another Dark Age. At worst it's modern-day bloodsports."

"My mentor said something like it," I returned with a grimace.

"That we're here to keep villains penned in. But if you believe that, why play that game on the side of the would-be warlords?" He scoffed.

"It takes two to tango. Or do you think that without villains, heroes will stop using their powers? Stop fighting for what they believe is right? They'll jump straight into politics, just like Black Angel and the Big Five when they started it all." The first publicly acknowledged and recorded superpowered, the first masked, and the first villain and the heroes as well.

The shifter 'villain' was a part of the Holy Week Uprising in 1968, and the Big Five were the first government-sanctioned 'hero' group to exist, made to quell that same uprising before it gathered steam. The labels of the two were shifted today, but it took a lot of deaths to get to that point.

"We don't live in that past. Unlike them, we had the Dark Age. We know better now," I said.

"And besides, you're dodging the question: why choose villainy?" His expression turned twisted, and sour.

"I told you Sam, I didn't get to choose. Not after Juezito."

"Then why even participate in the game at all?" I asked.

"Why not hang it all up and become a civilian?" He opened his mouth, but he seemed to have lost his tongue.

"Mom all but asked you to a few nights ago," I said.

"If you turned civilian, what would the Jannacht do about it? Nothing, because they can't. Anything they do, no matter how small, or informal, or through 'proper' civilian channels; it would all go against the Treaty. And with Mom and I knowing your identity, they wouldn't have the guts to try. And even if, for some reason, they're stupid enough to push, they'll inevitably fail.

No matter how powerful they are, how much they fight, or how much they resist, all it'll do is stall until an Eskaton Geranos, or a Ruaumoko, or any other Triumphant comes down and breaks them." He remained silent, and I had nothing more to say. I rose from the couch.

"If you really care about doing the right thing, turn yourself in," I said. He had yet to offer a real rebuttal on that.

"And if you really, truly care about me and Mom – and I know you do – then the least you can do is hang up the costume." I walked past him toward the door, and-"Wait," he said, voice cracked and desperate. I felt a hand grab my shoulder, and the tightly held control I'd kept on my Heroic Impulse slipped for just a moment. It bombarded me with incessant requests to break the hand, punch him, capture him, kill him, kill the villain. I turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"I-" he wet his lips, and smiled pitifully.

"Can I have a hug at least? Before I go?" I felt my limbs itch with the urge grab and restrain him, or punch his throat, or try a dozen different sambo techniques I'd just learned, or even transform into a gorilla and succumb to the dark Heroic Impulse in full. Darkstar didn't deserve any of the forgiveness I was willing to extend, any of the sympathy, any of the kindness or opportunity. He didn't deserve to live if all his life amounted to was being a villain.

"Sure," I said. I opened my arms and we embraced. Everyone deserves a little forgiveness, even if they were villainous brothers. Again, the Heroic Impulse's commands echoed violently in the depths of my programming. But ever since I'd come to know what to suspect, it was under my control so long as I set my will to it. We broke apart.

"Thanks," Michael said. Without a word, I turned and left, walking down the stairs, gathering speed. I rushed through the living room and into the kitchen, where Mom was busy pouring herself something to drink.

"Sam," Mom asked.

"Are you-""I'm going flying for a bit," I interrupted and quickly opened the door to the garden. I transformed still inside the kitchen, then flew out and up as quickly as I could.