6 6: Interlude

Pov: Jezebel

I'm mad. Why? Well, a simple answer would be that it's all Kenith's fault. But more realistically, it was both me and Kenith's fault for the man that layed before me.

The reckless actions Kenith demonstrated during the raid of that site made me wonder why we even let him be the one to get "him" back. It might have been his assertiveness to be the first to see "him" after so long, but back then, we were unsure if it was even "him" in the first place, so probably not.

Whatever the case, at least he was able to bring "him" back alive. But the amount of damage on "his" body when Kenith brought him back to our base was jarring to my eyes.

I've seen my share of bodily horrors (my top spot has got to go to those poor souls in the grasp of that fleshy monstrosity in Russia), but the way Samson's -. . oh, right. He's not Samson anymore.

*crash*

'Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe out.'

Sorry, I lost myself there for a second.

This time, however, I could actually heal him. My powers . . . how do I describe them? Well, like most anomalistic beings, I guess I could be defined as a reality warper.

But that sounds so unoriginal and confines to what the Foundation wants. What happened to calling our powers, "gifts", or "quirks" or "x-factor"? Now we're all just clumped up into one stereotype, no large part in due to the Foundation's grip at the world at large.

But that's a topic for another day.

Where was I? Oh yeah, my powers. Well, the short and simple is that, through dancing, I can do anything. Well, not really anything. Let me explain.

It starts off with me humming, with music slowly building up around me as soon as I start humming. The longer I hum, the louder the music gets. Then, when it gets loud enough, I start dancing, and I can then manipulate the world as the music dictates what and how it is manipulated.

Typically, a single song would have a specific effect on reality when I performed it, so my initial years were kinda hectic due to that.

But the nuances of my powers aside, it can be really hard to get into the zone for me to get my magic going.

As such, (never let Kenith hear this but, Kenith helped out a lot in figuring how to improve my powers in my earlier years), I often find myself on any kind of music platform I could get my hands on to add more songs, beats, bobs to my repertoire.

The more songs I had, the better, generally. More beats, bobs, and songs meant more variation in the powers I could accomplish.

Getting back on track, to heal "him," "Can Can" by Jacques Offenbach was naturally the song I chose to use in healing "him" back to proper health. It just worked out that it was also Samson's favorite beat to listen to after a successful mission during the [old] days.

I hummed, I danced around him, and with a few circles around "his" cot, there wasn't a single injury on "him."

I wasn't really worried he might have woken up midway through my number. Plus, even if he did, I wasn't going to embarrassed about it either.

Finished with that, and with the other two having gone out an hour earlier to get groceries, I was stuck with a dirty warehouse.

And by dirty, I mean the single potted plant I had knocked over in my sad rage. The warehouse was unnaturally filled with random things we had taken during our excursions around the globe, which were haphazardly skewed across the entire place.

A couple of priceless paintings there, the marble stairs of a mansion here, and lots of guns all about, courtesy of Kenith's addiction to them.

But sucks for those two, I enjoyed cleaning. So with another song and dance, this time being that of "Posin" by Peggy Suave, I got to work tidying up the place.

Around a minute later, the place was lickety split clean. Then, with nothing else to do, I sat down on the couch we had near the north of the place, turned on our TV, and went through the channels.

It was around 5 p.m., when Kenith and Orson came back, with 7 plastic bags worth of groceries in their hands, with 5 in Kenith's hands. 'Looked like he lost another bet.' I think.

Standing up, I walked to the counter that Orson rose from the ground, a whole luxury kitchen set as well joining the counter, including a fridge, microwave, ovens; the works.

"What took you two so long? Get caught up in something?" I asked as I pulled out a carton of chocolate milk from one of the bags.

"Nah, Kenith here had to go and get his card and car stolen again." Orson chuckled out. "Hey! You know that was the Foundation's fault!" Kenith puts the beer pack into the fridge.

I rose an eyebrow. "Didn't you also use that excuse for your belt? That ridiculously expensive one?" Slight angry coming back to me at remembering the incident.

"5k for that belt if I'm remembering right." Orson started stacking the sliced cheese packets into a side compartment in the fridge.

"Orson, you're not helping." Kenith complained, quickly getting out a loaf of bread from a bag and stuffing it into a cubby in the counter.

This is how we three went about putting the groceries away, with simple bantering as we worked.

Done with that, we headed back to the cot where "he" was still asleep on, Orson being sure to retract the setup back into the ground. Reaching it, all three of us went quiet.

We stayed there, awkwardly looking between the three of us before Kenith, the impatience goblin that he is, kicked one of the legs of the cot.

"Gah!" The dude let out as he hit the floor, now very awake, and then turned to look at us three. "His" eyes showed his shock at the situation, and to be honest, I don't blame him.

Orson at 6 feet 8 inches tall, in those monk-esk robe that he loves to wear, his camo boots, and the body of a heavy weight champion, he made for a very intimidating first impression.

Kenith had changed to something more casual. If casual, it meant a white "I ♡ MILFs" t-shirt, khaki shorts, and SpongeBob flip-flops. His fashion sense made a lot of sense.

I at least had the decency to be wearing something normal. A complete and authentic cosplay of Sailor Moon, custom ordered by me from the best seamstresses I know.

Yeah, that normal, isn't it?

But as "his" eyes went from each one of us to another, I was beginning to think that maybe we weren't as normal looking as I had thought.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, "he" spoke. "What the hell are all of you wearing?" It's odd, you know? The way he spoke it. It was like Samson, but also not.

Naturally, Kenith decided to open that mouth of his. "What you mean? You don't like SpongeBob?" He lifted a foot at "him," shaking a flip-flop in his face.

Frowning, I smacked it back down. "Stop messing around, Ken. He's obviously overwhelmed by all that has transpired, right?"

"He" nods hesitantly at me. The hesitation of his action makes me sad a bit, but it can't be helped. "He" goes to get up, "his" body tense as he did so.

Once on "his" feet, "he" focuses on Orson. I, finding this interesting, also turn to Orson. Then, he speaks, and what he asks surprises me.

"You're . . . you're not of this Earth, are you?"

"If my dreams are to be believed, kinda." "He" replied.

[Insert group interaction #1 here]

"Sheesh, this is going to get intense, isn't it?"

"Not now, Kenith." The only thing I could say as we all went to sleep in our own beds, my head swimming with the implications of the previous discussion with Joel and more importantly, our next mission to site 88.