Liberté Foncée

Now I'm going through changes, changes
God, I feel so frustrated lately
When I get suffocated, save me
Now I'm going through changes, changes

I'm feeling weak and weary, walking through this world alone
Everything I say, every word of it, cuts me to the bone
I've got something to say but now I got nowhere to turn
It feels like I've been buried underneath the weight of the world

-- 3 Doors Down, Changes

CHAPTER NINE: APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH

The sky was growing dark on the warm evening of April the thirteenth, year 2118. It was the first truly warm night of the year, a few adventurous fireflies buzzing around in the semi-darkness.

The scene was idyllic on the surface, yet it was still the same, miserable world and if you listened closely, you could hear a helpless, soon-to-be murder victim crying in the distance, the occasionally muffled Muggle gunshot, or even a harsh voice giving a barely audible command of, "Avada Kedavra!"

And then, all at once, the peaceful sugarcoating was disrupted. A door slammed open, and a thoroughly pissed-off-looking Shane Parker stormed out of it, throwing it shut behind himself.

He stood upright for a moment, fuming, then steadied his breathing and leaned against the wall behind him, sliding down to sit on the front step. He pulled a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket and his old lighter, the same one he'd used to light midnight campfires when they were kids. He stared at it for a moment, scowled, then lit the cigarette and leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled slowly.

He didn't really think, just sat there and waited for something to happen... or maybe he wasn't waiting for anything, just wanted to be somewhere that no one else was.

"H'lo," said a voice, making Shane jump and accidentally burn his hand on his cigarette.

"Fuck!" he snapped and looked up with a glare.

Ayden raised an eyebrow. "Bad day, dear?" he asked sarcastically.

"Sod off, Ryan."

"Another fight?" Ayden asked calmly, seating himself beside Shane on the stoop. Shane didn't reply, and Ayden seemed to accept his silence as answer enough, for he didn't press for any further explanation.

Shane pulled another two cigarettes from the pack and handed one to Ayden, holding out the lighter and flicking it on to light it.

They sat together for a while in silence. Ayden could hear movement and some muffled crying behind the door, which he assumed was Alena. He stole a glance in Shane's direction. His friend was staring directly ahead, a determined expression on his face, as though he was resolved not to notice, not to react.

Ayden sighed heavily, exhaled a small cloud of smoke and thought fleetingly that even if chances were good he'd die before he had a chance to contract lung cancer, it wouldn't hurt to quit. It wasn't the most appealing of habits, he'd noticed.

A slight prickling on his inner arm interrupted these thoughts, and within moments it wasn't just a prickling anymore. The mark on his inner arm was smoldering and a split second later a searing pain cut across it. His pulse quickened and he gritted his teeth. Maybe if he just held off long enough... After all, who would notice him missing?

One second... two...

"Shit!" he swore, scrambling to his feet.

Shane seemed to forget his own anger for a moment. "What? What is it?" He looked bewildered.

"I - I've gotta go," Ayden stammered. "Now." He turned and started to walk away briskly without another word, grimacing.

Shane was on his feet, reaching out a hand to stop him leaving. "Ayden, what the bloody fuck--"

But had already Disapparated.

*

"The French are like that. They tend to overestimate everything save their women, wine, and art."

-- from Catch Me if You Can, by Frank W. Abagnale

YEAR 2107

Christian Deveraux prided himself on being a relatively patient man. He couldn't count the hours he'd spent crouched in alleyways or waiting inside broom closets for his victims to walk by. There were even a few incidents where he'd killed time for over a day before getting to kill the prey, too.

But the female habit and ritual of making men wait for what seemed like ages before she finished preparing to go out for an evening (even, in this instance, if by the end of the night everyone who would see them would be dead) was irritating in a way and class of its own.

"Adrienne," he called out, feeling odd as he heard the voice he'd been given by way of charm to hide his identity, "come on. We are late already."

"Better late than early," Adrienne called back. "We'll attract less attention."

Deveraux grumbled something French in response and slumped back in his chair, tilting his wrist upward to glimpse his watch. They should have left a half hour ago.

Adrienne finally entered the den, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "Well?" she asked uncertainly, tugging at the dress. The fashions of Muggle aristocracy had never really appealed to her.

"Twirl?" Deveraux suggested playfully, and Adrienne obliged. "Lovely. You fit the part. Just remember, chin up."

Adrienne nodded, and Deveraux smiled. He felt a brief surge of pride. This was his work, after all. He'd taken the simple, rude child plucked out of the slums and taught her this poise and elegance...

"Let us be off, then," he said, offering her his arm with what he considered to be a charming grin. "We are late enough as it is." Adrienne donned her coat and took it.

*

They had barely entered the spacious grand hall of the Muggle mansion alive with the chatter of people and occasional gleams of evening jewelry and handed their coats to the stubby man by the door when Deveraux stopped dead in his tracks, looking horrified.

"Mon Dieu," he whispered, thunderstruck.

"What? What is it?" Adrienne reached for her wand instinctively, looking around wildly to see what had startled him.

Deveraux, at a loss for words, nodded toward the kitchen door, where his eyes were fixed. The door was propped open and inside, caterers ran to and fro with platters of crab cakes and drinks. He was staring in particular at a young man filling glasses from a cardboard carton. Several empty just like it sat at the far end of the counter, pushed out of the way.

"Boxed wine," Deveraux said disbelievingly. "Wine that comes in a box."

Adrienne wrinkled her nose in disgust. The Frenchman at her side was still wearing an expression of utmost revulsion on his face as she pulled him away from the sight and into the main hall.

"It is a travesty," she agreed calmly, trying to sooth him, "but we have work to do, Christian."

He glared at her, threw one last condescending glance toward the kitchen, and then followed her into the crowd of people.

*

YEAR 2111

"You want me to do what?"

Adrienne smirked. "Someone's got to do it."

"I ain't a baby sitter, Cassada."

"Tell dear Mother Mary that," Adrienne said calmly, nodding toward the door they were standing in front of.

Conlon grimaced. Mother Mary was the insane nun-turned-Death-Eater who ran an obscure sort of day-care service for young children of the Dark Lord's followers. The system certainly had changed since Lord Voldemort had started out. A lot. Bah, humbug. Change sucked.

"Go on in, then," Adrienne said cheerfully. "Call of duty and all that."

Conlon glared at her. "I really, really don't like you."

She patted him on the head. "Don't worry. Some day you'll be where I am and you'll have someone of your own to torture. It's one of the perks of seniority." And she walked off.

Conlon watched her go, sighed heavily, and raised a hand to knock on the door.

"Come in," a harsh voice called from inside before his fist made contact with the wood. He blinked, then pushed the door open.

Mother Mary the Nutty Death Eater Nun (Conlon was going to get that name trademarked some day) was a severe, middle-aged woman with a sharp looks about her. Her grey hair was just barely visible from beneath her wimple and her dark eyes surveyed him hostilely as he entered the doorway, lingering at the back of the small room.

A large crucifix hung behind the nun's chair and a poster titled the "ABC's of the Lord's Service." Conlon Lloyd was deeply disturbed, and he was not an easily disturbed person.

"Come in, and sit down," Mother Mary said. Her voice was as strict as her appearance.

Conlon stepped forward slowly, reluctant to get any closer, and sat down on the straight-backed wooden chair in front of her desk.

"Tell me, Mr. Lloyd," Mother Mary began once she was satisfied she had scared him enough with her pointed looks in his direction, "do you know anything about mentoring?"

"No," Conlon said shortly.

Mother Mary smiled a smile that he did not like the looks of at all. She reached into the chalice (God's cup, har har) on her desk and pulled a pinch of floo powder from it. She tossed it into the fireplace beside her and Conlon found himself wondering if it would be easy to charm the flames so that they would stray just a little and set fire to her skirts.

"Sister, please send Iker in," she chirped. A moment later, a young boy stepped through the grate and looked around, frowning.

"Come in, dear, come in," the nun said sweetly.

The boy gave her a look and then sat down in a free chair beside Conlon.

"Say hello, boys."

"Hi, kid," Conlon snapped reluctantly.

"Hi, old guy," the kid replied.

"Hey," Conlon glared at the boy. "The kid's a wise-ass."

"Mr. Lloyd!" the nun scolded. She picked up the meter stick on her desk and brought it down on his head, hard.

"Ow! Fuck, that hurt," he yelled. And then another, "Ow!" as the nun hit him yet again.

"Pardon me," she said sweetly. "What did you say?"

He grunted. "Adorable kid."

"Much better. Now, let's get better acquainted. Mr. Lloyd, I would like for you to spend time with Iker. Perhaps take him to the library or out for a meal not provided by the downstairs cafeteria."

"And why," Conlon said slowly and as evenly as possible, "can't this kid spend his time with the rest of the brats?"

Mother Mary's faux smile disappeared and her mouth tightened into a single line. Her meter stick twitched. "He and the other children were unable to... get along."

"Ah." Conlon looked at the kid again. He was busy affixing his chewing gum to the headrest of his chair.

*

"I hate kids," Conlon said firmly, falling back onto the couch beside one Miss Apocalypse Jameson, who nodded sympathetically. "Damn menace. It stole my desert and went for my wallet when I wasn't looking."

"Aw, poor baby," the redhead murmured. She leaned over and gave him a hug.

Conlon grumbled for a few more minutes, but relaxed slowly, Apocalypse gently kissing him and running her fingers through his hair.

*

YEAR 2117

"Do you have any idea how much secret identities suck beyond belief?" Ayden asked Adrienne later that evening as they walked along the sidewalk leading toward the book store.

"I vaguely recall," Adrienne said with a smile.

Ayden checked his watch for the thirty-sixth time in seven minutes. "Bugger, I'm late," he announced for the thirty-sixth time in seven minutes.

"Really? By how much? Thirty seconds more than the last time you told me so?"

"Ha, ha. Some of us aren't dead yet, Cassada, we have jobs to keep."

"I killed my last employer," Adrienne said and shrugged noncommittally.

"So, back to the secret identities," Ayden said after a short and rather terrified pause. "They suck. Did I mention that?"

"Only twice so far. With your track record, I'm impressed. How late are you now?"

"Shut up," Ayden said. "Point is, how do people do it? More importantly, how do people keep from killing their friends when said friends start figuring things out?"

"I think you've just put your finger down on why so many people fake their deaths," said Adrienne thoughtfully. "Certainly was why I did it. All this 'I want to devote all my time to the Dark Lord' business is very nice, but really, it's all rubbish."

"How'd you go out? With a bang?"

"Nah, just knocked myself out for seventy-two hours. Woke up in the morgue. Do you have any idea how cold those bloody body bags are? Thermal insulation my arse."

"Thermally insulated body bag?"

"Bed time stories when I was little. My father worked in a morgue, and he loved his work. All the bad witches wound up in the morgue or some place similar. The witch in Hansel and Gretel lived in and owned a gingerbread mausoleum."

"Who wants corpses in a gingerbread house? Doesn't it sort of take away from the taste? Does the aroma make it stale?"

"No idea. I do remember that it had nutrition facts printed on the entrance doors. Lots of sugars. High daily percentage value."

"I'll remember that. So who found you? Did you ever find out?"

"Yeah, an old friend of mine. Long dead now. Why all the questions, Ayden, thinking about offing yourself any time soon?"

"Only in the non-dying way, I suppose. Life's been kind of... hectic." Ayden sighed and glanced absently at his watch again.

"Life is life. I prefer death. It works out better for me. Then again, I've been told I'm a miserable and twisted bat, so I wouldn't take my word for it. Hey, how late is that café you work at open? I feel like a coffee."

"The day you don't feel like a coffee," Ayden said flatly, "will be the day the apocalypse comes."

"You've got a fair point. So, about your life problems. I can't really help there. My favorite solution to people who bug me is to torture them a few hours and then kill them. Simplest, too. But if you ever get really fed up, it's not a bad way to get out. It's like suicide, only you still get to live."

Shane had always said that suicide was the most cowardly form of running away from problems that anyone had ever come up with, and Ayden had always backed him up.

"Maybe," he said.

"But if you do it, give it some class," Adrienne said. "I don't like the way I went out. Too cliché. Wish I could do it over. My sister... she was good. Of course, she'd died about five times so she had a lot of practice, but she was still good. She had style."

They reached the book store, and Ayden held the door for her.

"Bugger, I'm late," he said, catching sight of the clock hanging on the back wall.

"So I've heard," said Adrienne with a roll of her eyes.

She followed him to the café and waited at the counter while he took off his coat and pulled his green apron from a peg on the wall.

"I still say that color is awful on you. Who designs these things? Whoever it was should be murdered as quickly as possible, before they have a chance to come up with any more calamities."

"Adrienne, it's an apron."

"So? It's green. A shade of green that looks good on no human alive. I still prefer you in the leather."

"You want to say that a little louder so that people think you and I play Mistress of Pain every night, or some kinky sex game like that?"

Adrienne snickered. "I was never one for those games, really. Bit juvenile if you ask me. Anyway, what's so erotic about whipping people to death before you can get off?"

"Can't say I have any idea," said Ayden calmly. "What do you want to drink, anyway?"

She gave him her order, and then continued. "I mean, maybe it works for people with necrophilia, but honestly. I'd rather just get it over, and if they were horrible, kill them after." She pondered this while Ayden poured her coffee. "But then again, whatever works for them. I suppose fetishes aren't really meant to make sense. I once read an interview with someone who couldn't get off without the smell of bacon present. It was rather... odd."

People were turning to give them odd looks from around the café. Quite a few Muggles with those machines of theirs (laptops?) were sitting around and glaring at them as they rushed through their homework papers or latest hopeless manuscript. Ayden closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Adrienne, this is a very interesting and even more distrbing conversation that we're having here. Can we stop the having of it?"

"Do I still get my coffee?"

"Funny as it may be, I do serve people here without their telling me what they think of bondage and other sex rituals firsthand. It's kind of part of the service, see. Not just a Christmas time special either. Imagine that."

"Humph," said Adrienne. She turned away from the counter and studied the people assembled in the café. A few were still watching her. "Hi!" she said brightly, waving cheerfully.

An eyebrow was raised and two sets of eyes widened. The remaining watchers turned back to their books and Muggle electronics.

Adrienne scowled. "I've killed less annoying people than that," she informed Ayden.

"Isn't that special," said Ayden, handing her the coffee.

Adrienne stuck her tongue out at him. "Fine, I'm leaving. I'll go sulk in my corner and plot your horrible demise."

"You're such a cheerful person, Cassada. All sunshine and rainbows and kittens. Ever think of being a little more depressed or morbid?"

"I have a dark side too, you know. You know the Teletubbies? Invented ages ago, still popular for God knows what reason? Family came up with those. It's genetic."

"You are a strange, frightening, and interesting woman. Now get the hell out of my café before I have to run to the nearest psychiatrist having a fit."

"Love you too, Ayden. Have a good night!" she gave him another bright wave then disappeared.

Okay, so she was insane. Absolutely nutters. And she was a homicidal manic. With genetic ties to the Teletubbies. Women like that should come with a warning label: Caution, contents may be hazardous to your mental health. Side effects include psychological unbalances, nightmares, perpetual frightening thoughts, and disturbing nighttime visions of psychedelic plush characters from a children's television program.

Ayden was intimidated. Ayden was very intimidated.

And he thought he saw a Teletubby in th back of the store, grinning a maniac grin and waving too him.

"Wah," Ayden said aloud.

The Teletubby was coming closer, and finally it was standing infront of him. Ayden gave it a horrified look. It looked politely confused at his odd reaction.

"Sir," it said in a voice not at all appropriate for it. "I would like to order?"

Ayden blinked. The bright pink creature had turned into a squat woman wearing an equally pink coat, which Ayden thought deserved a warning label of its own. Caution: may cause eyes to bleed.

Brilliant, so now he was seeing things. Bloody Adrienne. He needed sleep, and badly.