In a Superperson World #4- A Diary

April 15th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City


Dear Diary,

My dad used to say, once I start paying taxes, I'd be considered an adult. He failed to mention, after I got my first job junior year of high school, it only applied after I got married and moved next door, preferably.
But under his roof, I'd always be his baby girl.

My mom once said being an adult meant accepting all trivial things and all big things thrown at you, and managing them.
From:
bills
not running out of toilet paper
insurance
getting along with your coworkers
-to bigger things-
going to work despite heartbreak
paying rent (or your bookie) on time
avoiding a SPEZ (SuperPerson Engagement Zone)
and remembering your mothers birthday.


I lived on my own at 22. A bachelor degree of what-the-fuck-does-it-matter, crisp in my hand.  I said sayonara to my parents and the coffee shop (my first gig in high school). Hopped on a bus and went.
More than sure- I didn't think I wouldn't be fine. 
I moved from this crazy place and straight into the arms of it's sister city. A slightly different rhythm of crazy, but played with all the same instruments.

A lot of things pop up when the nest is behind you. Like all the additional costs. The stuff you didn't realize wasn't a given.
Like a trash can, or dish soap. A mattress that doesn't smell like a locker room floor drain.
There are many eternally internal debates too.
Whether packing the hangers is worth the hassle versus buying new ones. Do I reeeeaaally need a bath mat? Will my new roommate get offended if I spray the roaches in the kitchen as, every night, he turns into a large dung beetle?

All these get sorted eventually. It might take a few paychecks... A couple years even... But it gets there. As long as you can find the job to get said paychecks. Which is a whole other maze of banal crap in a new city. And the degrees we thrashed around for, amounts to, about as much as the toe-fungus mattress.
So then there's the cost of not working.

From there, rent. Bills. Groceries (sometimes I resent not being one of those osmosis people. Eating is so damned expensive.). I'd pay for this and that, on time mostly. Hold down a job until the place got slammed into/blown up/burnt down/swallowed into the earth. You know, the usual. Go out with coworkers. Friends. Do all those things my parents said made me an adult (I've started to notice they're all money related).

The freedom is great. Sometimes I'd trip and fall. My parents helped me out occasionally- as long as I promised to Skype with them.


Five year ago, I was shuffling papers around my ugly-ass beige desk. Sunset long over. There were fireworks in the distance (it was a munitions plant exploding). I was the last one in the office. Well, there was Fred the Janitor too. We chatted a bit. Watched some kids play tag around the sky-scrappers. The LED-GLO in the soles of their kicks illuminated neon trails behind them. It wasn't a bad night.

But I didn't feel like much of an adult.

I was wearing a pencil skirt and a button up blouse. Reasonably heightened heels. Eggplant purple hair tamed into a bun.
I looked professional.
I looked like an adult.
It all fit better now- compared to when I burrowed into my moms closet and played dress up.

But I still felt like that kid, hoping to play the part.
I wonder if other grown-ups are the same.

So five years ago, I took all the money I saved. Shipped my shit back home. Quit the office. Hopped on a bus and went.
Then I hopped on a plane.
Then off a plane.
There was also a train... Somewhere in there.
And before I could catch up, I was in Europe. Greece, to be precise.

There was Ouzo. Lamb roasted in drum barrels, buried in the sand of newly formed beaches. A cute fisherman named Paulo who could speak to starfish (apparently they didn't have a lot to say). And a whole group of minstrel-like locals, who played like Metallica was going out of style. Not in this century.

Once a month, I'd ring my parents, to let them know I was safe, well-fed and not doing anything they wouldn't do. I crossed my fingers for that part.


A few months later, I met a crew of crazy mutant kids, just graduated from University. They were fun.
Traveled with them to Spain. We ran from mechanical bulls through the crowded, cheering and drunk streets of Pamplona. One of them, girl named Jezzi, turned a bull's horns into baloney right before it gored her. Instead, she was only head butted with a lunch meat. Michael jumped onto the back of one, in the middle of the mob. We didn't see Michael again until Paris.

In 2022, the mutant spider(s) responsible for Spiderman and his silk (see what I did there?)and escaped the laboratory... again. This time, making it all the way to the docks and up a lee-way line. They sailed across the Atlantic. Eventually disembarking in the port of Marseille-Fos, France.
No one's sure exactly what happened next but... well, let's just say, they got big. Like, size of a car, big. I'll save the history lesson for another time, but the long and short is they took over the Eiffel Tower... and somehow the dome of Saint Peters Basilica in Roma.

They've calmed down quite a bit since then. The french airlift cattle near a woven funnel "entrance" once a month. In exchange, they don't eat the citizenry.
Everyone wins.

So, of course, it's become a tourist attraction. And a popular dungeon crawl, for those adrenaline junkies. Not recommended. Or legal. 

It was here we ended up-
Wearing specialized head lamps in the middle of the night; a tour guide holding a boomstick like a magic wand. We crouched through eerily white, gauzier tunnels, covered in cooking spray so we wouldn't stick to anything. Phones on silent, flash turned off.
Every hush of wind.
Every swaying strand.
Every skitter.
Every echo of tapping.
We were paranoid beyond our wits. Our imaginations proving far more monstrous.

It was mostly safe. A week after feeding, the spiders hibernate into a food coma.
Still. What a rush!
Exiting through the sewers, giggling like school children. The tour ended at a pub, with a pitcher for all. We cheered to our guides health.

An automated voice message had flashed up on my phone during the crawl. I shut it off. Probably a computer asking me to vote for that floating bald guy again.
My phone disappeared at the bar.
For about a month.
I let it go. All the pictures were saved in the cloud. I'd download them when I got back.
We kept traveling. All the way up, to yodeling with sheep farmers at the tip of Scotland.
Then, through the workings of a karma, my phone found me. With the message waiting to be heard.


My parents should have added, 'Get to the shelter quickly, as to avoid the tip of the Space Needle, flung, far from across town.' to the list of adultification. I'd have appreciated it.


My key still opened the door.
Everything looked the same, but fake.
The scuffs on the wall from Mr. Johnson's bike tires. The frosting stains on the floor from when mom dropped dads birthday cake. The coffee, feet and oil stains of everyday life. Even the smells, made the hallways familiar.
A recognition of time passed. Silly little memories created. The proof of a home.
Gone.

A condolence wreathe of lilies decayed, liquified and matted onto the counter. A note from PepsiCo stuck out awkwardly from the feted floral foam.
There were frames on the walls, but no pictures. A couch, but no cushions. Toilet paper, but no trash can. The bedrooms looked ready for a photo shoot, except for a fine layer of settled dust. 

And that was that.
I bought hangers and a bathroom rug.
Got a job as a barista at the coffee shop again.
On a walk, met the owner of Bunsen and Beaker. We talked about Paris. And from there... you know the rest.


Funny... I never wondered if I was an adult again...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In a Superperson World #3- A Diary

April 10th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City



Dear Diary,

My mom used to say 'Karma's a bitch'. But I've met her (or at least one of them) and she's really quite nice. A bit skittish, but nice.
'Karma's' are a type of person, who many claim are 'cursed'. Technically because their 'ability' is just there.

According to a study conducted by UC Berkley, led by a Professor Charles Xavior:

"There is no conclusive evidence showing when and why a 'Karma's' ability manifests... Appears to activate randomly... Happens to/around an individual/group whom partook in a single or multitude of malicious and/or self-perceived immoral behavior(s) toward another human being/creature and/or environment- without consequence of when such an act(s) occur(red)... Nor can we conclude how said 'Retributional Event(s)' are weighed via the offense which activates the ability. 

The only two conclusive finding of this panel are as such:

A. The individual 'Karma' is not conscious of the activation of their ability nor in control of the 'Retributional Event'.

B. The 'Retributional Event' may effect more that the intended 'target'."  

They fall into the 'Miscellaneous' group of Superpersons, but don't qualify for the Superperson tax exemptions or protection acts. 
All are tagged in their teens and monitored. 
They are not allowed to take part in communal celebrations or festivals. The UN says it's for the good of humanity. 
I say that's crap.    Don't be a dick.    It's that easy. 

Because of this, most lock themselves up at home. Shy away from public transit, peak hours at grocery stores. The suicide rate is pretty high for them. How bad does that suck?

So a 'Karma' named Daisy walked into a bar. My bar. A couple months back.
She got caught up in a downpour. I'm talking a displaced Niagara Falls (it's happened), or the time when Storm hit menopause. 
It was a regular, local crowd. A little slow that night. 
She looked kinda startled at first. Eventually, albeit warily, walked up to the bar. 
Petite thing. Big brown eyes like a cow. Drenched. 
She shyly asked for a menu. I tossed a look at the old bar rats. Their staring was making her squirm. We don't have menu's at Bunsen and Beaker. Whatever a person wants, we can make. No matter how profoundly obscure. How complicated. Or vile. Period. 
It's a pain in the ass.
She ordered a hot toddy. Easy enough. I gave her a bowl of cashews and continued polishing glasses.

There was a poker game being played in back. A new cardy was doing exceptionally well. A couple guy's already quit the game. Paychecks lost to the pot.
A perma-peeved dude was crunching numbers at a table along the wall. Bunch of guys were watching the opening games of the Baseball season.
Nothing unusual. 

Half hour goes by quietly. Rain hasn't let up. 
I've moved on to restocking my wells.
This kid, couldn't be more than fourteen, sneaks through the back door. Stops behind the Mr. Perma-Peeve. Looked like he'd been meditating under a fire hose. Shivering so hard water's flying half way 'cross the room.  He's whispering to Mr. PP (heh, funny) who's mostly ignoring him. Finally tells him to go wait back in the rain. He's not done yet. 
The kid looks to argue but the guy's hand whips through the air. The crack resounded longer than the kid's yelp. 

Everyone is on their feet. 
In this world, there's a lot we've got to put up with. But not in our own fucking bar, we don't.

Daisy though, skittered backward. White as a sheet.  No one noticed.
She bolted to the door. Tripped over a high-top table leg. A couple pint glasses flew into the air. 
That caught our attentions. 
The glasses bulleted in opposite directions. Weird. 
You'd think it's normal in this world of Superperson's. It's not. And that's the funny thing about Karmatic retribution. Starts as a small, unintended act that snowballs. 
We watched them ricochet around the bar. Off the loft at the back.
Bouncing here. And there. And everywhere. 
One collided into the autographed bowling ball on the wall. The other knocked a plank loose... Like watching one of those 'Mouse Trap' competitions held by the Villains League of Ingenuity.
Mr. PP still engrossed in screaming. Poor kid cowering. 
A loud pop. 
The bowling ball bounced off Mr. PP's head. 
...I didn't know those balls could bounce...
It continued. Dribbled toward the disrupted poker game. Hit the underside of a table. Sent a shot glass barreling through the air. It cupped into the socket of the new cardy's eye. Another pop.
Not a pleasant sound.
He shrieked. Daisy shrieked. Mr. PP didn't. He was unconscious.
The cardy was flailing about. A few aces dropped from the collar of his shirt. 


The bar rats were already calling 911. I sighed. Now there'd be paperwork to do.
Threw the other players a dirty towel. They were caught between irritation and that adreneline rush that comes with a crisis. Told them to leave the glass alone. Let the paramedics deal with it. He was about to pass out anyway. 
Took the pulse of Mr. PP. It was there. 
Grabbed the hand of the kid and sat him between the bar rats. Set a bottle of "medicine" (read:bourbon) in front of 'em and an extra glass.

Daisy was sobbing under the table.
I crouched down. She shrank back. Clutched the stand like it was the only reason she was still attached to this earth. I handed her a clean towel. She whimpered.
I went back to the bar. Filled two more glasses with "medicine". Came back. Sat down cross-legged. Slid a glass to her.
"You could use a drink."  
Then waited.
She picked up the glass once she was done sniffling.

Rest of the bar knew the drill. They're decent folks, really. 
Paramedics showed. So did some cops. Statements were given.
The bowling ball and pints were taken as evidence.
The bar rats felt for the kid. Convinced him to be honest. The cops put a blanket around the kid. Promised to take good care of him. They were pretty gentle...
Some hot, muscly firemen strutted around. All in all, a decent show. 
Everyone skirted around us like a plague was biting at their ass. 
Worked for me. 

Generally, people are terrified of 'Karma's'. It's that whole unknown aspect.
The 'incident' would be reported to the UN Board of Universal Befuddlementals and Counter-Action. Only two people were involved, so no investigation was likely. Just a note added to Daisies file.  


We sat there until the circus was over. 
Jules (bar-back) began moping up the blood. Zand and some of the guys straightened chairs. Then, one by one, they grabbed their drinks and joined us on the floor. 
Everyone just talked. Laughed. Told stories. Daydreamed what they would have done to Mr. PP or the cheat if karma hadn't stumbled in. 
Like I said. Decent folks. 
You could tell a few of them were weary. After a bit, they mellowed out. Daisy began to laugh. Listened to the others. I got the feeling talking with people was new for her. 
Eventually, we drew her out from under the table. Took the party to the bar.    
And at the end of the night, we told her we'd see her tomorrow. 
The rain had stopped. Everyone went home.


Bunsen and Beaker has a new regular now.



See? Karma's not a bitch, unless you are first. 
I guess that's as good a moral as any to end this. 


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny