He’d been working on the birthday surprise for weeks, but it had seemed so pointless while Henri was in the coma. Bryce wasn’t going to want to celebrate his twenty-first birthday without his best friend, and while Shawna would drink at the drop of the hat, she hadn’t been doing much of anything other than sitting at Henri’s bedside at the Paragon Center, and damn near hysterical through half of the time she was there. Henri’s mother had wanted her thrown out at the beginning, and if not for the intervention of Dr. Whitley Ferrero and her father, it might have been even worse. Shawna hadn’t been thinking in her worry, and some of her comments were less than subtle clues to Henri and frankly most of the Alliance’s cover identities.
That didn’t even begin to get into the tenseness of the situation when Ghost Venom brought Henri into the Paragon Center for treatment.
October 21, 2016
Dr. George’s anger had been direct and scalpel sharp, and he’d stuck it right into Ghost’s heart.
“How was she attacked? By who, what caused it?” He still hadn’t fully recovered the use of his hands that the leaders of the Circle of Skullz had cut off when they attacked and took Gleam Shimmer a few months ago, or the witch’s body that was now Gleam Shimmer.
“More importantly, why are you here?”
“She’s the point of contact for the Alliance. And she’s my friend.”
“You don’t do a very good job of protecting your friends and allies.” The glare encompassed Henri, Shawna, and didn’t even glance at his own hands.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get there in time.”
“Just get out. Don’t come into this room again.”
“I understand, Doctor.” And he did, he blamed himself too. He was always too late to help those he loved.
He placed a hand on Shawna’s shoulder, squeezed gently, looked at their new friend, Dr. Whitley Ferrero, and walked out.
December 9th, 2016
Henri had awoken nearly thirty days later, an American Thanksgiving miracle for her friends and family. Her family of course had been adamant that she come back “home” to recover, so it had been a couple weeks before Brett had seen her again. He’d abided by her father’s demand and had watched her room via the security feeds. He hoped Henri would understand.
It had not been a great month, even as Shawna and he explored further, there was a sadness to the base that really couldn’t be blunted.
She did recover, even if she seemed, different, it was to be expected. Comas were nothing to sneer at, even for those of superhuman abilities. She didn’t really speak to Brett about it, but some of the differences were immediately obvious, when he’d asked Shawna and Henri to meet to discuss plans for the party, a week before the actual birthday. He’d been talking about how to surprise him when he shrugged out of his shoulder holster and hung it on the back of the chair in the bar area, before turning to pour a couple of drinks. When he turned back, Henri was absently chatting about ideas and had ejected the clip, the round in the barrel and was starting to field strip the Glock.
He’d just stared…..
“Why are you staring at me like that Brett Anderson?
Shawna said, “Shit” and downed both shots Brett had poured.
“Henri,” and he just nodded towards the now disassembled weapon.
“Oh, I am so sorry….” And she quickly re-assembled the weapon. “Did you know the Glock 17 is a 9 mm short recoil–operated, locked-breech semi-automatic pistol that uses a modified Browning cam-lock system adapted from the Hi-Power pistol. It’s locking mechanism uses a linkless, vertically tilting barrel with a rectangular breech that locks into the ejection port cut-out in the slide. During the recoil stroke, the barrel moves rearward initially locked together with the slide about 3 mm (0.12 in) until the bullet leaves the barrel and chamber pressure drops to a safe level. A ramped lug extension at the base of the barrel then interacts with a tapered locking block integrated into the frame, forcing the barrel down and unlocking it from the slide. This camming action terminates the barrel’s movement while the slide continues back under recoil, extracting and ejecting the spent cartridge casing. The slide’s uninterrupted rearward movement and counter-recoil cycle are characteristic of the Browning system. While it became available for retail sale in 2010, it’s a fourth-generation model of a long service weapon used originally by the Austrian Army.”
By the time she had finished her rapid-fire description, Shawna was drinking directly from the bottle.
Brett didn’t speak for a long breath, then, “I did, actually, know mos’ of tha’ Henri. My question is, how ta’ bloody fuckin’ hell di’ yo’?” He’d been so shocked, his accent had dropped all the way back to his childish western Australian roots.
“What? Well, it’s obvious….” then she paused “I….do not know.”
“Pe’aps we shoul’ test som’thin’. Come wi’ me……”
“This I fucking gotta see,” muttered Shawna.
As he led them to the indoor range, he went through the formal range process, one he normally didn’t bother with by himself, but Henri knew all the steps, took a picture perfect tactical shooting stance, and then fired, missing the target by at least twenty feet.
The walk had given him time to get over his shock, muting his accent to what the team was more familiar with, “The rest of the clip, now, please, Henri.”
She slowly and precisely fired, again with perfect tactical balance, and while the rest of the clip didn’t go as wide as the first, it was in no way, good.
“Interesting….Yo’ know the technical specifications, the processes, but actually can’t shoot for ‘roo shit.”
“What is rooshit?” asked Shawna.
Momentarily distracted, Brett said “Wha? Shit from a ‘roo, you know, hops around, boxes, mean fuckers?”
Henri said, “A Kangaroo? Why can’t you Anderson’s just say kangaroo?”
“I don’t have time for this shit.” He knelt down, then slid a smaller weapon out of the ankle holster, he laid it on the range counter, “Don’t think, just tell me what you see.”
Henri picked it up, ejected the clip, then the round in the spout, and said, “This is a Glock 42, specially designed for ankle carry, but uses a .380 instead of the 9mm in your Glock 17.”
The former special ops sergeant said “That’s enoug’, Henri. Ta be clear, I don’t remember you knowin’ jackshit about guns before your……injury.”
“Oh, I didn’t, never really saw the point. Wait……oh…..you think….”
“What I think is we need to do a lot more tests with someone to figure out what the hell is goin’ on. The birthday plannin’ can wait.” And then he reached over, gently taking the now reloaded firearm out of her hands before she swung it in the wrong direction, then grabbed the bottle from Shawna, and drank down three swallows of some foul, cheap American whiskey called Jack Daniels.
“No, no, Bryce’s party can NOT wait. We can do both. Can’t we Shawna?” Henri chirped, and Shawna just nodded, saying “Fuck yea, you can, Henri,” before wiping off her chin from where whiskey had dribbled off her lips.
Last Dreams 