Neb
The VILEiest VILE to ever VILE a VILE
- Best answers
- 2
- AMA
- findcarmen.com
- Known Aliases
- Nebuchadnezzar (Neb) Ullyss (formerly Kid Kidman), Kitty, Seryy Pripyat
- Color #
- 323E4F
The girl balled her fists in frustration. "I don’t know, I just woke up here one day with these scars all over. I don't know where they came from, but they came from somewhere, and I'm afraid of somewhere, because that's where the scars came from."
Flag smirked. "Scars are a story of survival. Why be afraid of something that you've already overcome?"
"What's stopping you?"
“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even have real name.”
He genuinely laughed at her dilemma. "You're kidding, right? That's an advantage. You can become anyone you want; do anything you want. Our 'organization' is a resource for facilitating just that."
“We have a lot in common, but the big difference between us is that I have no sense of entitlement to the hospitality of others. How you can expect charity - especially being a former slave as you claim - is well beyond my understanding. VILE's shadow provides food and a home. If you call that 'nothing,' then you're delusional and will never be satisfied."
Flag raised an eyebrow at her as he took a bite of his sandwich, then returned his attention to the bridge. "I'm not afraid of failure, if that’s what you're trying to ask."
New present day, eight years sooner, eight years later.
A woman with punk-cut hair chewed on a toothpick as she tinkered with one of the many odd devices that littered her small apartment. An episode of Mystery Science Theatre played in the background. A breeze drifted in through a window propped open with an empty Dr. Pepper can, gently lifting the gathering beads of sweat on her forehead as she etched a series of lines into a piece of quartz with a high-powered laser. She was lean and tan, with an old tank top and ripped jeans, her usual uniform. She had a tattoo of a flower under her right collar bone, and if her shirt was off, one would see a few more small tattoos on her back, their meanings only clear to her and possibly one other.
The space around her was cluttered but clean enough. There were some cracks in the paint, the fixtures were most likely the ones the place was built with, some tiles were missing in the bathroom, the furniture salvaged from thrift stores and roadsides, but Kidman liked things with a history. They were old and tired, but unique, and while the striped couch in the living room may have threadbare armrests, it was comfortable.
Tucked within the vintage shelving units of her narrow work room was an impressive array of technology. Chain lights snaked around a small vending machine filled with Skittles, and the glow of a lava lamp undulated on the ceiling.
It looked like any tech junkie’s haunt, a mix of expensive, state of the art tools and empty Cup o’ Noodles, but if one really wandered around, studied the papers tacked to her walls, the books piled about, they would notice a veil of strange. Some of the texts were ancient and sealed in climate-controlled boxes. The papers on her desk were written in languages not spoken, labeling mathematical diagrams labeled in unknown alphabets, a triangular symbol repeated throughout.
Kidman popped her gum again as she absently echoed the television. Popping gum probably wasn’t the best thing to do while using a high-powered laser, but she had steady hands, and if the quartz cracked, she’d just get another point. Worrying was a waste of time. She had wasted ten years doing so, but the silver-haired man had given eight of them back.
The woman smiled gently beneath her welding goggles. She knew he could care less that he had, or how much of her he had inadvertently restored with his blunt, curt manner and single-minded quest for home.
She hadn’t been aware of that at first. Sometime around 2006, after two years in hiding she suddenly found herself feeling more disheveled than usual, then caring less about it. She still had the same mess of vague memories, the same scars, the same unusual gift, but for some reason it all felt old hat and she just couldn’t be bothered. She rejoined her fellows, passed her training and became a full henchman of VILE later that year.
Over time her memories began to connect into a semblance of an alternate history, and while that had bothered her at first, she instinctively pushed it all off as irrelevant. But there was one aspect of it she felt compelled to keep.
The silver-haired man.
He had glanced off the sides of her dreams from the beginning, a tall man with long silver hair and eyes of fire. Even before she could remember who he was, she knew he was important to her. When a mysterious black book surfaced in Antarctica she somehow knew it was his. It felt familiar, necessary, and she stole it as her own.
Over the years Kidman had studied it to hell. She scanned every page of it, printed them out, laminated them and placed them in a binder so she could scour the thing without damaging it, slowly deciphering his alien script until she could comprehend what the lot of it meant, then educating herself on the maths needed to understand it. She was surprised to find the subject matter suited her, and she pushed her gift and his research as far as she could.
Her apartment was littered with the results.
Kidman turned the laser off and peeled her goggles off her face. Even with their protection her eyes had begun to hurt and she rubbed them with the palms of her hands. Then she looked at the crystal she had been working on.
“Only nineteen more to go.” She said as she referred to her most recent printout, then glanced at a sketch of the silver-haired man that she had taped to one of the nearby shelves. Whenever she found herself backsliding she would think of what the silver-haired man would do. She would always find her footing, and after so many years he had become a somewhat cranky, unwilling guardian demon.
Her part in his final dance had only become clear recently, and even though she now knew he had nearly killed her in the process, in their few seconds of fusion she had felt his life with hers, his pain with hers. He was part of her now, and it had been painful to learn so much about their alternate history together now that he was gone.
Whether he had died or made it home, she did not know, for in the new eight years she hadn’t heard of him. When she had become certain enough that the man might exist, she had furtively asked around as to whether anyone knew of a man with long silver hair or cat-like ears. The answer had always been no, but a few reported seeing a tall man with fiery eyes, and she began to steal anything she thought he might want to lure him out.
If the silver-haired man was out there, she was sure he would notice eventually. In the meantime she pursued her own experiments.
Kidman smiled as she examined the rock in her hand.
“Be well, you jerk, wherever you are...”
Flag smirked. "Scars are a story of survival. Why be afraid of something that you've already overcome?"
***
Kidman poked at her cup of coleslaw. “You’re the person most like me that I’ve ever met, and you seem to stand on your own. I want to do what you do.”
"What's stopping you?"
“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even have real name.”
He genuinely laughed at her dilemma. "You're kidding, right? That's an advantage. You can become anyone you want; do anything you want. Our 'organization' is a resource for facilitating just that."
***
He loosed a quiet, mirthless laugh at his own situation before he spoke in an equally abhorrent tone.
“We have a lot in common, but the big difference between us is that I have no sense of entitlement to the hospitality of others. How you can expect charity - especially being a former slave as you claim - is well beyond my understanding. VILE's shadow provides food and a home. If you call that 'nothing,' then you're delusional and will never be satisfied."
***
“Have you always been so strong?” The girl asked.
Flag raised an eyebrow at her as he took a bite of his sandwich, then returned his attention to the bridge. "I'm not afraid of failure, if that’s what you're trying to ask."
***
New present day, eight years sooner, eight years later.
A woman with punk-cut hair chewed on a toothpick as she tinkered with one of the many odd devices that littered her small apartment. An episode of Mystery Science Theatre played in the background. A breeze drifted in through a window propped open with an empty Dr. Pepper can, gently lifting the gathering beads of sweat on her forehead as she etched a series of lines into a piece of quartz with a high-powered laser. She was lean and tan, with an old tank top and ripped jeans, her usual uniform. She had a tattoo of a flower under her right collar bone, and if her shirt was off, one would see a few more small tattoos on her back, their meanings only clear to her and possibly one other.
The space around her was cluttered but clean enough. There were some cracks in the paint, the fixtures were most likely the ones the place was built with, some tiles were missing in the bathroom, the furniture salvaged from thrift stores and roadsides, but Kidman liked things with a history. They were old and tired, but unique, and while the striped couch in the living room may have threadbare armrests, it was comfortable.
Tucked within the vintage shelving units of her narrow work room was an impressive array of technology. Chain lights snaked around a small vending machine filled with Skittles, and the glow of a lava lamp undulated on the ceiling.
It looked like any tech junkie’s haunt, a mix of expensive, state of the art tools and empty Cup o’ Noodles, but if one really wandered around, studied the papers tacked to her walls, the books piled about, they would notice a veil of strange. Some of the texts were ancient and sealed in climate-controlled boxes. The papers on her desk were written in languages not spoken, labeling mathematical diagrams labeled in unknown alphabets, a triangular symbol repeated throughout.
Kidman popped her gum again as she absently echoed the television. Popping gum probably wasn’t the best thing to do while using a high-powered laser, but she had steady hands, and if the quartz cracked, she’d just get another point. Worrying was a waste of time. She had wasted ten years doing so, but the silver-haired man had given eight of them back.
The woman smiled gently beneath her welding goggles. She knew he could care less that he had, or how much of her he had inadvertently restored with his blunt, curt manner and single-minded quest for home.
She hadn’t been aware of that at first. Sometime around 2006, after two years in hiding she suddenly found herself feeling more disheveled than usual, then caring less about it. She still had the same mess of vague memories, the same scars, the same unusual gift, but for some reason it all felt old hat and she just couldn’t be bothered. She rejoined her fellows, passed her training and became a full henchman of VILE later that year.
Over time her memories began to connect into a semblance of an alternate history, and while that had bothered her at first, she instinctively pushed it all off as irrelevant. But there was one aspect of it she felt compelled to keep.
The silver-haired man.
He had glanced off the sides of her dreams from the beginning, a tall man with long silver hair and eyes of fire. Even before she could remember who he was, she knew he was important to her. When a mysterious black book surfaced in Antarctica she somehow knew it was his. It felt familiar, necessary, and she stole it as her own.
Over the years Kidman had studied it to hell. She scanned every page of it, printed them out, laminated them and placed them in a binder so she could scour the thing without damaging it, slowly deciphering his alien script until she could comprehend what the lot of it meant, then educating herself on the maths needed to understand it. She was surprised to find the subject matter suited her, and she pushed her gift and his research as far as she could.
Her apartment was littered with the results.
Kidman turned the laser off and peeled her goggles off her face. Even with their protection her eyes had begun to hurt and she rubbed them with the palms of her hands. Then she looked at the crystal she had been working on.
“Only nineteen more to go.” She said as she referred to her most recent printout, then glanced at a sketch of the silver-haired man that she had taped to one of the nearby shelves. Whenever she found herself backsliding she would think of what the silver-haired man would do. She would always find her footing, and after so many years he had become a somewhat cranky, unwilling guardian demon.
Her part in his final dance had only become clear recently, and even though she now knew he had nearly killed her in the process, in their few seconds of fusion she had felt his life with hers, his pain with hers. He was part of her now, and it had been painful to learn so much about their alternate history together now that he was gone.
Whether he had died or made it home, she did not know, for in the new eight years she hadn’t heard of him. When she had become certain enough that the man might exist, she had furtively asked around as to whether anyone knew of a man with long silver hair or cat-like ears. The answer had always been no, but a few reported seeing a tall man with fiery eyes, and she began to steal anything she thought he might want to lure him out.
If the silver-haired man was out there, she was sure he would notice eventually. In the meantime she pursued her own experiments.
Kidman smiled as she examined the rock in her hand.
“Be well, you jerk, wherever you are...”
