Infinity Smashed: The Girl Who Got Hit By Lightning

[lb_lee]

The Girl Who Got Hit by Lightning
Summary: While helping her friend watch a birthday movie, M.D. Rawlins gets hit by lightning, advised by her imaginary friend, and her reality starts to unravel.
Series: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 3300
Notes: Winner of the vote and supported by my fans on LiberaPay and Patreon! This starts M.D.’s arc of Infinity Smashed; you don’t need to have read anything else of the series to follow along.


The night of Vandorsky’s birthday, I arrived at at midnight sharp. The little purple study light was on in her window, a signal that her parents (who thought me a “bad influence”) were in bed and it was safe to approach. Good thing too; the weather had taken a sharp turn for the ugly.

Arizona isn’t know for its rainfall, and Vago (including the “nicer” suburb Vandorsky lived in) was no exception. But once a year or so, the weather decided to make up for lost time and dump a hellraiser on our heads. By the time I’d climbed the fence to Vandorsky’s window, it was roaring outside and I was soaked through.

She hauled her window open, whispered, “it’s an omen!” and pulled me inside. (She didn’t need to whisper. In that storm, I could’ve slaughtered a pig on her lawn without anyone noticing.)

Vandorsky was a “dark and stormy birth-night” kinda gal. She wasn’t allowed to paint her walls anything but white or beige, so she compensated by covering them with (very black) posters for bands I’d never heard of, the kind where every performer looked like a sleep-deprived vampire. Despite the hour, her hair remained spiked, her mascara perfect. Her meds wouldn’t allow her to get really excited, but she was clearly trying.

“This is the final Bela Lugosi film I haven’t seen,” she whispered, adjusting the antenna of her TV in the corner. “They never run it anymore.”

Uh oh. “Is it good?”

“Ssh! Doesn’t matter.” So, no. “If you ruin this for me, M.D., I disown you.”

“I won’t break it!” I whispered, dumping my army pack with a splat in the opposite corner of her bedroom. “I’m way over here!”

She just gave me a venomous look and repeated, “disowned.”

In all fairness, I had killed many a watch, phone, and (once, almost) a hard drive with my mere presence. No clue why. Back when I was still officially allowed in the house, Vandorsky’s dad had once joked that my name stood for “Machine Destroyer” (it did not); the best guess of Vandorsky herself was that I was cursed.

She plopped onto her black-sheeted bed, passed me a towel, and pressed the remote control. The screen popped on, showing a mediocre Dean Martin impersonator—and then with a shriek of wind and a crash of thunder (we both jumped), it went to static.

The look Vandorsky gave me would’ve poisoned a well.

“Not my fault!” I hisspered, pointing accusingly at the storm outside the window. “Not my fault!”

Vandorsky’s face didn’t change. “Fix it.”

I whined.

“It’s my birthday, you dweeb.”

I sighed, gave up wringing my shirt, and returned to the window… and the torrent.

This was not my first time on the Vandorsky family roof. I could climb trees, fences, and (some) walls like a squirrel, while Vandorsky’s meds gave her the coordination of a sedated Muppet. As my soaked underwear glued itself between my butt cheeks, I latched my bike-gloved hands onto the roof edge, chin-up/wriggled my way up… and there was that stupid antenna, askew in the rain. I was positive it was laughing at me.

I paused to lower my head into view of the window, even though my wet bangs nearly slapped me in the eyes. “So not my fault.”

“I absolve you of wrongdoing,” Vandorsky said, and shut the window before she drowned.

I returned to the roof, very carefully made my way to the apex so I could straddle it and not risk getting blown to Oz, and put my hands on the antenna, which was soon to get #1 on my Most Loathed Object list.

“I’m only doing this because it’s your birthday,” I called, even though there was no way Vandorsky or anyone else could hear me. “You better have lots of gummy bears waiting for me when—”

And then the lightning hit.

I don’t remember it. Probably never will. For all I know, I finished my sentence, or said some other stuff. All I know is what Vandorsky later told me: there was a blinding flash/earthshaking boom, her purple book light and TV both went out, and she rushed to the window just in time to see me roll off the roof and hit the gravel like a sack of laundry. (It also, unfortunately for me, woke her parents.) She lurched out the front door as fast as her depressed endocrine system would allow, where she found me seizing uncontrollably, and she swears my clothes were smoldering.

Me? I just remember confusion—crash—sandstone—

And then I was on my back, staring up at a blue-clad figure I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with a tragic look on her face. “I tried.”

“It’s okay, Blue,” I told her, because I didn’t want her to feel bad.

And then I was on the artfully arranged colored gravel that Vago suburbanites so optimistically called a “lawn,” rain pouring up my nose. My mouth tasted like a blown fuse. A shadow was above me, looking worried.

“Blue?” I asked blearily.

“No, Vandorsky,” she replied, though she sounded equally worried. Lightning flashed, and I saw that her mascara was dripping down her cheeks, her hair deflating. “Is… is Blue here?”

I felt a pang of regret. “Aw,” I said. “I ruined your birthday…”

Then her parents were there, shouting. I hardly noticed; the gravel kept flickering into red sandstone, Vandorsky into Blue, and everything felt too loud and too big and too confusing.

“I’m calling 911,” I heard a (very displeased) adult voice say.

“Don’t do that,” I slurred as the world dissolved out from under me. “I’m uninsured.”

Blackout.

…

Far away and roughly an hour later, a brain braid received a signal pattern from a neuro-thread that was so depreciated that it’d long since taken up other work. There was a moment of confusion (surely a false alarm?), but nonetheless, the braid dutifully reported to its weaver, the young woman in the control womb.

Number One Eldest Daughter’s eyes shot open, even though there was nothing to see but womb fluid. She turned over and banged on the lid of the chamber to get the others’ attention. (Her handlers, of course, would never dare get into a womb circuit with her.)

The sound carried clearly through her breathing mask: “Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Great-Grand-Brain-Braid 32,” One said. “It says Number Two Little Sister has reactivated.”

“Really?” The voice sounded skeptical. “Sounds like a hallucination. I will investigate. Thanks for reporting.”

Number One settled back into her dead man’s float in the womb and returned to her work, threading the brain braids’ bioelectric reports through her fingers. Surely it was an error, but… deep in her mind, something stirred.

It had been a long time since she’d seen her little sister…

…

“Sister? Sister, wake up.”

I knew that voice. I opened my eyes. “Oh, hey Blue.”

Blue had been my imaginary friend for as long as I could remember, and she’d been eleven-and-a-half that whole time. (She was weirdly insistent about her exact age, which was funny, since I didn’t know my own. It’d definitely surpassed hers sometime in middle school, though.) We called her Blue because it was her favorite color, what she always wore. Her outfit (a weird toga-like thing, as always) was covered in ominous dark stains.

I sat up. I felt surprisingly good, but I was in a sandstone room, mostly dark and as badly stained as Blue’s clothes. I didn’t want to look at it too closely.

“Aw, nuts,” I said. “I’m definitely not awake.”

“No,” Blue agreed, helping me sit up, “but I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.” Blue dream-walked sometimes, though it’d been a while. “What’s up?”

“Your transmitter’s sending. I’m sorry, I tried to stop it.”

“My what?”

She waved me off and pulled me to my feet. I’d gotten taller than her a few years back, but she was still stronger. “They’re coming for you. You have to get out of here.”

Black water silently washed into the room, seeping through the soles of my stomping boots. The liquid felt unpleasantly warm. Been a while since I’d seen that stuff too…

Blue grabbed my hand and started running. The room had stretched into a hallway, but the waters were still pursuing, silent and inexorable.

“I’ll stall them as long as I can, but I don’t think it’s going to work,” she continued, having no trouble talking despite running (and speaking) at full-speed. “When you wake up, you need to escape wherever you are. Get as far away as you can, and hide.”

“Wait—Blue, didn’t something bad just happen?” That seemed important, but I was unable to finish the thought, because she screeched us to a halt in front of a—

Oh. It was the door. It was always the door.

“I know,” Blue said, fiddling with a panel, “and I’m sorry, but this is very important, and I need you to do this for me. Can you do this for me?” Her robes were dripping red now, and the waters were up to our knees.

“Sure, Blue,” I said as the door opened. “But what about you? Aren’t you coming with me?”

She smiled at me, like she always did in this dream, a horrible sad smile, and she said what she always said: “I’m always with you.”

And then she shoved me through the door, like she always did.

…

I suppose if this story were properly cinematic, I would’ve woken up then, but give me a break, I’d just been hit by lightning. It took a while for my electrified brain to wade through all the déjà vu, so I think I sorta half-woke up a bunch of times. Maybe. I’m not sure. Everything felt like it’d already happened a million times before, time felt all twisted into a pretzel, and I kept feeling like I needed to wake up, that it was very important, only to slip under the deep, dark tar again, over and over.

When I finally did regain consciousness, things felt weird.

Obviously I felt like microwaved death; that wasn’t a surprise at all. But my brains felt scrambled, like some back room in storage had gotten knocked over, spewing boxes everywhere, and that stuff was being moved around without my understanding or volition. Trying to figure out what that even meant… I couldn’t hang onto the thought, or wonder, but it felt maybe important.

Hospital room. Sandstone, red, pulsing walls. I’d been here before? No, no, that wasn’t right…

The walls retreated into their proper dimensions and bland colors, and Blue didn’t appear—which, combined with how roadkill I felt, convinced me I really was awake this time. I was on a bed in a room with a window—which showed a bright sunny daylight sky outside it. I couldn’t register it then, but later I’d realize that I must’ve been out for a good while, long enough for the storm to blow over.

Vandorsky told me later that I made the front page of the local section of the Vago Sun. (She kept the clippings. It used my eighth grade school photo from the prior year, blech.) I presume I have that rag to thank for the very-official-sounding guy who was somewhere out of eyeshot but still semi-audible, who sounded like he was arguing with someone—probably a nurse. I couldn’t make out most of the words (and didn’t have the brains to understand them even if I could), but I heard my name, my dog-tags-and-paperwork name, and even brain-dead and electrocuted, I knew that meant I was in trouble.

This must’ve been who Blue was warning me about. What a pal, looking out for me even while I was unconscious! Later, when my brain didn’t feel like leftovers exploded in the microwave, I would have to thank her. (I would also have to realize that this idea made no sense, but that would come later.)

Blue herself wasn’t present, not that I could blame her. I wouldn’t have wanted to be around either, blurgh.

It took effort, with the world swimming around, but I looked down. I was on a gurney, with a blanket over me, and I could see all my limbs underneath it. I could wiggle my toes and fingers, though it seemed an awful lot of work. There was an I.V. in one hand (I hastily averted my eyes), and both my arms were burned in sweeping floral patterns. That hurt, but still nowhere near as bad as the headache pounding away in my skull, thanks to either the lightning or my collision with the lawn. Probably both. It sure felt like both. And that guy arguing with the nurse outside was not helping.

There was a cat on the windowsill. Wait, had he been there before? I wasn’t sure; red and black were starting to creep into the corners of my vision. I tried hard to focus on the cat, but it was no good.

“Kitty,” I said, and blacked out again.

When I next opened my eyes (or so it felt), the sun had changed and the argument had stopped, but the cat was still sitting on the windowsill, a big fluffy monster in splotches of tan and gray. He wore no collar, just an oddly fancy mesh harness/backpack, the kind I was more used to seeing on rich people’s dogs, and he was watching me with calm yellow eyes, tail wrapped neatly around hiss ankles. I would’ve wondered what kind of pampered rich kitty would be allowed outdoors anywhere near Vago Gen, in the middle of downtown, had I been in better condition.

But I wasn’t, so I focused on the one thing that felt like it mattered. Blue had told me I needed to escape, and by god, I was going to do it, even though I didn’t know how, or what time it was, or where my pants were.

I’m not sure how long it took, but that cat was still watching me when I finally gained enough strength and intelligence to try getting out of bed. I was sitting up and pondering my feet when he pawed at the window.

“No,” I said, waving my un-punctured hand in its direction. “I don’t feed strangers.”

To which the cat responded, I never expected you to.

The words weren’t sound but thought, intricate and delicate as carved ivory—and also male, though how I knew that, I didn’t know. It was nice not to have to guess, at least.

“You’re smart,” I said.

Indeed. No need to speak aloud; subvocally will do. How do you feel?

That was a question I didn’t want to think about too hard. “Are you an English kitty? You sound English.”

I am not. That’s your subconscious projecting onto me. I won’t waste your time; I’m afraid you’re in a bit of trouble—and I don’t mean the bill or Social Services.

I hung my head with a groan. Things were still pretty scrambled, but I could already tell that this day was not going to improve as it progressed.

“I ruined Vandorsky’s birthday,” I lamented.

I’m sure she understands.

“It was the last one,” I continued, unable to hold more than one thought at a time. “The last one she hadn’t seen. And I ruined it.”

Normally, I’d break this to you gently, but I’m afraid we don’t have time. Three brilliantly colored IDs appeared in my mind’s eye, making me jump. I am Fluji 808C Alpha with Konpom Anikonpomka. Do I have your permission to assist you?

I squinted at the IDs (strings of planets logo, 3D full-body pictures), then at him. I could already tell I was never going to remember that name, but I gave it my best shot: “Hello, Mr. Fooji.”

He sounded resigned, like he already knew this part of the conversation wouldn’t get through to me but felt obligated anyway. Fluji isn’t my name, it’s… a nonverbal sigh. Pick a name for me. What’s a common name for men here?

I said the first that popped into my head: “Bob.” Then, “Bobcat! Yes. Okay?”

I could feel a tingle at my temples, as though he was doing a quick scan to figure out what the word meant and why I thought it was funny. He seemed to like it, anyway. Bobcat is lovely, thank you. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Rawlins. With your consent, I’d like to be your construct-legality caseworker for today. Do you understand?

I squinted at him. “Yes.” No.

Bobcat doggedly tried again. Do I have your permission to assist you?

A hand touched down on my shoulder. “You have my permission to assist us.”

“Oh, hi, Blue!” She was back, seemed in way better shape than I was too: she was studying the IDs intently.

Bobcat didn’t startle, exactly, but his tail fluffed and his eyes widened. I—I’m sorry, I did not perceive you there. Later, it would occur to me that to a telepath, that must be dang unsettling. Are… are you [untranslatable]?

Whatever it was he was saying, it didn’t mean anything to me, I couldn’t keep my mind on it, but Blue clearly could. She straightened up from the IDs. “No, I’m not. She is.” She looked at me. “This one is here to help us. We can talk to him.”

“Oh. Good.” I was glad to have that settled so I wouldn’t have to think about it.

Bobcat still looked a little rattled. He paced across the windowsill, watching Blue intently as though expecting her to disappear. Are you a [untranslatable] construct? May I know your provenance?

Neither question meant anything to me, but apparently they did to her. “My name is Blue. I’m eleven-and-a-half years old, and I am a loose persona thread of Number One Eldest Daughter of the Gween Clan of Della.”

“I’m M.D.,” I said, determined to be a part of this conversation somehow. “I’m… older.”

Bobcat seemed to be mulling over something, but credit where credit is due; he took Blue in stride. And you say you’re giving permission for me to assist you both? You understand, normally I require majority consent for group-bodies…

“I understand, but she’s in a state of diminished capacity right now, for safety reasons; it will have to wait until we’re out of here,” Blue said, and then, to me, “Sorry, but I have to keep you raveled, just until we’re in a safe place. If I rebraid you right now, you’re not going to be able to get out of this room. Okay?”

Raveled. Rebraid. I’d heard those before… but before I could pursue the thought, it vanished. But I knew Blue wouldn’t do it if it weren’t important, and I did want out of that hospital room, so I said, “Okay.”

Bobcat hesitated a moment, but apparently was willing to settle. It’ll have to do. Blue, do you have any suggestions on how to get you both out of here? I’m afraid you can’t take the door out; Peripheral Immigration has a sentry out there.

“Window!” I declared, happy to be able to contribute something.

Bobcat sounded dubious. Are you sure?

“She’s very good at windows,” Blue said, “even like this.”

I nodded as wisely as I could.

Bobcat didn’t seem any less dubious, but he didn’t have much choice. All right then, let’s go. I’m afraid I can’t open the window from this side…

I was wobbly and light-headed, but managed to get to my feet, grab my IV pole, and shuffle my way for the window. This part, at least, I understood.