"...If you've already killed Saph, and no one else is coming for me... and you are going to kill me anyway, why should I do what you want? How can I put any faith in you not killing anyone else I care about after I am gone?"

He stared at her patiently as she posed the question, and nodded slowly as she wrapped it up. "Have I ever lied to you, Shelby? I hid things from you, but I have never looked into your sadly human eyes and lied. I did all of those things to torment you. When you are dead and gone, and I have digested your face, I will have to find someone else to make art of. Unless you make me promise to kill your father... I could do that. I could make that promise to you. All you have to do to make that happen... is refuse. To paint." He referred to the canvas one more time, and then set her glasses, which he'd pilfered from her room as well, on the small table he'd placed the paints on.

"I could feed you to him first. I did so love that game. I doubt it would be as funny the second time around, but I'll come up with new material when I find a nice, fresh, canvas to paint on."

He stepped back again, and sat just out of chain range, speaking to her pleasantly. "Try and think of your mother when you paint this one. I know you didn't have time to look away as I snapped he neck. How did that make you feel? Explore that."

The coldness that had settled in the pit of her stomach tripled. There was ice in her veins, and she followed his gestures with her eyes. He threatened her dad. To eat her face. Her glasses appeared. How thoughtful.

A little voice in the back of her mind, past the panicked wailing and seething hatred she wasn't able to show, commented on the fact that he really needed to get new material. Threatening to eat her all the time had really lost its edge with time. Unblinking, she turned back to the canvas with robotic, jerky movements. One of her eyes was twitching slightly... from what she didn't know. Maybe from how hard it was to keep herself from crying.

She reached for the spectacles, slipping them on with trembling fingers, and spoke not a single word in reply. Blue eyes traced empty, white. Her mind struggling at first with what to put there. Unbidden, she couldn't help a few stray tears that crept through her walls when her moms face came to mind.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to calm down like she had been taught to do. Try to focus on what you are feeling... Identify each sensation.

Pain.

Physical pain. The artist opened her eyes again and focused on the white. Her mind set about forming shapes from it.... a silhouette... Teeth bared in agony. Red, red blood.

Sadness

Overwhelming sorrow. Tears on cheeks. Eyebrows squished together painfully tight. Hollow, helpless feeling in the chest. Crushing.

Anger

Rage, really. Burning hot and barely contained. Fingers curled... fists clenched. Teeth clacking as they snap shut.

Fear

Pinpricks for pupils. Sweat sliding from the brow. Trembling knees knocking together.

Her hands set to work as an image formed in her mind. She had an idea... but needed to be careful as she wasn't going to be given a chance to test it out first.

With brush in hand she began to paint. Slowly, methodically, the painting started to form. First, in the center the shape of a feminine body appeared. She focused on outlines before anything else, moving from one to the next as fast as her brain would let her. Eventually she lost track of time, and didn't notice that hours had passed until the muscles in her arms and back protested from being in one position for too long.

She sat back in her stiff chair, brush slipping from her fingers to the floor as she took in the final form of what she had painted.

In total five figures had been painted in. They stood from the waist up in a half circle around a circular, well lit stage. The light painted from above cast deep shadows upon the bodies, focusing down on the empty space that sat between them. The edges of the stage faded off into darkness. She intended for there to be only empty space there... save for a single square of white set near the very bottom of the canvas.

Each body was a copy of the next, with only a few minute differences. The expressions and gestures changed from one to the next. One appeared as if it was roaring in anger. Another looked trapped in the deepest depression. Every single version of her shared the same hair color, as well as the same bloody eyes. Rivers of red were painted down cheeks, spilling over collar bone and chest all the way past the stage and out of sight. The eyes themselves were red. White replaced with deep crimson, surrounding baby blue.

The one thing that stood out above all else was the fact that each had a mop of pink hair painted in different lights. They were representations of the artist herself, as best as she could do from memory. And, if one looked closely enough, they could spot what appeared to be a very thin circle of white that encased the bodies and the stage... and well as what looked like a small painted door just in front of the small white square at the bottom.

Shelby studied her art with a nervous eye. She really, really hoped her idea would work.

Now all she needed was Roach to get within touching range and she would put her plan into action, and hopefully save her hide while she was at it.

Like a well trained dog awaiting it's positive reinforcement in the shape of a biscuit he waited patiently. Silently. He'd never watched her work in person before. It was delicate. Methodical. Like a surgeon, but with a craft that would live through ages if properly maintained. She might as well be cutting into his mind with this work. He found himself leaning in to take in every detail as they came to shape. The soft white skin, the dark background creating contrast, making the bloodied porcelain pop. Even though it took hours, he found himself wishing for more.

No. Art was more beautiful when it was precious and finite. This would be her magnum opus. He had to give it the respect of being her last work. He tried to make sense of it. A mirror of her soul in the moment? Shattered feelings swimming in blood and drowned in darkness. The stage. The figures. They reminded him of a dream he'd had. Sometimes, when he looked at her paintings, he wondered if she could read his mind. Perhaps a part of her wallowed in it's deepest recesses. How could he find so much understanding in something made by someone so awfully plain? Someone... Human.

He jumped at the sound of a paint brush hitting the floor. She was finished? Right, then. What did it mean, though? "Complete? Your Swan song? It... It seems like it is missing something." He moved forward, taken by his fascination. "The stage... Where is... Where is the focal point? Where is the performer?" He placed a hand on her shoulder to shove her out of the way so he could look in closer. "Is it the viewer? No... It's not from the point of view of the stage... What... This isn't finished! FINISH it!" He turned to her once more, his voice beginning to curl with rage and impatience.

She flinched slightly as he moved, half terrified he would try to kill her before she could enact her plan.

"Complete? Your Swan song? It... It seems like it is missing something."

He touched her shoulder. She had to physically restrain herself from jerking away. He had no idea how right he was...

"The stage... Where is... Where is the focal point? Where is the performer? Is it the viewer? No... It's not from the point of view of the stage... What... This isn't finished! FINISH it!"

Ah, there he was. There was the monster she knew so well. "As you wish."

Her fingers curled around his hand on her shoulder. The other darted out and met with wet paint. A second later they were in an entirely different place. She stumbled only slightly before catching herself, having enough practice at that point not to fall flat on her face. Then , before he could adjust to the sudden movement (or the fact that she was no longer shackled to the chair) she turned and hurled herself off the side of the stage.

The exit painting hovered behind, just above a small patch of white in the darkness. A clear, barely visibly doorway framed the platform she aimed for. With a little luck and determination she landed on the solid patch, stumbling and falling. The artist ignored the pain though, instead focusing on hauling herself up and to the open door. She gripped it and slammed it shut. It sealed itself back into the rest of the barrier that encased the stage and figures, a bubble of impenetrable protection to keep her monster in.

Around Roach, the figures started to stir. Five bodies started to move slowly, writing with different movement as ten sets of bloodied eyes landed on the object of her worst nightmares. They were so large compared to the stage that the perspective seemed off... as if you were a bug looking up at something larger than yourself.

Shelby stood, nursing what was probably a sprained ankle as her hand hovered just in front of the exit painting.

"As you wish."

Vwhoosh!

The room around them disappeared, and Roach found himself falling a half step onto a small stage. He stumbled a second, and looked off to the side as she flee'd. The giant bug could hardly register exactly what was going on before he paused, and looked around. He started with a chuckle. "I... Seem to have completely lost it." He chuckled louder, and then looked up at the great figures before him as they began to stir.

"That's it, then... I am the performer. Brilliant, Shelby. Absolutely brilliant." He tapped his shell, and a small bug crawled out into his palm.

"You think, what, that you will kill me here? I will always come back... Nothing can save you from me." He leaned in, opening his maw wide, and allowing a needle to slowly extend from it, speaking even with his mouth wide open, his palps doing most of the annunciation for him. "Nothing at all-" WHAP

With a sort of popping crack a large pale hand swooped in to backhand him across the stage. He skid for a moment and came to a stop silently before stirring slowly. A wet cough echoed from his slighlty crumpled form as he looked down at the crushed bug in his hand. The hand discarded the poor child and moved up to feel his face... Ruined. He tried to press his mouth needle out... no work. It was ruined... HE was ruined... He couldn't revive himself.

He looked up in time to see another great big hand swinging down toward him. He rolled out of the way, avoiding that blow only to be punished by a blow from another one, tearing a chest arm from its socket so that it hung limply.

He managed to cough out a rasping phraise. "YouKGHnn... YOu BKHNnTCH.... YOughhn... Ruined mee KTCH" He spat out dark blood, and moved to avoid the next blow before falling off the edge of the stage on the side of the five angry figures. They descended upon him in a flurry of merciless blows.

The artist watched silently as the figures moved, movements slow at first as they all tries leaning in at once and had to adjust to each others arms. She had no idea what Roach was going on about.... couldn't die? It seemed a little far fetched, but she supposed it might make some sense when compared with a lot of the reports of his activity over the years.

Still... she didn't think he would be surviving this encounter, and even if he did she doubted he would walk out of it in any shape to ever be a problem for anyone ever again.

She would have liked to think that it would have been hard to watch as he was smacked around. Normally she wasn't a fan of violence... but... this was a special case. She wasn't a good enough person not to want to ingrain this in her mind just as she had when she ruined his eye when he had attacked Saph.

"YouKGHnn... YOu BKHNnTCH.... YOughhn... Ruined mee KTCH"

Shelby smiled slightly. Small and empty. It was nice to finally hear those words. "Enjoy your time with the monsters you created, Roach."

She didn't know if he heard her, and it really didn't matter. They were more words for her anyway. When he vanished over the side of the stage she finally let her fingers connect with the exit painting.

--

The room was silent when she reappeared in it. An empty chair with an empty shackle sat in front of her. She was surrounded on all sides by various paintings she had created. Behind her was her swan song as the bug had called it. Her eyes searched the room for an exit, which took quite a few minutes as paintings had been hung from the back of the door making it hard to find.

Eventually she found her way outside, where a warm night breeze greeted her. It was dark and she appeared to be on an unfamiliar street, in a portion of the city she didn't recognize.

Great.

Fueled by a trembling kind of adrenaline over having both escaped and potentially forever solved her problem, she headed down one street toward a more well lit part of town. She just had to make it home in one piece... that was all. Avoid any other unsavory types, contact the police when she could get to a phone and send them back to the building she had escaped from to hopefully find Roach dead and gone.

--

After 45 minutes of limping around she managed to run into a patrolling cop car and flag him down. Instead of ending up at home, she was driven to the nearest hospital for a checkup, mostly for the baby's sake. She didn't mind as she got to spend most of the time resting on a bed, wrapped up warm and tight while being treated for a slight concussion, a sprained ankle and a bruised hip.

The ground had rumbled slightly from the explosion, and the door Saph had bashed it was flung open to slam into the ground above. The Native wasn't immediately able to focus on that though, since she was still grappling with a few of the roaches. It took much too long for her and the remaining two clones to put the rest down, and by the time she was able to think about what had happened she wasn't in the best shape herself.

One of her eyes was swelling shut from being repeatedly smacked my a roach fist, she had scratches and cuts all over, and she was pretty sure one of her ears ws bleeding for some reason. It was a little hard to hear on that side. Still, she rounded up the other two hers and headed for the blown open door, where smoke was puffing out of.

"You two come with me! We're going to find him!"

ripping off a good portion of her shirt at the waist, she tied it around her nose and mouth, instructing her clones to do they same. Then she headed down into the darkness, fishing out her phone to use the flashlight function to see.

It was easy to figure out which way to go once inside. She could hear other voices echoing down the hall. There were more people in there? Hurrying, she found the room the bomb had gone off in pretty quickly. It was a mess inside... apparently there had been quite a few people before, only a few survivors now. She directed the two clones to try and get a few of the survivors out , while she hunted around for her dad.

Eventually she found him tucked behind some debris. He was out, but breathing. She cursed under her breath and set to gathering him up so she could get him over her shoulders in a fireman's carry, and then out of the smoke filled room. She made it halfway down the hall before her clones managed to get the few survivors out, and they were able to help her get him out the rest of the way.

Thinking ahead, she hand one clone branch off to find the hammer he had brought, and run off with it. She didn't need anyone connecting the dots and getting this dad sent to prison as well. One was enough.

Once everyone was outside she dropped to her knees beside the prone form of her dad and used her phone to call for 911. She waited with everyone until sirens could be heard, before ultimately bolting herself.

... She wasn't a fan of cops. Or any authority figure, really...

He remembered seeing it. The small package on the floor, debt chord running from it to the relatively large, but not Roach sized bug, it's finger on the trigger of a detonator. It wore a little hat, which it made a point of tipping to him before pressing the button in it's hand.

He'd been forced to think fast, grabbing the hands of two of the closest downed figures on the way, added force propelling his movements behind a cement wall. There there was a deafening blast. He used his reflex to absorb some of it, but it was too much. The last thing he remembered was feeling a massive punch to the face.

---

He passed in an out of consciousness, trying to move or speak, but failing each time. Still, he knew he was safe. He'd hard her voice, felt her carry him. His daughter was there. She really was getting so strong. He was starting to come to by the time she bolted off. A quick glance down to himself found that he definitely had some shrapnel wounds, the familiar pounding in his head told time he was likely concussed. He tried to stand as he heard sirens come near.

He had to get to Shelby in time. Had to save her. He made it halfway up before everything went blurry, the pounding in his head became overwhelming, and he passed out before he hit the ground.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of helplessness. Feeling small.

Fifteen minutes of hell.

The quarter of an hour felt like an eternity of being tossed about and walloped by several versions of the woman he'd tormented for years. Still, he clung to life. He struggled, and dodged, and made sacrifices. He refused to die. By the time the limit ran out, and he appeared back on the floor of the shady safehouse he was a broken bug. He had one chest arm left, both of his main arms were torn off, one at the elbow, one at the shoulder. His face was bent in sideways, dripping blood and goo. He struggled to his feet, wheezing and spitting as he went.

The bug sat on the floor in front of the painting for a while, staring at the wall. A thousand thoughts echoed around his head, whispers, impulses, voices of reason and insanity. Soon, though, they all coalesced into one great idea.

It was over.

He was no more. Maybe... Maybe it was time to find a nice place to die.

Could he take her out with him? No... The truth in all of this was that he had made her too strong. He would fail, just as he had here. She was not plain. She was a masterpiece. His Swan Song. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if to prevent the trail of tears that his eyes could not cry. Never would he be given that relief.

There was only one relief left for him.

He slowly climbed to his feet.

After Megan had collected herself and what was left of her bike, she had headed for the school. She'd arrived too late, or course, so it was off to skulk around the people who most often hung around the artist, until she heard where the girl had gone. Whether she was alive or dead she didn't know for a few hours. She heard word about the x-man sooner, but he wouldn't be up for a while.

When she finally stumbled upon information of what had happened to the pink haired woman, it took a bit of sleuthing to tract down the building Roach had used before the police arrived and quarantined the scene.

Parts of the big bug littered the floor. Pieces of arm, antennae, some that looked like mouth parts. The spider mutant gave the painting in the middle of the room a quick once over before moving on. Looked like the unassuming artist had taken matters into her own hands for once, and rather successfully too.

But... where was Roach? There was a distinct lack of the rest of him. He wasn't dead then.

Yet.

She racked her brain for a moment, sending out scouts to patrol the area for any signs if the mutant. After a short, fruitless search she thought back to her meeting with him earlier in the night.

Home.

He'd wanted her to go home with him. For things to go back to how they had been before. If he had gone anywhere, chances were high the injured bug would have gone home to the apartment across the street from where his empire had all started. She left as quietly as she came in, leaving the painting room undisturbed.

--

When she arrived at the old apartment she paused outside the door. It was open... but, he had never really needed to fear anyone being stupid enough to try and trespass anyway. A few steps in and she noticed that it had hardly changed from the last time she had seen it. The same old stains were still on the carpet and ceiling. There was still webs in the corners... though they were dusty cobwebs now. The furniture was still in the same position, though a little more worn. The TV was still across the room against the wall, exactly where it had been when they had used to sit and watch shows together.

Blood streaks and dribbles stained the carpet from the welcome mat outside into the carpeted entryway. It was fresh... he was here. Her fingers curled around the revolver in her hands.

It was the same one Roach had shot her with hours before.

He wasn't hard to find.

Soon after she opened the door, he stumbled in, and sat on the couch, a tea cup in his last existing hand. He slowly put it down, and used the little chest hand to pick up the remote.

-click-

He turned it on, and wheezed out a cough, one of his palps falling into the ground. He paid it no mind. He was too busy turning it to looney tunes. He'd always been fond of the old classics. The weak hand dropped the remote, and reached for the tea, knocking it over. He looked down at it, and sighed, causing bubbles to form in front of his maw.

"It... THHHKKK... Can't go BcHBack... NNNg...Do... Do you misshk it? SittingHKK... Together... Careless.... I HCGKH... I do...I wonder" He hacked again, his little arm trying to cover his mouth. "What would, hnnnn, it have been like... Ifhg... You'd stayghed." His one good eye stared at the cartoons, chuckling as Wiley Coyote fell off a cliff.

"Won't...hk... Be coming backgn... I loved HKGN... I loved you." He felt tired. So tired. He slowly looked over to her, his head wobbling unsteadily. "So... So Sorry. For... Me." He looked back to the tv once more.

He was still. Sitting there. Calm. Maybe even dead already. One final laugh as an anvil fell from the sky.


"Heh."

And there he was.

He was in bad shape. Falling to pieces before her very eyes... and yet still trying to stumble around like normal. She watched him for just a moment, evaluating his condition and movements, before she stepped in further and sat down beside him. Just like she had used to. She turned blue eyes to the TV, monitoring him fro the little blue eyes she had grown across her forehead.

"It... THHHKKK... Can't go BcHBack... NNNg...Do... Do you misshk it? SittingHKK... Together... Careless.... I HCGKH... I do...I wonder. What would, hnnnn, it have been like... Ifhg... You'd stayghed."

She nodded slightly, one arm draped across the back of the couch and partially behind him. "I do." She said simply. The duck on the screen shouted something in annoyance. A carrot exploded in his face. Melancholy settled behind her ribs, around her heart that this very same Roach had once stopped with his hands a long time ago in a dream.

"Won't...hk... Be coming backgn... I loved HKGN... I loved you."

She turned her chin to him, blue eyes meeting his own good one. "I loved you too." Her heart clenched, but she forged on.

"So... So Sorry. For... Me."

She pushed herself back to her feet, standing to block his view of the TV. Megan leaned in as music sprang to life in the background as the cartoon went on, curling her hand around the portion of his cheek that wasn't ruined and pressing her lips between his eyes. After a brief kiss, she pulled back slightly to press her forehead against his and a single tear dripped down her cheek onto him.

"Goodbye, Gregory." Puling back, she rounded his side of the couch as she fiddled with the revolver in her hands. It clicked a few times as she readied it. The barrel hovered directly behind his head when she was in position.

"I will always remember you old friend."

click

CRACK



[End]