After that, Tori and I spend some time just chatting. Nothing big—no plans of attack, no discussion of future targets, no “where do we go from here”—just talking about what we do, who we are. As suspected, she does work in the tech industry (she describes herself as an “IT grunt on the frontline of customer stupidity”), working for a big company. I admit I’m a student and that I’ve never really had a job, apart from some babysitting on a Wednesday evening, which gives me just enough to keep me in the essentials.
Lol. Maybe, when you’re a rich psychologist with a string of letters after your name and we’re living in a massive mansion, we’ll look back at this time fondly, eh?
Haha with our millions of cats around us
Damn straight. I want an army of cats.
Imagine it—no one would be spared our wrath!
I can’t help but smile—a deep, secret smile that I don’t think I’ve ever shared with anyone before.
Man, we would lay waste to the world. Tremble before us, humanity, for we march with our cats and our devastating wit.
You know it!
By now I’ve munched through two Bounties and a Mars bar, but it isn’t the same as having a proper tea. I don’t really want to stop our momentum, but my stomach is growling in a most threatening way, so I tell her I’ll brb and grab some toast. The sugar from the chocolate buzzes through me, and before I go back up to my haven, I pop my head round the living room door.
“Hey, Mum. You want some toast? You know you should eat when you take your meds.”
She smiles slowly, like a stoner after a particularly potent bong hit. “Yeah. That would be nice. Some toast.”
I offer her a slice.
She takes a mechanical bite, her attention fixed back on the TV.
I hover for a second, but no, that’s all, folks. Good night, and God bless.
***
Back upstairs, Tori is waiting for me.
She’s gone back to picking out new victims for us to torment. At the bottom of the thread, there’s a link to a Facebook profile. We don’t usually bother with Facebook—there’s not much point in baiting a bunch of middle-aged Pinterest fanciers who think a meme is the height of mindfulness—so it’s a surprise that she’s sinking that low.
I munch on my toast and click the link, and then almost choke when I realize whose profile it is.
Tori Heidegger
It’s hers. It’s Tori’s.
She trusts me enough to share her Facebook profile with me.
I know it sounds silly—pathetic, even, but tears spring to my eyes.
This is literally the best thing ever.
She trusts me. Even though I lied to her about my name.
She trusts me.
***
I feast on photos. I literally gorge myself on them. There aren’t many of Tori herself—she’s a bit like me in stuffing her photo albums with things she likes and finds funny, rather than selfies, but from the few that I do find, she’s everything I expected. Everything I wanted.
I can’t click the “add friend” button quickly enough.
It doesn’t take long for me to get a response.
Messenger chimes, and it’s her, really her, in the flesh.
You found me then?
Yup! I love that pic of you with that cute cat.
Oh, that’s Kiki.
She’s my soulmate.
She might look cute, but she is a hellbeast in disguise. ;)
. . . Tori is typing . . .
. . . Tori is typing . . .
. . . Tori is typing . . .
Hard to talk here. MC?
Oh, fuck, yes.
I log back in to Metachat and send Tori my key—she’s there within milliseconds.
That’s better.
Feels so exposed otherwise.
Feds looking over our shoulders, you know?
I know what you mean. They record every conversation.
And they follow you around the web. All those targeted ads.
Ha—one word for you my friend: encryption!
Lol—you serious? You think I’ve got this far without some kickass encryption?
Ahh, touche. I’m just teasing you.
And off we go. We talk about encryption programs and alter egos and the latest edition of The Banshee and Midnight Jim (I mean, come on! I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone else who liked The Banshee outside of the community! Whenever I mentioned it at school, I’d just get blank looks—BUT SHE KNOWS! She’s read it from the start!) and Aeon Valhalla and how cute Sable is (although she says she prefers Tirra, which I can totally see, as she’s a ninja babe) and TV and life and the universe and everything, like we’ve know each other for years.
Every now and again, I flip open her Facebook page and look at her picture. She has amazingly dark shiny hair and these gorgeous hazel eyes. She’s a little on the chubby side, but I like that, because to outsiders, she’s just like me. Obviously I don’t think she’s fugly, I think she’s the opposite, but some people just can’t get past the sight of an ample bottom or a wobbly upper arm.
But then again, it’s that kind of crap that has driven us together. Without that, would I have even met her? Doubtful.
I wonder if it would be weird to nick one of her photos and save it on my hard drive. Yeah, that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Without her knowing? No, mustn’t be weird. Is she thinking the same about me? Shit. What if she’s looking through my profile and she sees those awful pictures Auntie Sadie tagged me into when I was her bridesmaid three years ago? Fuck, I begged her to take those down, but she just laughed and told me they’re lovely, you look really cute. I don’t want to look cute, I want to look cool, which is why the only pictures of me that I have personally posted involved either a) only my eyes up or b) me hiding behind things that obscure most of me, and even then I bury them amongst stupid pictures of things that make me laugh. Which is also exactly what Tori does. Oh my God. We’re so compatible. Same sense of humor and everything. I have a funny feeling that if we met in real life, the world would probably explode due to our combined awesomeness.
I never believed in soulmates before.
I do now.
***
Omg! Have you seen this? It’s so cool! Who thought to draw fan art of Sable and the Banshee together? I think the internet is trying to break me! ♥♥
She sends me the picture, and I blush, because it’s one of mine. She’s found it. Talk about cosmic coincidences. Do I tell her? Or just leave it? But I can’t gush over my own work. And she must really like it, because she has no idea that I actually drew it. Fuck. I don’t think this has ever actually happened before.
Uh, me, actually.
I drew that, like, a year and a half ago.
Get the fuck out of town!
You’re TheBanshee99?
Fucking *seriously*??????
In the flesh. *sheepish grin*
I used to do shit like that all the time.
Haven’t drawn much recently, tho.
Here, I’ll send you the initial sketch.
I colored it in photoshop.
I search through my all-but-forgotten art files and find the scan. To me it looks pretty amateurish, but if Tori likes it . . . I attach it to the message and send.
Whoa!
I mean, I believed you before, but now no one can deny it. That kicks ass! You’ve totally got Banshee down to a tee.
I’m really impressed!
I can’t help but smile. No one has ever complimented me this way, and it feels weird and awkward, but mainly good, so good I have to hold myself back from sending her the entire folder of vaguely embarrassing sketches.
We continue chatting until past midnight. In that time, we also identify some new targets and plan the virtual assassination of some older ones. By the time I log off, my whole body is thrumming.
Tori.
She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. While I am talking to her, I’m not worrying about food, or Mum, or what Brat’s up to, or how I’m going to finish my next assignment. It’s just us, in our own little world. No one can touch us.
I don’t think I can sleep. My head’s all over the place, and it’s a real challenge not to log back in to Facebook and spend the rest of the night going through Tori’s page again. Does that sound a bit obsessive? Probably. I need to sleep. I need to sleep. I need . . .
I wake up with a start. My arms feel tingly and I’m a bit cold. Judging by the gray light filtering through my blinds, it’s still early. I check my phone. 6:12 a.m. Ugh. Five hours of sleep, if that. Today is going to be hell.
Or maybe not. I glance at my laptop and smile. Because after lectures, I can log in and get lost in my happy place. I grin to myself as I check my messages. Any from Tori? Of course not. She would have gone to bed too. She has work today, but she’ll be back by six, she said so—
Hey, Beth! Hope to see u tomoz. Got tix for u just in case. Hope thats ok! Axxxxx
Crap, I’d forgotten about Amy. I’d forgotten she’d asked me if I’d like to go out for the evening. Can I blow her off? I could. There’s no rule that says I can’t. But I would feel a bit bad bailing on her. She’s even bought me a ticket. I can’t let her down. Can I? As I dither, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been so in demand before.
I don’t text Amy back. Not yet, anyway. Texting back at a quarter past six in the morning smacks of desperation. Anyway, I’ll see her later today, won’t I?
I pick out some leggings (black) and dig out one of my oversized jumpers (also black). I don’t fret too much about what I’m going to wear. Why bother? No one who matters is going to see me. Plus, I like black. It’s a safe color. First lecture is at nine, so I wolf down some toast, check on Mum, yell at Brat to get up (yeah, I know, like that’s going to happen), and rush out to get my bus. My head’s so full of imagined conversations that I don’t even feel the familiar twinge of dread that usually comes from squeezing down the bus aisle to find a seat. Bottom-fondlers are forgotten. Nothing is going to get me down.
I space-walk off the bus and down the road toward uni. Outside, I hear a squeak; it’s Amy, waiting for me. She waves furiously, grinning from ear to ear. I grin back, which is a first for me. Usually, I wouldn’t dare for fear of The Chins, but today I genuinely don’t care.
“Here you go!” Amy flourishes a badly printed piece of card at me. I take it from her.
“Disaster Zone. Interesting name for a club,” I say.
“I know, cool, right?”
There’s an awkward pause. I haven’t actually confirmed whether I’m going or not yet, but now that she’s given me the ticket, I kind of feel trapped. Some of the warm, fuzzy feeling leaks away, making room for the more normal buzz of dread.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice.
“Aw, don’t worry about that.” Amy flaps a hand at me. “It wasn’t much.”
I really don’t know how to proceed from here. These really are uncharted waters. If she won’t let me pay, then I really don’t have an excuse not to go.
She ignores me and jabbers on about how much fun we’re going to have, so much fun, fun fun fun, as if she’s trying to convince herself. I just nod helplessly and stuff the ticket into my purse, vowing that I’ll give it an hour and then make my excuses.
After lectures we go back to Amy’s for lunch. Patrick the Bear is thankfully out. I don’t think I’m up to dealing with him right now, and I’m too scared to ask Amy if he’s coming to Disaster Zone tonight. A very pretty, very skinny student saunters into the kitchen to make herself a coffee at one point; Amy welcomes her with her trademark enthusiasm, introducing her as Dizzy. She offers Amy a smile that may as well be a sneer and completely ignores me.
“Oh, and Amy,” she says in a slightly plummy accent. “Don’t forget the milk next time you buy groceries.”
Amy blinks and nods tightly. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Hate relying on Coffee-Mate. Feel like I’ve been to a fucking food bank. And don’t get the crap supermarket stuff. God knows what they pump into that. Makes me break out. Organic.” She takes a sip of her coffee and pulls a face, as if that makes her point.
“Oh. All right,” Amy says, and I feel my insides scrunch up as I try not to scowl at Dizzy. Who does she think she is? Actually, I know exactly who she thinks she is. Posh bitch, used to getting her own way, but not bright enough (and Daddy not quite rich enough) to get into one of the better universities, so she’s slumming it here. Then it’s off to whatever internship Daddy can secure her, but before that, it’s all snooty glances and pushing around the little people to get what she wants, not because she’s trying to be nasty but simply because that entitlement has been bred into her. My palms itch. Well, love, there’s one great leveler . . .
“What’s her full name?” I ask Amy.
“Uh, Denise Reitman. She’s from Guildford, I think. I haven’t really talked to her much, but she’s kind of like our floor’s den mother, always reminding us to make sure we clear up after ourselves, or to get the milk—”
“Whilst never doing any of those things herself, I bet,” I can’t help interjecting.
“Uh, well, you know, she’s not that messy, and . . .” She trails off, her fingers clenching and unclenching from around her mug.
“Yeah. Whatever. You do know you don’t have to listen to her, right?”
“Yeah, I know, but, you know, for an easy life and everything.”
It’s weird how angry this makes me. Dizzy has clearly picked up on Amy’s I don’t care what you do—just love me! vibe and is exploiting it up to the hilt. I doubt she talks to the rugby twat like that.
It’s a shame I’m not the kind of person who’s good at standing up for other people. But since I’m not, I can do the next best thing.
Denise Reitman, beware the infamous MidnightBanshee and all of her various heads. She’s a fucking hydra, and if you don’t tread carefully she is going to eat you alive.