Begin Arc 4: Exorcism
In the heart of Center City, I stand rooted to the sidewalk, an observer in a world that seems both familiar and alien. The building before me, a monolith of glass and steel, pierces the sky with its sharp angles and gleaming surfaces. It's the kind of structure that speaks of power and prestige, a far cry from the streets and shadowed rooftops I'm used to. Here, in this world of high-powered executives and big-shot lawyers, I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece - a teenage superhero lost in a sea of suits and ties.
Clutching my phone, I replay the last footage of Liberty Belle, over and over, my thumb mechanically pausing the video just before the fight erupts. In these brief clips, she's still alive, still a part of this world. It's a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm her death has left in my life. Each time the video loops back, a part of me hopes for a different ending, one where she walks away unscathed. I keep hoping she'll turn to the screen and tell me to stop watching, or that Chernobyl will finish his monologue a different way, and walk off into the sunset.
It never happens.
"I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream", by the way? Brutal story. I read it and it just made me cry. I hated it.
Taking a deep breath, the winter air bites at my lungs, a sharp reminder of the season's chill. My eyes drop to the invitation clutched in my other hand. It's formal, the kind of heavy paper that you keep in a drawer and forget about. Certified mail, stamped and solemn. It doesn't make sense. I didn't know Liberty Belle that well, not really.
The idea that after knowing her for, like, half a year - she'd put me in her will for that? It makes me uncomfortable. A different kind of uncomfortable compared to this building.
The snow, just beginning to accumulate, dusts the sidewalk with a delicate layer of white. It's almost pretty, in a stark, clean way. I pull my coat tighter around me, the fabric rustling against the layers underneath. I feel awkward and out of place, not just because of the upscale setting, but because of everything - the loss, the uncertainty, the gaping hole that Belle's death has left in the world. Left in me.
I move forward, my steps hesitant. My boots leave faint impressions in the fresh snow, quickly filled up with more. Approaching the building's entrance, the weight of expectation feels heavy on my shoulders. The lobby looms before me, as intimidating as the building's facade, with marble floors that gleam under the soft lighting, high ceilings that stretch endlessly upward, and an atmosphere heavy with hushed tones and unspoken wealth.
I glance around, taking in the expansive space. The quiet here isn't just the absence of noise; it's a cultivated stillness that muffles sound and commands a certain decorum - fancy word for 'attitude'. I feel conspicuously young and out of place, my sundress and blouse, hastily covered with winter layers, feeling inadequate and childlike amidst the refined surroundings. The outfit, the nicest I had, screams 'imposter' in this world of polished shoes and tailored suits. People shuffle by me and I can't help but feel their eyes on me. It makes me want to start screaming.
Checking the directory, I scan through the list of names until I find the law firm's entry - "Goldman, Reid & Miller." The name Zhang is just one among many associates listed, a small part of this grand legal machine.
I move towards the security desk, the marble floor cool and unyielding beneath my boots. The guard, dressed in a crisp uniform, eyes me with a blend of curiosity and indifference. The pen I'm handed to sign in feels too heavy, too elegant for my clumsy fingers. It glides across the paper, leaving a trail of dark ink that somehow makes this all seem more real. The guard, a stoic figure in a neatly pressed uniform, gives me a cursory glance. It's a look that says I don't quite belong, but he says nothing, simply handing me a visitor badge and gesturing towards the elevators.
The elevator awaits, its doors sliding open with a soft whisper. I step inside, the mirrored walls reflecting back a girl who looks lost, dwarfed by the size of what lies ahead. As the doors close, sealing me in a quiet, moving tomb, I'm left alone with my thoughts - a tumultuous sea of memories, fears, flowers, and the echoing absence of Liberty Belle. The elevator ascends, each floor bringing me closer to an unknown that I'm not sure I'm ready to face.
Boy, I need a therapist again.
The elevator dings softly, its doors sliding open to reveal a hallway that's just as intimidating as the lobby below. Plush carpet cushions my steps, muffling the sound of my approach. The walls are adorned with framed art, abstract pieces that seem both expensive and impersonal. Doors line the hallway, each with frosted glass and brass nameplates shining under the subtle lighting. I read the names, wondering about the stories behind each one.
I anxiously search for the right door, my heart racing with a mix of dread and curiosity. Taking a deep breath, I push it open and step inside.
The conference room is a stark contrast to the grandeur outside. It's spacious yet functional, dominated by a large, polished table surrounded by high-backed chairs. The room feels more like a place for decisive meetings than intimate discussions. There's an air of solemnity, as if the walls themselves are braced for the weight of legal verdicts and life-altering decisions.
One wall is mostly glass, offering a view of the city below. The bustling streets and distant buildings seem oblivious to the significance of what's happening here. I get lost for a moment, taking in the cityscape as a brief break from all my inner turmoil, watching the falling snow.
When I turn back to the room, I notice how meticulously everything is arranged. The table is empty except for a stack of papers and some pens lined up with almost obsessive precision. On a side table, there's a pitcher of water and a whole bunch of glasses, suggesting a long meeting ahead.
I choose a seat, feeling the cool leather against the fabric of my dress. I straighten out the fabric, but it doesn't do much to calm down my racing heart. This room is so intimidating and formal, a complete contrast to the chaotic streets I usually find myself in.
Just as I start to settle in, the door opens again, and in walks Laura Zhang, the lady indicated on the letter I received. She's younger than I expected, and her professional outfit can't hide the slight uneasiness in her posture. It's obvious that dealing with superheroes and their crazy lives isn't something she's used to.
"Ms. Small? I'm Laura Zhang," she introduces herself, her voice steady but her eyes showing a hint of curiosity. "Thanks for coming. You're… early."
"It's a Saturday, Hannukkah is over, and I don't have much else to do," I reply.
"Fair enough," she responds, walking around the table, ensuring everything is in order.
Zhang takes a seat at the head of the table, arranging her papers with great care. There's a moment of silence, only broken by the distant sounds of the city. I glance around the room again, taking in the simplicity and formality of it all. It feels like a dream being here, about to hear the final wishes of someone I hardly knew, not in the way you know another person, but who had such a huge impact on my life. I keep expecting Belle to walk through that door, taking control with her presence. But she won't. And just that thought alone tightens the knot in my chest.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, each one feeling longer than the last. I arrived first thing in the morning, not sure what to expect, and now I'm just… sitting here, dying a little inside with each passing second. The room feels too big, too empty, with just me and Laura Zhang, who's busying herself with papers and a laptop, probably trying to look more occupied than she really is.
I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with a barrage of notifications. Texts from loved ones, friends who don't wear capes or masks, messages tinged with concern and the awkwardness of people not sure what to say in the face of grief. I reply with as few words as possible, not really in the mood to explain how I feel. 'I'm fine,' I type out over and over, an automatic response that's far from the truth.
My thumb idly swipes through news feeds, but I can't focus. Everything feels distant, like I'm looking at the world through a fogged-up window. I keep expecting to see Belle's name pop up in the headlines, some story about her final heroic act, but there's nothing. It's like the world has already moved on.
The door to the conference room opens intermittently, admitting people one or two at a time. Each arrival pulls me out of my daze, my eyes flicking up to see who it is.
First, it's a couple of Belle's former teammates from the Delaware Valley Defenders - Bulwark and Multiplex. They give me a nod as they take their seats, their expressions somber, their usual vibrant energy subdued. They don't say much, just exchange a few quiet words with Zhang. Fury Forge comes in a couple of minutes later, looking a little bit sweaty and out of breath. I think she ran.
"Are you okay, Sam?" pops up on my screen from Lily. I type back a quick "Yeah, just at this will thing. NBD." But it is a big deal, and my heart's racing with every new arrival.
A tall woman with steel-gray hair and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing - she must be someone important, maybe government. There's an older guy, his face rugged, like he's seen a lot of life. He has a detective's vibe, maybe a cop from Belle's past. And there's a man who seems out of place, his gaze distant, like he's carrying a heavy burden. Is he a former colleague of Belle's, or something more?
Puppeteer shows up just before the time listed on the envelope I received - exactly fifteen minutes prior, actually. I'm not exactly surprised to see her here. It wasn't a secret that she was the person Belle was grooming for success before, well, she died. And the whole "Puppeteer institutionalizing herself" thing. She's dressed up in a suit and tie, with her hair pulled all the way back. It looks oddly compelling on her.
Clara and Jamal arrive, joined at the hip, shortly thereafter. Clara has the most mean mug I've ever seen on her in my life, like she's got her game face on, but I think that's just a natural consequence of being in another lawyer's territory. And Jamal looks… haggard. Tired. Sunken. Given his general confident vibe that he's expressed every other day before this, I get the feeling that the past week and a half have been unfriendly to him, to say the least.
I keep watching the door, half expecting more people, but it seems like this is it. The room is a blend of power, authority, and mystery. I find myself trying to piece together how they all fit into Belle's life, but it's like trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.
Zhang clears her throat, bringing the room to attention. "Thank you all for coming," she starts, her voice steady but lacking the confidence that probably comes with more experience. "We are here to read the last will and testament of Diane Williams, known to many of you as Liberty Belle."
As she speaks, I glance around the room, catching snippets of reactions. Some nod solemnly, others simply listen, their faces unreadable. I feel like an intruder in this world of legal formalities and unspoken histories, clutching my phone like a lifeline, the only thing keeping me anchored as I brace myself for what's to come.
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Laura Zhang shuffles the papers in front of her, a solemn expression etched on her face. The room falls silent, every pair of eyes fixed on her. She clears her throat, beginning the formal reading of the will. Her voice is steady, but I can sense the undercurrent of nervousness.
"I, Diane Williams, known professionally as Liberty Belle, a resident of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen years, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me." she begins, her words echoing slightly in the quiet room.
The atmosphere feels heavy, each word laden with finality. Zhang proceeds through the initial legal formalities, her voice a steady drone that seems almost disconnected from the gravity of the words she's speaking. I'm trying so hard to pay attention - executors of the estate, preferences for burial - but it all smears together into a thick, molasses-like blur.
Then, she starts getting to names, and my ability to pay attention snaps back into place like a rubber band.
"For Akilah Washington, known as Puppeteer," Zhang reads, "Diane Williams bequeaths a sum of one hundred thousand dollars, in recognition of her dedication and service as a protégé and valued member of the Young Defenders." Akilah's face registers shock, then a complex mix of emotions - gratitude, sorrow, and a deep sense of responsibility. This was more than just money; it was a testament to Belle's trust and belief in her.
"To the Young Defenders, a sum of one hundred thousand dollars is to be allocated for the funding of activities and equipment, to be managed by Clarissa Parker or an individual she deems suitable." The members of the Delaware Valley Defenders nod in solemn approval, recognizing Belle's commitment to nurturing the next generation of heroes.
"The remaining two hundred thousand dollars of her estate are to be donated to various charities and food kitchens in North Philadelphia, a cause close to Ms. Williams' heart. The specific charities and food kitchens to be donated to is under the discretion of Clarissa Parker or an individual she deems suitable." The generosity of the gesture summons a choir of contemplative nods.
Zhang continues, "In addition to monetary bequests, Diane Williams leaves behind several personal items to be distributed as follows: To Martin Kline, she leaves her literature collection. To Joshua Pleasants, known professionally as Miasma, she leaves the keys to her personal lockbox, as well as the lockbox and its contents. To the Superhero Museum of Philadelphia, she leaves her costumes, as well as the unfinished manuscript to her memoir." As each name is called and each item allocated, the room fills with a sense of legacy, of a life lived with intention and purpose. Each bequest is a piece of Belle, a memory, a shared moment, a nod to a relationship that meant something to her.
"To the members of the Delaware Valley Defenders, both civilian and superhero associates, she bequeaths the remainder of her personal effects, to be distributed at the discretion of Elijah Brooks, known professionally as Multiplex. This includes any items not specifically allocated within this will," she continues. Then, Zhang's voice calls my name, and my heartrate spikes. "To Samantha Small, also known as Bloodhound, I bequeath all my documentation and materials related to my investigative work, including my detective and surveillance equipment."
Whispers flutter around the room like disturbed birds. Why me? I barely knew her. But Belle trusted me with this, her life's work. It's overwhelming.
The room remains still as Zhang reads out the rest of the bequests, but I can feel the undercurrent of surprise and curiosity at the announcement of my inheritance. The whispers are subtle, the expressions a mix of confusion and speculation. Why me? It's a question that seems to hang in the air, unanswered.
As the reading concludes, Zhang adds, "Ms. Williams also left a personal letter for Ms. Small, to be read privately after the conclusion of the reading."
I blink, taken aback. A letter? For me? My heart races. What could she have wanted to say? I barely even notice as it ends up in my hands.
Laura speaks up, her voice clear and composed, maintaining her professional demeanor. "Should there be any concerns or queries regarding the contents of the will, I encourage you to schedule a private appointment with our firm. We are committed to ensuring that Diane Williams' final wishes are honored in accordance with legal standards."
And at that, people begin filing out.