Three days ago. The plane.
Vic's hair whipped her cheeks. She held onto the straps keeping the cargo down as she looked out of the door open to her. She watched as they crossed over the shore, the destroyed landscape of Atlas City looking so insignificant from up on high. She fumbled with the business card in her hand. She thought the decision over, and came to a conclusion with a definitive crack of her neck.
"United we stand, divided we... fall," she muttered, and dropped 38, 000 feet.
A breeze swept across Atlas beach, ripping at expensive SINS suits and pushing back the sands to reveal the decay beneath. It came to an unnatural halt a hundred feet from the pier, before the imprint of a decaying shotgun. An agent crouched over the scene of the crime, when his breath shortened. He spluttered in confusion, pawing at his throat, unable to speak as his face turned blue. A good half a minute later, Vic walked up and kicked the unconscious man over. She took his place over the body that had his attention, a corpse of both shriveled, mummified flesh and corroded metal. Armless.
Vic's knees sunk into the sand. She stuck her lover's arms in the ground like some fucked up grave marker and watched the waves rolling in.
"Wil... ma..." The name came out of her mouth with the melody of a creaky see-saw. "Will... you... Wilma, will... ya?" She cleared her throat and let her head bob between her knees. "Shit..."
Then she drove her hand through Wilma's head.
It wasn't hard, the metal practically disintegrated when she jabbed her fingers in there, and the biomass had been eaten away. Sweat pooled on Vic's forehead as she felt around inside of her hardware - when she pulled back, something clutched in her hand. She exclaimed in surprise, not expecting to retrieve what she'd scavenged from her manager's corpse: a hexagonal chip, coated in black metal and attached to a fraying wire. Vic's other hand snatched at it as if to steal it from herself and clutched it against her chest. The agents were shouting and coming over. She gave Wilma's soulless vessel one last look, and disappeared, blasting sand into the faces of the approaching SINS agents.
Vic reappeared in her empty apartment. Everything was the same as she'd left it. White sheets over unused furniture. Hermit crabs peacefully nibbling away at dried mealworms. Jemma-bag poking out from beneath the armchair. The only tell that there had been a giant monster attack were the cracks in her windows.
Her first stop was the hermit crab enclosure. "Oh, lads..." she sighed in relief, scooping them up into her hands. If she had really been kidnapped...
"Anastasia," she called out next, "Entrance music. No. Cry little bitch - no." She paused, gnawing on her tongue. "Anastasia, shuffle It's Sunday."
Vic laid on her back in the middle of the floor and lit up a joint, Wilma's chip resting next to her head and Freddy and Pinhead crawling over her chest. She blew out a great, foul-smelling cloud and stared up at the ceiling, waiting to cry.
Well, she waited. It was about fucking time for the mental breakdown to happen. In the quiet, in this calm. With nobody else to witness her but the air. Alone, where people supposedly showed their true selves. She couldn't cry.
... Had she already wasted the only tears that she -
"FUCK!" Vic suddenly shouted, slamming her fist down. A blast of air flung the glass coffee table up and smashed it against the wall. Vic stared over at what she had done. She picked the hermit crabs off her shirt to approach the thousands of glass shards. The music seemed to get louder.
Something snapped. It was the cord holding that stupid piece of modern art over her living room. Metal and glass rained down over the white untouched sheets in an almighty CRASH. Vic's mouth parted for a furious battle cry as she charged in, declaring war on her apartment. On the stupid sheets covering the furniture she never bought or chose. On the stupid empty refrigerator. On the calendar with all her radio spots and event dates written by her. On the bed she used to push her onto. On the kitchen cabinets she did the same with. And the breakfast bar. And the shower. And every damn thing.
All culminating in Cold Front's cold, robotic members smashing their instruments over the wasteland. Vic collapsed in a huff, throwing the drumsticks over her shoulder, and looked over at the mess her hermit crabs navigated.
"Good... set... guys..." she panted, and flopped onto her back, crunching on glass. She wiped a hand down her face and let out an exhausted laugh. The high slowly died.
What was it that George said, right before she left. That came to mind. Didn't know why, but after you trash your apartment you're left with a nasty sense of clarity that tries to figure out your next move before you're ready to get up. Whatever you want... I will make sure you have it. She chuckled darkly at the thought.
"Yeah, and what do you want, asshole," she grunted, propping herself up on her bloody elbows to look over at her powered down bandmates.
They had labels. Slapped on them with worn-out masking tape. Zach, Rudy, and Dipshit.
"He can't change history."