Scene 2.3 Trust (Darla & Knight)
Knight Manor was a big, cavernous place. It would have taken a castle's staff to fill it, to match the hustle and bustle Darla had been used to at home. It was strange, to be somewhere so familiar and yet even grander than she was used to. None of the others had tasted wealth on this scale, but Darla figured she was the closest. But in an odd inversion, the ostentatious wealth of the Knights was merely a backdrop to the emptiness of the place. Mansions, she thought, were supposed to have people in them.
People coming in at all hours and keeping an eye on her head back home had given her a sixth sense for when the servants were away, though, and that apparently still worked even when there were so few of them. Darla had made good use of that sense to find a moment when CL30 was off running an errand elsewhere; Spellweaver was impossible to gauge by mortal means, but she was fairly sure that he was tied up talking builds with Overheat in the library. (Not that that was any guarantee, given his apparently nonlinear nature.) That meant that Mr. Knight was probably alone, since there was no training in the schedule.
It was just a matter of finding the guy, in one of the many, many rooms that they hadn't yet seen.
Eventually her search took her down a branching hallway around the corner from which she could hear a muffled cursing and rattling. There was the soft whir of his wheelchair's motor, and then silence, followed by more cursing.
Found him.
This was kind of sad, Darla thought, before catching the thought and rumpling it up like a balled-up piece of paper in her head. He probably didn't want the pity.
"Uh, Mr. Knight…?" She asked, rounding the corner. "You playing bumper cars over here?"
"Yup," came the overly cheery reply through gritted teeth. "It's bumper car clown central, and I'm winning."
Mr. Knight was out of his chair, half leaning on it and breathing heavily from the exertion. The cause was pretty obvious from a single glance - the rug that ran the length of the manor had folded into a snag, and caught one of the wheels of the chair.
Knight sucked in a breath and forcibly tried to lift the electric chair up and out of the way, a process that looked as slow as it was painful.
Darla stood there for a few moments, biting the inside of her lip, before walking forward at a brisk pace to help.
"I better get a sticker for this," she muttered, as she bent down to grab the other side of it. "Doesn't your robot maid have a phone or something?"
"Not gonna get her to come all the way out for - this!" Mr. Knight said, working in tandem with her. The wheel slid off the snag, and set down, finally, on the other side of the rug. Mr. Knight sank into it with a groan, leaning forward on his elbows for a moment.
"Thanks," he said after a moment. His face still looked a little pale, but his small, wry smile was the same as ever.
Darla felt her lips purse. A flash from another time and place - herself, barely six years old, screaming bloody murder over a skinned knee. She had not stopped until her father himself had come to soothe her, which had taken nearly twenty minutes because he'd been in an important meeting.
"Damn, what if you died or something," she intoned. "Stupid ass?"
"You're right, of course," he replied without missing a beat. "Stuck wheels are the leading cause of death among people my age. There's been talk of lobbying in the state capital specifically to try and address this critical issue. There's even been an announcement every night on the news channel: 'it's 9pm, do you know where your disabled superhero mentors are?' Catchy little jingle."
"We lose more ninety year olds that way," Darla snarks back. "Sorry for giving a fuck, old man."
"I think I can find it in me to forgive you for caring, given it's what I hoped for everyone in the first place," he said back. "Now, what were you doing in this area, anyway? This is the side of the manor reserved for stuffy old people parties. Which means, you know, it's the side of the manor reserved for testing out CL30's dusting routine and very little else, now."
"Oh yeah," she said, snapping her fingers. She took a cursory glance around to make sure they weren't being watched, but everyone had been accounted for already. "I was looking for you. Are you trans?"
Knight jerked suddenly to the side as his grip on the motorized wheelchair slipped.
"Wh-what?" He burst out, somewhere between shocked and amused. "Where on earth did that even come from?"
"Okay well Spellweaver was being a super diva in the puzzle room and being all like, ohhh, you don't know what Mr. Knight is hiding from you," she said, planting a hand on her hip. "Something something who is Carter who is Parker blah blah blah I love drama. So I picked up a genealogy book for the Knights because it was in there and there was a sister or something except there wasn't a sister in your story? So I was like, okay, maybe one of them transitioned. That seems, like, way more likely than some other soap opera bullshit."
Knight's brows furrowed together.
"Spellweaver…" he hissed in frustration, before forcing himself to calm down. The wheelchair buzzed as it continued down the hall. After a moment, he said, "No, I'm not trans. And I'm not actually sure you're supposed to ask that. Spellweaver likes to… stir the pot."
Darla kept step with him.
"Uh, yeah," she said. "You're not supposed to. But he sucks and if he was hoping for it to explode down the line now it's tooootally dead on arrival. Because I can ask people shit. Anyway, he's kinda fucking stupid for that. Oh, wow, you don't trust me enough to tell me all your family secrets? No shit, Sherlock, we met like three weeks ago."
Knight let out a dry chuckle.
"That's… mature of you. I… yes. I don't want to lie to you, so, somewhat paradoxically, I have to admit there are things I'm not telling you. And I'm sorry for that. Genuinely. I… was afraid if I mentioned it, you'd fear I was… I don't know, trying to entrap you, or something. That everything I've said so far has been a lie, and it's a trick, or something." He sighed. "It's true, our circumstances aren't… ideal. So the only thing I can do for that is admit that they're not, and tell you what I can, and hope you'll trust there's a good reason for the rest."
He glanced at Darla out of the corner of his eye. Darla's senses tugged and told her a surge of the usual feelings coming from Mr. Knight were rising. Guilt, regret, self-loathing… and deeper than that, a near bone-deep instinctual wariness. Like a man sitting calmly in a tank of piranhas, forcing his heartbeat steady.
She glanced back, and then looked away.
"I had my powers for like a month before everything went to shit," she said, eventually. "The empath shit I mentioned on the mission? First thing to come in. I guess because I spend so much time thinking about other people or something. Whatever. I can tell you my dad and his stupid cronies felt bad for lying to me or anyone else literally never."
He chuckled humorlessly.
"No, I'd imagine not. Might mess with his tough guy image." He hesitated, as if unsure if it was the right thing to say or not, and then finally added, "for whatever it's worth, he should have. Lying is one of those things you shouldn't have to get comfortable with, even if it's for your own survival, like secret identity stuff. Once you get comfortable, it gets hard to remember why you shouldn't."
"Yeah yeah whatever the point is that I know what bad people are like," she said, quickly, burying a vaguely uncomfortable feeling that was not going to get unpacked this century. "You don't even get mad at us, not really. Actually, even though I totally fucked that mission, even though Chip is the one that actually clutched it, even though I asked you a bunch of super private shit out of nowhere, even though I - I saw you lose to a carpet, you're still not mad at me."
He laughed, again, more real this time.
"If anything I should be trying to bribe you into silence so you never tell anyone what you saw, least of all CL30." the smile faded somewhat. "No, I guess… you haven't really seen me mad, before. To be blunt, I hope you never do. I don't really… like the person I am when I'm angry. And you didn't fuck that mission completely, you just- made some rookie mistakes. Everyone has some stumbles when they're first starting out."
"Right," she said. "That's not normal. Mistakes are annoying and it's normal to blow people up with your mind. Ugh!" She spun on her heel. "Stop being such a fucking doomer about this, okay? You're not betraying me, it's obvious, everyone can tell! Obviously there's some big thing that's going to happen and I'm sure it will be very dramatic, but I don't have a skill issue, so it will be fine."
"It's normal to blow people up with your mind. Source: you?" Knight asked, and then shook his head. "Being a doomer is… something that was trained into me. I want it to be fine, too. So, as long as we both want to continue to make this work, there shouldn't be a problem, right?"
He stopped in front of a door - a familiar one for Darla, the one that lead to the kitchen/dining room combo. He slammed the button next to the door, and then impatiently tried to open it himself to hurry it along its track as it slowly creaked open.
"Yeah, I guess," she mumbled, watching him struggle. It twisted something in her gut. A flash of another time and place - a destroyed bathroom, pummelled by fists that had kept going until they bled on jagged glass shards. Powerless, in the end. It hadn't made any difference. But it had put the feeling out, made it someone else's problem. Maybe that was bad guy talk, in which case it couldn't be helped.
She reached out and pulled the door open.
"Thanks," Mr. Knight grunted. Darla's empathy registered a wave of shame-frustration-bitterness, but it faded quickly as Mr. Knight seemed to push it aside deliberately. He drove into the room before forcing his tone lighter as he added, "hate those damn things. Take three fucking minutes to open a damn door. I know it's for safety, but I'm pretty sure I can safely open a door."
CL30 was in the kitchen area, putting away what looked to be shopping bags. "Good afternoon, Master Knight, Darla," she greeted in her usual cool tones.
Darla inclined her head towards the maid, but her head was elsewhere. Elaborate social equations were being solved and sorted away for later.
"Why don't you just cyberize your chair or something?" she said, finally. "Give it metal tentacle arms, make it your thing. They'll call you The Octogenarian."
Mr. Knight threw his head back and laughed, hard.
"I'll build it into a battle suit, become a mecha pilot," he said. "Get in the robot, Mr. Knight, or CL30 will have to do it for you."
CL30 cocked her head in confusion. Knight's laughter faded into genuine thoughtfulness.
Darla, who had been friends with two certifiable nerd losers for more than a year, recognized the cadence of a Nerd Reference. She hopped up to sit on one of the counters.
"Robot maid, mecha pilot?" she said, pointing an accusing finger. "Weeb spotted."
"I'd ask what you were doing at the Devil's Sacrament, but I think that might be a microaggression, given your powers," Mr. Knight said. His voice lacked the usual energy he'd put into the delivery, though, still far away in his thoughts. "CL30, I wanted to grab some of the cut fruit from breakfast."
"Right away, Master Knight," she replied without missing a beat. "Do you want anything, Darla? I've been trying to narrow down the food spreads at mealtime to each person's preferrences."
"Uh…" For the first time that conversation, Darla fully registered CL30's presence. "… I dunno. Breakfast's been fine? I like the fruit, and toast and jam I guess. I miss our chef, though. I'd kill for good pizza." A pause. "Not literally."
"That is good," CL30 said, without humor. "If 'good' pizza is what you desire, I will make arrangements and see if I can make something to your taste."
"Sure, thanks," Darla said, offhandedly. She kicked her legs idly. If she'd been at home, someone would have told her to get off the counter by now, but a kitchen in use was otherwise a sight much closer to what she was used to. She felt a pang of homesickness. Which was absurd, because she'd chosen this, hadn't she? Maybe not the mansion itself, but to be Somewhere Else, to be Someone Else. "… He made a really good Roman Pizza."
There was a pause and a low hum as CL30's LEDs flared, a sign Darla had come to understand meant she was looking something up.
"UNESCO does not recognize Roman Pizza as an intangible cultural heritage, and thus there is no agreed formal definition for this style of pizza. However, the majority opinion specifies that it differs from Neopolitan style pizza by the utilization of oil during the crust making process, creating a thinner, more crispy style of crust. Is this in line with your expectations?"
"Uh, yeah, pretty much?" she said. "I'd say ask the chef for his recipe, but… yeah."
CL30 hummed. "I will see what I can do. If it would make you happy, it is worth doing," she said, setting a plate down in front of Mr. Knight.
"…need a proper alloy for the shell, at least. Titanium-ceramic, maybe?" he mumbled to himself, picking up a piece of fruit and popping it into his mouth. From his breast pocket he produced a pen and began doodling on the napkin.
Darla hopped off the counter and took a few steps to the fridge, barely acknowledging CL30's affirmation but for a nod. Soon, she was peering over Knight's shoulder with a newly-obtained slice of watermelon in hand.
The napkin was already fast losing real estate, as his handwriting was scribbling down material ideas, sizing, and some mechanical jargon that went over Darla's head. At times he was scribbling so quickly he had accidentally torn the napkin, but for the most part he seemed careful enough to avoid it.
If Knight noticed her at all he didn't say anything.
"Make sure to put an airbag in there," she said.
"Obviously," Knight mumbled, then glanced up.
Darla was working on a big bite of watermelon. She chewed and then swallowed.
"You need a new name anyway," she said, decisively. "We totally almost blew your cover on the mission just 'cause we didn't know what to call you."
Knight snorted. "I don't know that I'd be back in the field full time, even with this," he said, gesturing to the napkin. "And while I definitely understand being on the spot, being Shadow Knight's protégé owes you a level of credibility. Don't go throwing it around, of course, but…" he shrugged. "I'm willing to put my name behind you all."
Darla raised an eyebrow.
"Awesome, but you still need a codename on the line," she said. "Like, A, you don't want people getting the bright idea of kidnapping us when they hear us talking to you. B, Parker is out there doing missions, so one of your big brain nemeses will do the math on that eventually. C, we can know Shadow Knight and also have our guy in the chair be called something else."
She paused. "Computer chair. Shit. That wasn't a - you know. Fuck."
Mr. Knight snickered.
"Worried I'm going to cancel you? Or worried I might cry?"
"Okay, look," she scowled. "I'm not going to make fun of you for being in a wheelchair. That's, like, below me. I'm going to make fun of you for being neurotic about it, carpet warrior."
That got a proper laugh out of him.
"Good. I need someone around to laugh at me or I'll go insane. Or worse, start acting like a main character who no one understands the horrors and pain I've experienced."
"It must be so hard," Darla said, putting it on thick, "being stuck born as a billionaire philanthropist, when your true calling is to be broke in LA chasing one more improv class. You'll make it on Game Changer one day, Mr. Knight. I believe in you."
"I'm not nearly as funny as Brandon Lee Mulligan, don't patronize me," Knight said, deadly serious.
She cackled.
"That's because you were born a billionaire. Keep track," she said, and then took another bite of melon and saluted. "'nywy, don'wurry. 'll laugh 'tyou f'r th' team."
"I'll pencil you in for a new chore, right next to fitness training and doing your studies," he said. "And anyway, all joking aside, I do regrettably know too many people with too much money who tragically can't buy a sense of humor."
She swallowed, rolled her eyes, and then pointed at his nose.
"Codename," she said. "Think about it."
"Didn't realize I had to come up with one on the spot," he said, humor drying up. Nonetheless, he glanced out the window, resting his chin in his hand as he thought. After a while, he said, "Page. It's close enough to a real name that no one will really question it, but it's a step down from a knight."
Darla pursed her lips. There were a lot of possible responses to that. Most of them were disparaging, but for once, she didn't feel like going for low-hanging fruit.
"Okay," she said. "Or like turning a new page or something. If you want to be less depressing about it."
Mid-hanging fruit, on the other hand.
"There, see? It works on several levels," Knight said. He flipped the napkin over and wrote NTS: announce new codename to team + SK. He reached over and grabbed a bite of watermelon, then hissed as several drops landed on his new work station.
Darla, who had at this point worked through hers to the rind, located a garbage can and tossed it. She turned to the doors.
It was done. She'd gotten her answers, more or less, drawn the line in the sand to Spellweaver and his bullshit. Their benefactor was no longer radiating despair, at least for now, and busy with a new project at that. The codename issue was solved, even. Oh, and maybe they'd have a half decent slice, but that wasn't really on her.
Not bad for her first real day trying for team leader.
The hallways outside the kitchen were as desolate as ever. Her room sounded suffocating about now. The library was where Spellweaver liked to hang out, even if Overheat was decent company if only by virtue of being quiet.
Ugh. This place was going to be the death of her.
Five minutes later, wordlessly, a spiral notebook with a skull-and-flowers pattern on the front slid across the table and under Knight's nose as Darla sat down with her schoolwork opposite him.
He looked up, briefly. The napkin was more ink than paper at this point, and it stained the tips of his fingers slightly, but the small smile he gave her was genuine. He didn't say anything, just nodded and lowered his head back down, flipping the notebook open and copying over his handwriting.
