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Steele Magnolia Her name was Helen, but on the street, the other Rat Pack kids just called her Hell. She was tall for her age, as athletic as any boy, and just as angry. Not old enough to be a serious contender, she sometimes worked as a runner for the local bookie, occasionally as a mule for small-time dealers. Today, she was getting her first shot at the main chance. When Ry asked her if she’d be lookout for a heist, she’d jumped at the chance. It meant she’d graduate (Hah!) from the Rat Pack, named for the ratty-looking, dirty kids who survived at the edges of street life, into the ranks of the Row Kings. It meant acceptance, a place, and family. Oh, yeah. She wanted that. She’d been on her own for almost a year, Ma was probably in the klink, or maybe dead. Nobody knew, and it wasn’t as if she had been good for anything more than a space on the floor to sleep, and some grub. Hell didn’t spend much time with Ma, she didn’t want any part of Ma’s customers. Hell was fast on her feet. The gig was going down at midnight. Hell checked her cheap timex, stolen from a street vendor outside the train station. She’d got it special, to make sure she’d be there on time. Two hours to go, then she’d be home free. Ry had even promised to grab a box of those Hersh choc-bars she liked so much from the drugstore since she wasn’t interested in the quality poppers in the back. *** It wasn’t supposed to go down like this! Ry was dead, shot
by the drugstore clerk, sirens blared against the night, lights
flashing, as Hell ran through the dark, squalid alleys of Kings
Row. Two of the porkers were after her, one of them was even keeping
up! Weren’t they supposed to be fat on donuts? This chick
sure wasn’t. Cripe! She was almost on top of her! It happened
fast, one moment Hell was in midflight, vaulting over a rusty,
chainlink fence, and the next she was on the other side with 130
pounds of sweating, annoyed cop on top of her. Then the cuffs
went on. And Hell's running days were over. Juvenile Delinquent. Ward of the Court. Foster Child. Life was rude, that’s what it was. How else would she have ended up in foster care, with the cop who busted her and her geek husband? She wouldn’t hang around long. Just long enough to let them get off their guard. But the days turned to weeks. She hated the shrink and counseling. She hated the questions, and wouldn’t answer them. But the food was good, really good. And she had her own room, with cush digs, real posh. Maybe she’d hang around a bit longer, with these soft-hearted fools. Then she started school. She’d never been to school before, had always heard it was an awful place. She was sure she was too stupid to go anyway. Yeah, she could read, she had the knack, but school was for smart people. Clean people. People with nice houses and nice lives, not some hooker’s byblow. *** The man and woman met with the school counselor, who regarded them with a raised eyebrow and a look of irony. “Your daughter…” she coughed briefly, “There’s no other way to say this. Your daughter is a genius. She needs some remedial schooling, of course, but with a little tutoring and some time for acclimitization to the learning environment, assuming she applies herself, she should fit in well. Assuming, of course, she can… desist from kicking her teachers and pummeling her classmates.” *** Helen observed the arranging of lights, tree, and decorations with barely suppressed scorn. She’d been putting up with the Markovs’ nonsense for four months already. They insisted upon calling her Helen, had driven the foul language from her mouth (except when out of their hearing), and had been general pains in the butt. She had to admit, this kind of living was… nice. Hot meals, plentiful and varied, heat in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, hot water, a soft place to sleep, clean (if extremely boring) clothes. She could put up with their rules, in exchange for all that. But this Christmas thing was a joke. Santa Claus? Whatever. Good little boys and girls? No way did she even rate, if there was a Santa Claus, she'd get coal for sure. The Markovs didn't try to push it on her, but all the babbling idiots at the school could talk of nothing else. Besides, kids like her didn't get presents. They didn't deserve them, anyway. *** She still had the timex, the only thing left from her earlier life. She checked it… 4 am. For sure, the Markovs were dead asleep now. The house was quiet, the lights out, excepted for that stupid tree at the bottom of the stairs. Now, she could sneak out. She had her coat and a backpack ready, with some clothes and a few of the books from school (she loved books, she’d definitely have to case some bookstores), and some grub she’d hoarded over the last few days. She crept down the stairs, without even a whisper. Silently, she raided the kitchen for a few more supplies. Orange juice, beef jerkey, bananas, cans from the pantry, canopener. On her way out, she noticed they’d put some presents under the tree. Even she wasn’t that low, but her curiousity drew her like a moth to flame. Every single one of them was addressed to her. *** The Markovs woke with a start, to a noise they’d never heard before. Downstairs, Helen was bawling her eyes out. Hell was over. After the initial adjustment period, Helen had become the perfect child. Her grades were perfect, the fights in the school yard had ceased, her teachers praised her, her room was immaculate, she was never late getting home from school, never asked to stay up late, never argued. Diane was no psychiatrist, she was just a cop. But as a police officer, she’d seen enough emotional problems in suspects, even other police officers, to believe that Helen was more stressed than her outward appearance would suggest. Such control in a child was disturbing, at times Helen seemed like a miniature adult, and Helen’s extreme intellect only heightened that. Diane was worried. The shadows under Helen’s eyes on some mornings worried her more. She knew Helen hadn’t been sneaking out of the house, the security system guaranteed that, but Helen wasn’t getting enough sleep. If she was having nightmares, she wasn’t waking them, even though Diane was a light sleeper. Now Diane was having trouble sleeping. *** Because of her background, Helen had weekly sessions with a court-appointed Child Psychologist. The results were predictable, the psychiatrist’s reports repetitive: Helen wouldn’t talk to him. No big surprise. Diane wasn’t too thrilled with him either. Assigning a male child psychologist to a potentially traumatized girl wasn’t an act of brilliance on the part of Child Protective Services. She had pointed this out, but her concerns were rebuffed with expediency. He was the only participating physician with room in his caseload. He was also a pompous [censored], but that was beside the point. It didn’t take long for the other shoe to drop. *** Dr. Meechan, the psychiatrist, had requested a meeting with them for the following day. As Yevgenij put dinner together, Helen was rapidly working her way through homework at the dining room table. Her speed was astounding, and her drive for learning was insatiable. The school library’s lending limit wasn’t enough to supply her reading, Yevgenij took her to the public library when it opened on Saturday mornings, while Diana slept in. He stirred the pan, the scent of fajitas filling the air, “Helen, we’ll be going to see Dr. Meechan tomorrow after school.” Helen jerked, dropping her pencil, eyes just a little too wide, “Um, Didn’t we just go yesterday?” Her voice ended with a squeak, startling him. *** Diane couldn’t sleep. The night’s silence was oppressive, and she was worried. Helen had been withdrawn all evening, even reading didn’t seem to settle her down. She was just walking down the stairs for a cup of tea when a noise caught her attention. She couldn’t even have said what it was, it was that soft, but it drew her to Helen like a magnet. The little girl was crying in her sleep, choking in heartbreaking silence. Even in her sleep, her control was frightening. Diane sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch Helen’s hair, “Wake up, honey. It’s okay…” Helen came out of sleep like a freight train, swinging, and almost connected. “Let me go!” Diane didn’t listen, and drew the shaking Helen into her arms. “I’m here, I love you, and I’ll never leave.” *** She was furious, the heels of her patrol uniform shoes driving into the tiled floor like railroad spikes. The receptionist was yapping at her heels, like toy poodle when she flung open the door and slammed it into the wall, punching the doorknob through the plaster. “How dare you!” Yevgenij followed a few steps behind her, eyes cold. “Ah, Mrs. Markov, you’re early.” Dr. Meechan’s poise was unshaken, only a single eyebrow raised, ala Dr. Spock, at the damage to his wall. “Please be seated.” Diane refused, Yevgenij still silent, “You are fired! How dare you show my daughter such filth!” The doctor tilted his head, looking like a stork, “Mrs. Markov, you don’t have the authority to fire me. Your daughter is a very disturbed little girl, and needs help, and does not respond to traditional methods of therapy and needs to be pushed beyond her comfort zone to confront her fears. Since you won’t be reasonable, I must come to the point. I’m reccommending she be remanded to the juvenile psychiatric facility in Galaxy City.” Diane barely stopped herself from planting her fist in his smug, arrogant, condescending face. As she battled with her rage, Yevgenij pushed his way forward, “My wife can’t do this, but I can,” and punched Meechan square in the nose, to the sound of cracking cartiledge and bone. Blood gushed from the doctor’s nose, “I’ll see you in court.” “And I’ll have your medical license, you sick jerk!” In the doorway, Helen peered around the sill, bookbag over her shoulder, and stared in awe at her parents. It looked like she wasn’t going to school today. *** Helen wasn't moved to the juvenile psychiatric facility, although Yevgenij received 6 months probation for 3rd degree assault. Dr. Meechan lost his contract with Child Protective Services, but kept his medical license. The Markovs filed a complaint against Dr. Meechan with the State Psychiatric Board, alleging improper conduct, malpractice, and child endangerment. The board was unable to substantiate as the only proof was the testimony of a minor patient. Spring came, with the unfurling of tree buds and the awakening of creatures great and small from their winter hibernation. She'd been with the Markovs for seven months now, and the bonds between them strengthened by the day. Diane Mom was working 3rd shift patrol now, and picked her up from school every day, and cooked dinner while she did her homework at the kitchen table. School was fun. Studying, assignments, tests, all fun. But reading was the best. She loved reading, her feet tapping restlessly as she dug into a good book. Some days it was a contest between riding her bike or a new author. Diane-Mom and Yevgenij-Dad said that she would probably skip the 6th grade and start Junior High in the fall if she kept learning at this rate. Her favorite subject was math, and in spite of her strong athletic ability, PE was her least favorite. She played to win, why was that such a problem? She was good, she knew she was, but she just didn't fit in on teams. Diane-Mom said she tried too hard. Her homework done for the day, in a record 29 minutes (she clocked it by the timer on the microwave), she went outside. And for the first time in her life, saw a squirrel. And followed it. Up the tree. And out of the tree, when it lept away to the split rail fence to get away from her. Diane nearly had a heart attack! Helen was running on the TOP of the fence, chasing after the squirrel for all she was worth. The next day, she enrolled her in gymnastics lessons. *** Tomorrow, Helen would graduate from college, pre-med. She was 19. Mom and Dad were so proud, they were taking her out to dinner tonight at the Le Ritz on Talos Island. It was raining, she'd have to remember to grab her umbrella before heading out for the train after her workout. She was done with her warm up, limber. She drew a steady, calming breath and focused for a run on the balance beam. She was too tall for competition now, she'd passed that point 4 years ago, all but kicking and screaming at the unfairness of it. Elite gymnasts were tiny, sexless girls. Not 5'7" women with real busts and hips. But she still loved it, craved the challenge of it, and the gym was open for all students to use. And use it she did, nearly every day, though usually having to wait in line for a turn at the equipment. On a rainy Friday evening after end-of-turn exams, she practically had the gym to herself. Vault. Move. Move. Move. The motions were like clockwork, precise, flawless, just as she wanted. It happened suddenly, but lasted for a lifetime. The sound was like the wrath of God, thundering through the otherwise empty gymnasium as lightening struck the building. The lights went out. In mid flight, Helen missed her landing by a fraction of an inch, crashing down upon the beam, and snapping her spine like a twig. She raved. She screamed. She begged. She cried. She cursed God. She was a complete [censored]. None of it made any difference. Mom and Dad, the doctors, everyone was sympathetic. Everyone was sorry. But it didn't change a thing. She would never walk again. Her recovery, such as it was, was a long time in the making. The physical therapists were brutal, the counselors sympathetic. Nearly everyone, at sometime or another, told her that it could have been worse... as if that made it any better. The break could have occured higher up in her spine, having more devastating consequence. She'd suffered an L3 spinal injury. She had full use of her arms and torso, and a little feeling and control in her upper thighs. With great effort, and an assist such as pulling or pushing herself up with her arms, she could stand. Briefly. Weakly. But she would never be able to walk again. The damage was too great, too much time had passed between the initial injury and medical treatment. Not even modern or meta medicine could mend a severed spinal cord. L3. Such a small phrase to describe the destruction of her life. If it hadn't been for the butt-kicking get-up-and-get-moving love of her parents she would have been consumed by her hatred and fear. It wasn't just her legs that she had lost, it was her self-confidence as well. She'd come so far, and the knowledge that she would spend the rest of her life in a metal chair was unbearable. In the end, the tragedy reshaped not only her lifestyle, but her very personality. Being trapped in the chair reinforced that there were some things from which she could not run, some obstacles could not be overcome by sheer force of will. From rage to isolation to desperation to depression, and at last, at very long last, to acceptance. Being crippled taught her patience, compassion, and wisdom. Mom was right. Wisdom never came cheaply. Some days, she still wondered if the price had been too high. Helen was scared all the time now, the mugging had taken what little was left of her courage. Even as a child on the street, she’d never felt so helpless. It had happened so simply. A year ago, it would have been unthinkable. But a teenage punk with a knife had brought home the truth. She couldn’t fight, she couldn’t run, she was a victim waiting for a place to happen. She’d been too embarassed to even report it to the police. Not even to her mother. She knew the odds, even if the thug was arrested, even if she identified him, the courts were already too clogged for justice. And having spent so many years on the street, she had seen her own reflection in his eyes. Who she would have been, become, if not for her adoptive parents. Somehow, it made it worse; knowing that there had been nothing personal in it and that she’d been forgotten before the money had even been spent. Just another mark. Still, her parents had noticed something was wrong. It hadn’t taken long for Diane to get the truth from Helen. That’s when the shooting lessons began. Diane hoped her daughter would never need to use a gun, but recognized that she needed to know that she could. She pulled some strings and arranged for some time on the Academy’s shooting range with one of the instructors who was a former partner. They’d both been surprised when Helen had turned out to be a natural marksman, but Diane realized that she shouldn’t have been. Helen was obsessive about perfection in everything she attempted, this had been no different. In shooting, Helen regained some of her confidence, a feeling of control, and the knowledge that just because she looked helpless she did not have to be. Diane had been waiting for years for this conversation. She’d discussed the biology of the ‘birds and bees’ with Helen years earlier, but Helen had never shown any interest. Her years on the street had given her a peculiar point of view on the matter, and she’d been absolutely brutal to the boys who’d asked her out in high school. Diane didn’t know how her daughter had handled things in college, but suspected it had been along the same lines. Poor boys! Now, at 22, Helen was finally ready for "The Talk". The one that really mattered. Helen’s face was bright today, her long hair tied back into a ponytail spilling over her scrubs. “Mom, how did you know when you were in love?” Diane sought deep within herself for the right words. “There’s no easy answer for that… I thought I was in love several times, but looking back I can see that it was infatuation. Real love… that would be your Dad.” “Real love respects your boundaries, encourages you to grow beyond them rather than violate them, cares about your needs, shares your desires, embraces your challenges, and builds towards a future. Lust does none of that. It’s like a fire, burning hot and fast and leaving ashes in its wake.” The two women watched one another for several moments, their tea growing cold. “Ask yourself: Would you trust this person with your checking accout? Your car? Your job? Your life? Because when you are intimate, you are trusting them with your life. You take your life into your hands when you are intimate with someone because you’re also with anyone that they have ever been with. Disease is like a witch’s gift or a chain letter, it keeps on giving.” “You’re also trusting them with your heart, your very self. If you cannot trust them with your money or your life, why would you entrust them with your soul? Every act of intimacy is a link in a chain, either to bond two hearts or to enslave and degrade you. Your Dad wasn’t the first for me, but I wish he had been. Having been with others stole something precious from us: that moment of absolute trust and sharing.” “Some women are comfortable with treating their bodies
as casually as a used car. Only you can make the decision who
you are and who you want to be. Choose wisely, my little girl-chick…
because you only get to make that choice once.” Upon completion of her various schools, Helen went to work at Crey Industries. Jadenium.
When Helen quit Crey, she moved to Steel Canyon and the Whitmoore Apartment Complex. She quickly found a group of friends, something she had truly lacked while working at the cold Crey Corporation. Helen also became emotionally involved with the hero Sol-Ar. Dr. Meechan had not gone completely away. He had lost his license to practice, and blamed that directly on Helen Markov. In desperation, Dr. Meehcan turned to the Fifth Column, a facist regime seeking to take over American and then the world. He took the name of Helsinger. When it came to his attention that Helen had created the powerful new alloy Jadenium, Helsinger asked to be put in charge of obtaining both the alloy and Helen. He found the time-lost warrior Chiri Gami Gohei Otogizoushi. He convinced Chiri that Helen was evil, and her only hope of rehabilitation was with Helsinger. Chiri captured Helen and took her to Helsinger. Helsinger questioned, tortured, and raped her. Helen was rescued by a group of the Whitmoore heroes, led by Sol-Ar.
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