A/N: Picks up pretty much where I left off. The question mark at the end of the three in the heading is really because I haven't quite brought said last chapter to a complete conclusion, and I may or may not end up breaking it up into a fourth chapter. But really, that's all I've got for you after that.
WHAM in this chapter. Sorry, but not.
**********LnC**********
Jason slammed every door he had to walk through to travel from one side of the manor to the other, where his older sister's room was. Luckily, the noise didn't draw any attention, as the house was mostly soundproofed from room to room. His father was always paranoid that someone could be listening, especially those with sensitive ears. Jerome Kent Senior trusted no one, not even family and relatives. Perhaps especially relatives.
Just as well, Jason thought. It wasn't like anyone trusted him in return.
His anger wasn't satisfied though with the slamming of doors. Jason still seethed, gritted his teeth in frustration. He hated being cut out like this, completely sidestepped and removed from the equation. He was always treated that way. They had no respect for him, even though he was practically the most loyal of them all. To this day, this very moment, Jason Kent would do anything for his father, in spite of how he was treated in return. It only made Jason hate himself all the more, but he couldn't help it. What he wouldn't do for one shred, one iota of love or admiration or even respect from the man he'd like to call father. But no. He finished last on his father's lists of cares. If the four of them were to be ranked, from most to least cared for, Jason was sure that the order would go: Jada, then Johanna, and then Jerome Jr. and himself. Of course, his father hated Jerome for everything he did-- but hate was at least an emotion. There was nothing left for Jason, he thought bitterly to himself.
He finally reached his oldest sister's room. The door swung open even as he raised his hand to knock, and he was met with wide, deep brown eyes and a tangled mass of brown locks. "Jay?" her voice whispered quietly, sweet and innocent sounding. The sound was repeated in his brain, a slight nudging of his consciousness that always came whenever he spent time with his sister.
"Hi, Jada."
He felt another nudge in his brain as she quickly ushered him in, and he couldn't help the laugh that bubbled forth. "Okay, okay. I'm here."
She closed the door firmly behind him, sealing him once again from yet another hallway. He couldn't help but smile at his sister's antics. He glanced around the room, taking it all in-- the bright colors splattered on the walls, the papers and clothes strewn about everywhere, and the giant smile on Jada's face. At 27 years of age, Jada might have been older than him physically, but because of her mental development, it was like having a seven year old around most of the time.
"Red?"
Jason grinned. She was lucky, actually. She had the advantage of telepathy-- that in spite of being unable to voice all her thoughts and actions, she could still communicate to them what she meant with a little nudge of the mind, impressing onto their brains without words exactly the sentiment she wanted to get across. It was amazing, honestly. She was the strongest at communicating telepathically out of anyone they'd ever known to exist. Perhaps even the original Kryptonians.
"Yes, Jada, I like the red."
She looked gleeful at that, and ran across the room to her paints. She gracefully picked through her paints with the wonder of a child, finally settling for a blood red one.
Jason smiled on at her before his thoughts drifted back to what could be happening on the other side of the estate. He wished everything wasn't lead lined so that he could either spy or eavesdrop on the two of them. He knew Johanna was getting in trouble-- not that she didn't go looking for it herself. After all, she wouldn't be in this situation if she hadn't gone along with the Revolutionists in the first place.
Jada was in the middle of emptying her tube of red paint onto a table that she'd somehow appropriated into a paint palette of sorts when she suddenly stopped and turned back to face him. "Jay?"
Her face wore an expression of concern, and he knew that she was only reflecting what she saw in his eyes and felt in his heart. He put on a shallow smile. "I'm fine, Jada."
She hopped over to him, a serious expression on her face and she was trying to communicate with him so rapidly that all he could feel was an almost bubbling sensation in his consciousness. He laughed at that, prompting a quizzical brow arched in his direction.
"I know, I know! I'm sorry, Jada. I'll be more focused. You can paint."
He felt a different sort of emotion coming from her mind, something playful and mischievous, when suddenly she tapped him on the nose with a finger coated in red paint. He frowned teasingly, and she squealed as she ran away from him, her bare feet leaving footprints of multicolored paints across the hard wood flooring. He chuckled at her as she returned to her activities, spreading colors on the walls haphazardly. Today's dominant color appeared to be red, and she kept streaking it everywhere she could reach in her current space, even across the previous day's projects and over completed works from long ago. He wondered at that for a few moments, but he brushed it aside. So she had a new favorite color. It didn't matter that it was a color on the Revolutionary flag. There was also green on the flag, and she didn't seem to be using that. He was thinking too deeply about it. In fact, he was surprised she hadn't picked up on it yet.
When he glanced up at her again, he found her standing stock still. He felt ice start dripping into the pit of his stomach. "Jada?"
She didn't respond at all. Not a word, not a sound, not any sort of mental outreach or touch whatsoever. Jason carefully walked towards her, circling wide around her to get a look at her face. She never acted like this anymore, and it was starting to worry him. Once upon a time, she'd had episodes like this. Being such an intense feeler, she had often picked up on distant pain and troubles from others, even though they were entirely unrelated to whatever she was doing at the time. They would find her, huddled in the corner, hair draping over her eyes, or shrieking in fear of some disaster or another. At times, it had even bordered on precognition. Whether she had responded to some sort of intense emotion or an audible cue still wasn't clear, but the way she was acting now definitely was reminiscent of those times.
"Jada?" he repeated, a note of panic creeping into his voice as he saw the blank, ghostly, unseeing expression on her face. He watched a drop of red paint drip from her large brush and on to the floor. He shuddered and reached an arm out to nudge her shoulder.
She screamed bloody murder before he'd even touched her.
Jason's arms automatically went up in a motion of surrender, thinking perhaps he had pushed her too far. But then she wouldn't stop screaming, the sound rattling her throat until her voice went raw. Jason had to cover his ears out of fear that they might actually start bleeding.
"JADA!" he tried to shout over her noise, trying to get her attention telepathically too. But the more he tried to reach out to her, the emptier and farther away she felt. It was like her brain stopped functioning.
That scared him.
Jada started pacing blindly, frantically, pulling her hair with more strength than she should. Red streaked her face and hair as her long forgotten, paint-streaked palms spread across it. Panic seeped through her every move.
Jason had to stop her. He finally found a way to put his hands on her shoulders and steady her for a moment, even though she cried and shrieked still. "Jada. What is it? Please, Jada, stop."
She gasped for air, unable to take a breath in all that time, before she screamed again. Jason winced. "Jad-- Jada, please!!"
"Jo!" She gasped out on another wave of tears. "JO!!"
Suddenly, that pit that was slowly sinking in his stomach had the bottom ripped out from under it. He swallowed thickly, looking for his voice and only able to find a whisper. "Johanna?"
Jada's only response was to shriek louder, and on the heels of her cries, Jason turned and bolted out of there as fast as he could. Her scream was ringing in his ears still as he raced down to his father's office. His heart pounded, his stomach felt queasy and there was a distinct lack of presence in his mind where both of his two sisters should have been. Bile crept up his throat as he burst through door after door, fearing the worst.
He needed to know what was happening down there.
*****LnC*****
She squirmed in pain, tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she fought for oxygen, for escape of some kind.
He hadn't let up yet.
Instead, he was hissing things into her ear: horrible, spiteful things that sickened her and frightened her to death at the same time. And she couldn't escape, couldn't retaliate any more than what she already had.
"You should have listened to me, Johanna. We would have been fine. Look what you've done."
She whimpered and he brought a hand up to clench over her mouth, trying to muffle her cries even more. Her cries only made him angrier.
"I'm going to have to find a place for you, now. Some kind of cell... I can't trust you anymore. You'll just run off and tell those little friends of yours all about what a gigantic monster your dear ol' Dad is and fight even harder."
She shook her head fiercely, or tried to, but he held her firmly in place with a sick laugh. In a flash of sudden anger, Johanna bit down sharply on his hand, prompting her father to swear and take his hand away. She saw her opportunity and she took it. Johanna snapped her head down as best she could and trained her gaze on the arm still around her neck, focusing all her power on it.
Jerome howled in pain as she burned his arm with her heat vision. He felt his flesh burning, the smell of it overwhelming his senses. Pain racked his body, and his rage took over. He reached across Johanna's shoulders to grasp her chin. In one swift motion, he wrenched her head in the opposite direction, directing her fiery gaze away from his arm and the searing pain that remained. Flames came to life across the room, setting the office space ablaze and painting the room in a sick, reddish glow.
Then came a sickening, snapping sound, and the red beams just stopped.
It took him a minute to come back to himself. But as his youngest child's form grew limp in his arms and her head lolled against his chest at an unnatural angle, it suddenly struck him what he had just done.
Reeling, he dropped her, immediately backing away. His eyes were glued to her body, the way she was lying there, her arms spread out haphazardly and her blue eyes unnaturally open, long black hair mangled around her head.
He froze. And then, in a wave of emotion that he hadn't felt in years, Jerome Kent Sr. dropped to his knees and tears rolled down his flaming cheeks. He
cried, genuinely cried, his hands forming fists as they came up to brace against his forehead. He bit his lip fiercely, tasting blood, and slammed his fists against his head repeatedly.
He had just killed his own daughter.
Suddenly, the door was wrenched open behind him. Jerome snapped his head back, startled to see his son, Johanna's twin brother standing there, looking horrified. It was then that Jerome finally noticed the flames that still licked there way across the walls.
Jason quickly expelled a breath of icy air, extinguishing the fire where it blazed. Once it was out, he finally glanced around the room-- and he saw her, sprawled unnaturally across the middle of the floor, his father on the absolute edge of the room, on his knees and looking more defeated than he'd ever seen him.
They locked eyes suddenly, and Jason felt his breath catch in his throat. "Dad," he whispered hoarsely, barely able to speak past the burning lump in his throat. "What have you done?"
He shook his head back and forth fiercely. "I didn't-- She wouldn't-- I don't--" He found no words to explain the moment. Instead, he slammed his eyes closed again at the image, trying to banish the memory from his brain.
Jason watched incredulously as his father processed it all behind closed lids, before neutralizing his expression once more and shoving any remorse he might have had aside. When his eyes opened once again, they were cold, hard and devoid of any emotion whatsoever, as usual. "We don't have time for this. We need to do something about it before anything else happens."
Jason wanted to vomit. "How--?" He didn't even try to mask the indignation in his voice. "How can you just push it aside like that? Do you realize what you've done?! You... you killed her! You killed your own-- you're a murderer!"
"Jason," his voice warned, low and gravelly. "Now is not the time to talk. We need to act."
"When will it be time?!"
"Jason."
The look his father was giving him was cold and steely, but there was a glint of something new in them, something akin to acknowledgment, a cry for help of sorts. And that was what did it. Because if he didn't snap again and kill Jason as well, then that note of pleading behind his gaze was what would do him in.
Jason had gone over two decades waiting for a look even remotely like this one.
"Take care of this. I can't-- can't..."
Instead of offering any more of an explanation, Jerome simply brushed past him and strode quickly out of the room.
And just like that, Jason was alone with his sister again. He swallowed thickly, unable to stop the tears that welled up. He knelt quietly by her body where she lay, ghosting a hand gently over the curve of her face, the sharp point of her jawline. A trail of blood ran underneath her nose and pooled slightly on the ground where her face rested. "Jo. Johanna," he spoke in a soft, tear muddled voice. "No, Jo, please, no. It's you and me, remember? You and me against the world. You can't be... You can't let him win. Please, Jo." He smoothed a hand over her tangled black locks, wishing he could see the blue eyes they shared once more with life in them. He wished they hadn't fought earlier, that he hadn't drawn attention to the issue, that their Dad hadn't been home to hear them, or that she hadn't been so careless about what she was doing in the first place. "Please, Johanna," he begged once more, before finally just breaking down in tears over her slender frame.
He wasn't sure how long he spent like that before he had no more tears to cry. His eyes felt as though they were swollen shut, completely dried out, and his mind was completely blank, devoid of all thought and feeling. He stared at his sister numbly, unable to look away.
And to think, all she'd been trying to do was prove that their father was a bad man.
That thought clicked with something in Jason's brain, and suddenly his mind was running a mile a minute and he was struggling to keep up with them all. He carefully laid her body back down on the ground where he'd found her, then stood up to pace frantically back and forth across the space. Every so often, he'd glance at her, then turn away, only to glance back on his next turn.
She
had proven what a monster their father was. She'd died to do so. Johanna Kent was physical proof of that.
Jason hesitated, though. If his father was already this far gone, there was nothing to stop him from doing the same to
him. Or Jada, even. How could he possibly deliver this as proof? He'd never make it out of the house. And even if he did, he'd lose everything in the process-- his father, his last living sister, his home--
But then again, a picture couldn't hurt. Just in case. He could decide what to do with it later.
He couldn't let his twin sister die in vain.
