IQ: Origins
Ok, here it is, my feeble attempt at Ria's backstory. It reads like a journal entry.(weird) Since you borrowed me Daz, I've returned the favor, :p.
This turned out really angsty. *blech* It was supposed to be funny. I left it, it seems that it needed to be angsty. BTW, I've taken several liberties. Sorry in advance.
How does a person get the title of “Super Genius?” It’s usually because you’re tormented mercilessly by your friends for taking Biochemistry instead of Earth Science, Non-equilibrium Physics instead of Consumer Math. Unfortunately, I didn’t earn that title in the usual way.
Seriously, it wasn’t like I woke up one day and could calculate the event horizon of a black hole the size of my head. In fact, there was no obvious transformation: no abnormal cranial growth, no spider bites, no gamma rays, no alien birth, no parents murdered in Gotham’s “Crime Alley.”
Nothing is ever that easy.
I was 15 when the headaches began. They lasted for days, the dull throb in the center of my forehead moving upward and spreading with growing intensity across my unsuspecting skull. The pain was unrelieved by medications, and after a serious of emergency room visits the doctors decided I was drug seeking for my own amusement.
They were wrong.
My mother had me tested for every disease imaginable, and although abnormal brain waves appeared frequently on the medical scans, my condition remained undiagnosed. No one knew what was wrong with me, no one knew how to relieve the pressure growing daily in my head. It would build so quickly that I often prayed for the inevitable explosion.
As a last ditch effort, the doctors offered exploratory brain surgery. My mother refused, she had enough problems without having her only daughter turned into a vegetable after the quacks at County Regional poked around in her head for 12 hours. That and a bus ticket were the last two gifts she ever gave me.
She learned that there was a school for kids in New York, in a town called New Salem, that works with kids who have brain issues. She hoped that they would take me in and help me get to the bottom of whatever was going on in my head.
So, armed with $50, one suitcase and my ticket, she dropped me off at the Greyhound station. I had never seen her so relieved as when I boarded that bus. I gave her a slight nod, accepting her decision, relieved that our mutual torment was over and looked forward to my 1700 mile journey.
Greyhound buses are the ninth ring of Hell.
They are where hope goes to die, and the death is far from painless. I found a couple of empty seats three rows behind the driver. There was enough room for me, my bag and no one else. I threw my coat over my head to block out the light and shield myself from the people in the surrounding seats. It was a six day journey from Denver to New York, with 3 transfers, best summed up with the phrase, “Creepy people doing creepy things.”
When I reached Salem Center, I began walking aimlessly, my temples beginning their characteristic throb. I found a taxi a few blocks from the bus station and practically threw myself inside, quietly muttering the address I had memorized over the seemingly endless hours of my journey, “1407 Graymalkin Lane.”
I saw the driver’s eyes bug out a little when I finished speaking, but he made no verbal comment. The cab ride was shorter than I expected. I shoved the last few dollars I had in my possession into his outstretched hand, before turning to the heavily, barred gate and pulling the bell cord.
A few seconds later, a door at the front of the house opened and a man approached. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with a strange pair of sunglasses completely obscuring his gaze. On the other side of the gate he stopped, looked me up and down before coldly stating, “You don’t belong here,” and returned to the house.
I was devastated.
I was alone, with no money, no place to stay, no transportation back into the city, and a roaring headache punching its way into my brain. I picked up my suitcase and began my lonely walk. The pounding in my brain nearly drowned out the buzzing in my ears. I completely failed to notice the sound of an approaching motorbike.
It stopped next to me, too close for safety or comfort. The rider seemed vaguely familiar. He offered me a lift in a lightly accented voice, which I presumed to be Australian. I didn’t bother to answer, just climbed on the back, hoping his obvious recklessness would kill me before the head pound could complete the job.
Once again, luck was against me.
He dropped me off in a seedy neighborhood, stuffed a wad of bills into my hand and gave me a small, white business card. A phone number was written across the back in a barely legible scrawl under the name Sue.
I turned to thank the stranger, but he had disappeared without my noticing. I checked into the closest motel, if you could call it that. I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful, but I was in too much pain to care.
The room stank of stale beer and urine. Wallpaper was peeling away from the corners, a chair balanced precariously on three legs. I headed for the bed; lice, bedbugs and the body fluids of strangers were the least of my worries. Three days passed before I was able to call the phone number written on that card.
A woman answered.
I told her who I was. She said she would be here in a few hours. I believed her and she didn’t let me down. We’d become friends, in an odd way, and I had at last found a home. She was the one who figured out the root of my head trauma. She encouraged me to let the surges of energy arc across my skull instead of fighting against them. With incredible patience she helped me to master control of my personal demon. I was becoming a whole person again. In repayment, I rarely criticized her husband. Reed and I had a hate-hate relationship and we liked it that way.
I quickly discovered that Sue felt a tremendous attraction for Namor; but me, I was completely enthralled. I couldn’t understand how she could deny him and turn to Reed every night. I could tell that Namor was suffering as well, but he never spoke of it.
It was this that drove me away from my new home; anger and self-denial. Sue didn’t want him, so he was going to belong to me and I told her so. Her shock was palpable, as was her rage. The argument that ensued destroyed the fabric of friendship we had carefully constructed. I had no choice but to leave. Again.
Alone, I headed to New York, the city of possibilities. I found a small one-room flat and got a job at a local video store. I wasn’t happy but I had a place to live and an income. I watched the daily headlines and read about all the things that the superheroes did to protect innocent lives. I resented the fact that when I needed help, no one wanted to protect me. Anger renewed itself in my mind, I ignored the blooming ache, letting the emotions wash over me, reveling in their power. I knew I was going to make everyone pay for letting me suffer.
I carefully plotted my revenge.
Last Tuesday, I went for coffee. When I was reaching for the creamer, I bumped hands with another woman. Her skin felt incredibly cold. I shivered. I asked if she was alright.
She said she was, that she had spent too much time out in the cold.
I just looked at her, the flow of energy stretching across my brain. I knew what she was.
Yeah, you gotta love New York winters.
This turned out really angsty. *blech* It was supposed to be funny. I left it, it seems that it needed to be angsty. BTW, I've taken several liberties. Sorry in advance.
How does a person get the title of “Super Genius?” It’s usually because you’re tormented mercilessly by your friends for taking Biochemistry instead of Earth Science, Non-equilibrium Physics instead of Consumer Math. Unfortunately, I didn’t earn that title in the usual way.
Seriously, it wasn’t like I woke up one day and could calculate the event horizon of a black hole the size of my head. In fact, there was no obvious transformation: no abnormal cranial growth, no spider bites, no gamma rays, no alien birth, no parents murdered in Gotham’s “Crime Alley.”
Nothing is ever that easy.
I was 15 when the headaches began. They lasted for days, the dull throb in the center of my forehead moving upward and spreading with growing intensity across my unsuspecting skull. The pain was unrelieved by medications, and after a serious of emergency room visits the doctors decided I was drug seeking for my own amusement.
They were wrong.
My mother had me tested for every disease imaginable, and although abnormal brain waves appeared frequently on the medical scans, my condition remained undiagnosed. No one knew what was wrong with me, no one knew how to relieve the pressure growing daily in my head. It would build so quickly that I often prayed for the inevitable explosion.
As a last ditch effort, the doctors offered exploratory brain surgery. My mother refused, she had enough problems without having her only daughter turned into a vegetable after the quacks at County Regional poked around in her head for 12 hours. That and a bus ticket were the last two gifts she ever gave me.
She learned that there was a school for kids in New York, in a town called New Salem, that works with kids who have brain issues. She hoped that they would take me in and help me get to the bottom of whatever was going on in my head.
So, armed with $50, one suitcase and my ticket, she dropped me off at the Greyhound station. I had never seen her so relieved as when I boarded that bus. I gave her a slight nod, accepting her decision, relieved that our mutual torment was over and looked forward to my 1700 mile journey.
Greyhound buses are the ninth ring of Hell.
They are where hope goes to die, and the death is far from painless. I found a couple of empty seats three rows behind the driver. There was enough room for me, my bag and no one else. I threw my coat over my head to block out the light and shield myself from the people in the surrounding seats. It was a six day journey from Denver to New York, with 3 transfers, best summed up with the phrase, “Creepy people doing creepy things.”
When I reached Salem Center, I began walking aimlessly, my temples beginning their characteristic throb. I found a taxi a few blocks from the bus station and practically threw myself inside, quietly muttering the address I had memorized over the seemingly endless hours of my journey, “1407 Graymalkin Lane.”
I saw the driver’s eyes bug out a little when I finished speaking, but he made no verbal comment. The cab ride was shorter than I expected. I shoved the last few dollars I had in my possession into his outstretched hand, before turning to the heavily, barred gate and pulling the bell cord.
A few seconds later, a door at the front of the house opened and a man approached. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with a strange pair of sunglasses completely obscuring his gaze. On the other side of the gate he stopped, looked me up and down before coldly stating, “You don’t belong here,” and returned to the house.
I was devastated.
I was alone, with no money, no place to stay, no transportation back into the city, and a roaring headache punching its way into my brain. I picked up my suitcase and began my lonely walk. The pounding in my brain nearly drowned out the buzzing in my ears. I completely failed to notice the sound of an approaching motorbike.
It stopped next to me, too close for safety or comfort. The rider seemed vaguely familiar. He offered me a lift in a lightly accented voice, which I presumed to be Australian. I didn’t bother to answer, just climbed on the back, hoping his obvious recklessness would kill me before the head pound could complete the job.
Once again, luck was against me.
He dropped me off in a seedy neighborhood, stuffed a wad of bills into my hand and gave me a small, white business card. A phone number was written across the back in a barely legible scrawl under the name Sue.
I turned to thank the stranger, but he had disappeared without my noticing. I checked into the closest motel, if you could call it that. I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful, but I was in too much pain to care.
The room stank of stale beer and urine. Wallpaper was peeling away from the corners, a chair balanced precariously on three legs. I headed for the bed; lice, bedbugs and the body fluids of strangers were the least of my worries. Three days passed before I was able to call the phone number written on that card.
A woman answered.
I told her who I was. She said she would be here in a few hours. I believed her and she didn’t let me down. We’d become friends, in an odd way, and I had at last found a home. She was the one who figured out the root of my head trauma. She encouraged me to let the surges of energy arc across my skull instead of fighting against them. With incredible patience she helped me to master control of my personal demon. I was becoming a whole person again. In repayment, I rarely criticized her husband. Reed and I had a hate-hate relationship and we liked it that way.
I quickly discovered that Sue felt a tremendous attraction for Namor; but me, I was completely enthralled. I couldn’t understand how she could deny him and turn to Reed every night. I could tell that Namor was suffering as well, but he never spoke of it.
It was this that drove me away from my new home; anger and self-denial. Sue didn’t want him, so he was going to belong to me and I told her so. Her shock was palpable, as was her rage. The argument that ensued destroyed the fabric of friendship we had carefully constructed. I had no choice but to leave. Again.
Alone, I headed to New York, the city of possibilities. I found a small one-room flat and got a job at a local video store. I wasn’t happy but I had a place to live and an income. I watched the daily headlines and read about all the things that the superheroes did to protect innocent lives. I resented the fact that when I needed help, no one wanted to protect me. Anger renewed itself in my mind, I ignored the blooming ache, letting the emotions wash over me, reveling in their power. I knew I was going to make everyone pay for letting me suffer.
I carefully plotted my revenge.
Last Tuesday, I went for coffee. When I was reaching for the creamer, I bumped hands with another woman. Her skin felt incredibly cold. I shivered. I asked if she was alright.
She said she was, that she had spent too much time out in the cold.
I just looked at her, the flow of energy stretching across my brain. I knew what she was.
Yeah, you gotta love New York winters.