The Pitfalls of Being

[ launch sequence ]

EPIGRAPH

"i am your handiwork made flesh. you took beauty and created hideousness, and out of this monstrosity your child will be born ... i am the meaning of your deeds. i am the meaning of your so-called love; your destructive, selfish, wanton love ... your love looks like hatred."

― SALMAN RUSHDIE, SHALIMAR THE CLOWN

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PROLOGUE

THE SCREEN GLOWS BLUE, setting a ghastly haunting shadow flitting across the room.

On it contains a mission statement, and she takes the time to read it out loud, even though she's memorized it a thousand times over on the brochure she'd found at the foot of her father's bed when she hadn't know it'd be the last time she set eyes on him.

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WELCOME TO THE ICARUS PROGRAM, an high-end initiative set forth by the wonderful Council, a collection and myriad of Supers from all across the world who work tirelessly to ensure the safety of the entire globe. The Council has so generously allowed families to deposit their sons and daughters into the Icarus program if they so qualify for it, where they will be straightened out and their behavior monitored so that any villainous tendencies will be destroyed utterly, preventing any other unsavory acts of terrorism against our state (such as the Incidents of '97 and '98, each horrific tragedies in their own rights).

ICARUS: WE'LL SUCCEED WHEN EVERYTHING ELSE FAILS.

[ We claim a 99.89% success rate with all those who enter our ranks. ]

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She glances at the screen, scoffs at the highly pretentious writing, and continues on her way to her assigned seat. It's not hard to find the thing, with a fanfare of glitter and confetti around the horrid name card, which spells her name in a flowery font in big letters.

Huffing, she sits down and waits her turn.

"Wynona Benoit?" A secretary calls, high-pitched and reedy, mauve lips smacking gum at an atrociously loud pace.

"That's me." She moves to get up, grabbing her knapsack and raising her hand. The secretary motions for her to follow, and there's yet another set of twisting and winding corridors that lead to a gleaming silver door.

It's a miracle none of the workers get lost, something Wynona's itching to say it out loud, but somehow it doesn't seem like something that important compared to what she's about to be subjected to.

The secretary points at the door, impatiently taps her foot, and rolls her eyes - all of this taking less than three seconds - before Wynona realizes it's her cue to enter the office.

Upon opening the door, she finds that Dr. Dalus is already in his chair, silvery-white brows furrowed deep in concentration as he attempts to pull out a block of wood in what Wynona assumes is a game of Jenga.

"Sorry," she says drily, not at all apologetic. This is her time after all. She's paying for it, and she's going to squeeze every last bit of the forty dollars she spent on this session for all it's worth. "Am I interrupting something important?"

"Wynona!" He starts, blinking in horror as his hand causes the entire tower to come tumbling down. "I didn't see you there! Please, please, take a seat."