Generation Why Bother

After the lackluster festivities that documented New Years, which involved Tegan and I staying home and sleeping early to stock up on precious energy we’d need for January 2nd, tension set in at its fullest point. Somehow it didn’t feel as special as it probably should have been, going to sleep in 2011 and waking up in 2012. Maybe it was the lack of partying that I’m sure we would’ve done had it not been for the whole intergalactic-war issue.

New Years Day was when Tegan and I packed up some clothes and essentials and said goodbye to our parents. I honestly didn’t know if I’d ever see my dad again, and God, that hurt like hell. I could feel him gasping back tears when I hugged him that last time, because I know I was doing the same and he could probably hear it, too.

He had told me to be safe for the hundredth time.

I couldn’t bring myself to even pretend to be annoyed by it, because I had appreciated it far too much.

It hurt too much to say a lot to my dad that day. So with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder and my car keys out, ready to take us to the band’s apartment where we’d be spending the night, I said, “I love you, papá,” one last time.

He looked at me with shining eyes and choked out, “I love you too, mijo,” and before either of us got too misty-eyed to function, I had to turn around and head out the front door and pick up Tegan.

“I’ll call when I can,” I had said over my shoulder, a few last words.

He nodded from what I could see, his eyes closed in pain or distress.

When I closed the door behind me, I felt like I could breathe, but it was only for a short while before the weight on my chest made each breath feel like a time bomb.

Tegan had her own teary-eyed goodbye with her mom from what she told me on the way to the band’s apartment, our crap bouncing alone in the deserted backseat.

The big day was approaching at a rate I couldn’t think about without feeling my heart palpitate. There were literally less than twenty-four hours until we had to be on watch for whatever the universe was going to throw at us, and on top of that, we wouldn’t even be home. Hell, we wouldn’t even know where the danger would be. For all we could’ve known, they could’ve been tracking our every move to make sure they got rid of us before moving on to the rest of the weak Earth, or they could’ve purposely sent the danger to the other side of the world.

I was really trying not to let it get to me, and I think the others were having that same feeling like they wanted to just push it all away and never let the danger touch them. I’d gathered that from the way we sat wordless in the apartment for hours, the band doing some minor packing while the rest of us sat on the couches and played with our phones or laptops to distract us.

Dinner, which was of course pizza, even went unfinished; there were leftover slices in extra boxes all around the flat when they normally would’ve been wolfed down immediately. I guess eating a lot of food wouldn’t have done wonders for our guards and our digestive systems – I already felt a constant puke coming up my throat regardless – though it really was a sign of the times.

As night fell, however, things came to a head.

There was something that everybody knew was going to be a cause for concern, which it already had been for one particular guardian. It had been eating at him for months even though he’d never really completely addressed it directly, but just from observation, anybody could tell that Andy Allen was keeping himself up at night over the fact that he still hadn’t received his elemental power.

As we were setting up sleeping bags and blankets on the couch for Tegan and I to sleep on (Chuck and Riley got the guest beds), everybody was in the room making final adjustments and deciding what to pack, debating over whether or not it’d be worth it to bring an extra tube of toothpaste.

Andy stood near the window, near the monitor, and out of his niche, shyly said, “Hey, um, guys.”

We all looked at him, but nobody wanted to bring up what was now a full-blown circus elephant riding a unicycle in the room.

“I know you guys are gonna be great tomorrow, no matter what happens,” he said in a low tone, his voice shaking a little. “And I’m not really sure what’s gonna happen to me, so I’m just gonna let you all know that I’m gonna fight anyway and do whatever I can. Anything short of being a burden, I mean. Even if the universe made a mistake and even I’m powerless, I’ll do anything I can to help.”

His shoulders were hunched up as his hands were tightly bound in front of him. He was the kind of guy who could make eye contact with anybody and make them feel welcome, and God knows I wanted to make him feel the same at this weak point, but there wasn’t a whole lot any of us could’ve done to drag him out of his dumps. Everything about him drooped; even his usually-tidy hair had slipped a few strands into his face.

Anthony, sitting on the couch with his arms crossed in a sort of barrier, snuck in a roll of the eyes.

And let me tell you, that did not bode well.

“What?” Andy snapped at his friend, unclasping his hands.

Anthony looked around like he thought Andy saw someone else and thought it was him that had been rude. “What? Nothing. Did I say something?”

“If you have something to say, then fucking say it,” he growled between grinding teeth. A pile of emotions certainly wasn’t good for anybody, especially not when they happened to be anxiety and anger.

The master of snark himself unfolded and leaned forward, not daring to stand at eye level as he came clean about the source of his rudeness. “I’m just saying, you don’t really need this kind of stress right now, especially since it’s been interfering with your power in the first place.”

“Well, how the fuck am I not supposed to worry about it at this point?” It was almost scary how angry he was starting to look. The powder keg had been lit.

“By getting your mind off of it!” Anthony retorted, finally standing. “I swear to God, all you ever think about is how disastrous everything’s gonna be if it just doesn’t go the picture-perfect way it always does in your cartoons! If you realized that a long time ago, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

Andy took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as his fists lay clenched at his sides. If he grew fangs and turned into a werewolf at that moment, I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Like, seriously, if I had a dime for every time I caught you drawing comics when you could’ve been working on something that would’ve actually pertained to our situation, I’d be a fucking millionaire! I told you to go on hiatus – I told you to stop for a while, at least until this gets behind us – and you’re still making Johnny Cool comics when I fucking made sure you pulled the plug on it for now!”

As the words fell from Anthony’s tongue, Andy was looking less angry and more like Anthony was punching right through his ribcage and ripping his heart out, veins breaking and arteries clinging to the broken bones as blood spilled all on the floor underneath them.

I looked over at Tegan and she had the same pants-pooping expression of shock I’m sure I had plastered to my face.

Why did I not realize it the day Andy made me show him my power that first time? The brief peek of unclear tattoo ink I’d seen on his calf that he kept hidden every other point in time, donning sweatpants or baggy jeans to keep it obscured.

Anchor Andy Allen. The “irrelevant” nickname he was so worried about.

The look of horror upon Mick’s bearded mug and Chance’s normally-cool features had let us know that not even they had known. I didn’t even have to look at Chuck and Riley to know that they hadn’t put the pieces together, either.

It shouldn’t have been that hard. I’m still kicking myself for not seeing it sooner.

Anthony didn’t stop there with his peeing in the wounds, though.

“Johnny is not real! Do you hear me?! Not! Real!”

That was when Andy completely snapped and pounced on the bassist, sending them both flying into the coffee table right in the middle of the couch nest that we all jumped out of in fear of glass hitting us. It was a blur how quickly he’d done it; when I looked back at them, I saw Andy grabbing at his shirt collar, not punching him but banging him back into the splintered wood while he sat on top of him flushed with color and growling.

Anthony was snarling right back at him, grabbing at his hands to try to loosen the grip he had on his shirt, but Andy was a lot stronger than he was, so the effort remained futile. There were some swear words as Andy shook him against the broken glass, though no punches were thrown. It was like they were both too scared to destroy anything else, seeing the scene they’d just caused.

Still crouched on top of him, pinning him to the ground, Andy gathered a few words together.

“Listen, you fuckweasel – when it is drilled into your brain from an early age that you are going to end up an absolute failure because you don’t ‘get’ science and you suck at math, when your only solace from your fucking drunk single father is to sit down in front of the TV and watch cartoons because your mother just got up and left – and you discover a few things that you’re actually legitimately good at, you don’t fucking let those things go to waste!” he spat, his voice getting more and more raspy like he was holding back a crap ton of verbal vomit.

Anthony didn’t have anything to say back to him, but he was glaring holes in the man who was holding him down as he continued.

“You keep practicing those things and you make sure you’re good at them to prove to yourself and everybody else that you’re not the sniveling little shit who cried in kindergarten every other day, and you make sure you can wow everybody even if they don’t know who’s drawing those kickass comics!”

Andy’s lower lip started to quiver, but he pressed on, gripping tighter just like Anthony was doing.

“You make sure you can sing worth a shit, so that when you have to get out of math class and go to the bathroom to hyperventilate for twenty minutes and cry and have a panic attack, nobody gives a shit that you’re that freak who can’t deal with pressure, because you’re still the kid who’s got the voice of a god! You make your art and you make it amazing so that when your best and only friend is the one who’s talking you through your panic attacks, you have an outlet – an outlet you’re fucking good at!”

His voice was wavering, but what he lacked in strength he made up in volume and physical force.

“And god damn it, you should fucking know that, because you were the one talking me through those panic attacks!”

Anthony had mimicked the same facial expression Andy had when Anthony revealed his secret for him – one of sheer heartbreak.

Before he could come back with something to say to the first of Andy’s monologues that night, Andy shut him up with a nice big sucker punch right across his face.

Anthony retaliated by freeing himself and grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him off and back onto the floor surrounding the couches, and it probably would’ve just been a regular fist fight if he didn’t get too emotional during it. There was a reason why Anthony was given the elemental ability to control fire, and what was ironic was that in that moment, he had found himself unable to control it yet again – just like when he first discovered it.

When they were standing up and about to go at it all the way, Anthony made another grab for Andy’s arm, probably to hold him steady or hold him back. All of a sudden, though, flares exploded from his hand, wrapping around Andy’s bicep and causing him to yelp out in pain, his knees giving out from the wicked burn through the sleeve of his hoodie.

It was obvious from the way Anthony immediately retracted his hand that he didn’t mean to do it. He looked like he was gonna cry, he was so mortified, especially as Andy fell to his knees in front of him, screaming a wide variety of creative swears directly at him.

In the shape of a clear handprint, there was a ring of deep pink flesh that had been seared, blood trickling down along the lightning scars.

Anthony tried to apologize, stammering the words, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” but Andy looked up at him with the same kinds of flames burning in his eyes. It was that look that let him know that he wasn’t forgiven and probably wouldn’t be anytime soon, and as he rose to his knees, cringing from the pain and ripping the rest of his sleeve off, he kept staring intently at Anthony.

His face crumbling, Anthony reached out and tried to touch his shoulder right above the burn.

Andy instead slapped his hand away, not even bothering to grab it and twist his arm to cause him the same pain he’d just received.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again,” he seethed.

He turned around on his heel and grimaced as he stormed out through the sliding glass door to the balcony, slamming it shut behind him.

And nobody said a word. Not even Anthony, who turned around to face us all again, huddled in on ourselves in fear. His face, his chocolate eyes open so wide, his mouth slightly parted, his eyebrows lax, spoke volumes. We were all a little exhausted. Some more than others, I guess.