This Is What It Sounds Like, When The Doves Cry

The silence stretched through the house, heavy and oppressive. Curran stood in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, listening to the quiet lapping of waves against the shore. He could still feel the weight of her gaze, even through the closed door. Finally, he turned and walked back to the living room, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

Days passed in a tense quiet. Curran kept his distance, leaving meals outside her door that sometimes disappeared, sometimes remained untouched. He watched her on his phone through the hidden camera, feeling increasingly guilty about the invasion of privacy. She mostly paced her room or sat by the window, watching the ocean with an intensity that suggested she was trying to burn a hole through the glass with her eyes alone.

On the third day, when Curran woke up, he found Starfire in the kitchen, examining a coffee maker with intense curiosity. She looked up as he entered, her posture immediately hostile.

"I was attempting to understand this device," she said, indicating the machine. "I did not mean to intrude."

"It's fine," Curran replied, surprised by the civil interaction. "It's a coffee maker. Makes coffee. Do Tamaraneans have coffee?"

"I know what it is," she explained, her scientific curiosity momentarily overriding her resentment. "On Earth, you consume toxins for enjoyment.

"It...gets the job done," Curran said, not quite sure how to respond. "Want to try some?"

"No." she said flatly. "I am not thirsty." She turned away from him and walked over to the large window overlooking the beach. "You have not unlocked my powers," she said, her voice flat.

"I know," he said, scratching his neck awkwardly. "I'm... not sure if that's a good idea. Yet."

"Yet?" she turned to face him, her green eyes flashing with anger. "You hold my life in your hands. You hold my freedom in your hands. And you say 'yet'?"

"You could light me up like a christmas tree," Curran pointed out.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice dangerously low.

"Look, I can give you back your flight," He said, tapping some codes in on his phone, connected to RealDreams' Character Management system. A few beeps later, he looked up. "Done. You should be able to fly now. Just, uh, keep it under the radar. The government gets antsy about unauthorized flights."

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then, she turned and walked to the balcony doors. She pushed them open and stepped out into the bright morning sun. For a moment, she just stood there, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the sky. Then, she bent her knees and launched herself into the air.

She shot up into the sky like a rocket, a streak of orange and red against the blue.

And disappeared over the horizon.

He forgot to tell her about the property borders. If she went outside them, RealDreams would be pinged, and detain her. He felt a surge of panic. He ran to his phone and pulled up the tracking app.

She was nearing the border...

And flew right past it.

"Oh no..." he whispered to himself, facepalming. There was definitely a detainment team on the way. Starfire didn't stand a chance.

Speak of the devil, her dot had just stopped.

Then it faded out.

And his phone rang. A call. From 'RealDreams Retrieval'.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," he cursed, swiping to answer

"Mr Solomon?" said a voice, clipped and professional.

"That's me," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"We have your character here at our facility. It seems she went a little...off-reservation. We can have her back to you by this evening, fully reconditioned."

"Reconditioned?" Curran asked, a cold dread creeping up his spine.

"It's a standard procedure," the voice explained. "A little memory wipe, a little attitude adjustment. Makes them more... manageable. We do it for free, as a courtesy to our valued customers. You'll have her back, good as new, by tonight. No more trouble, we promise."

"No," Curran said, his voice firm.

"Excuse me?"

"No," he repeated. "I don't want her reconditioned. I'll deal with it myself."

"Sir, that is highly unorthodox and unadvisable. She is a high-risk character, and—"

"I said no," Curran interrupted. "I appreciate the concern but I'm the owner and I'll keep my characters the way I want them, thank you."

"Very well Mr Solomon."

The line went dead.

Minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

This time, it wasn't a cheerful delivery man. It was two figures in stark white armor, their faces hidden behind impassive black visors. They held a struggling Starfire between them, her hands bound in glowing energy cuffs. Her leotard was torn, and there was a bruise forming on her cheek.

She spat a curse in Tamaranean as they threw her to the floor in front of him. "This one's got a mouth on her," one of them said, his voice distorted by a speaker in his helmet.

"Thank you for your prompt service," Curran said, his voice dripping with an irony they completely missed. "You can go now."

They turned and left without another word.

He knelt down beside her, his hand reaching for the energy cuffs. He fumbled with them for a moment before finding the small release switch. They clicked open and fell away.

She immediately scrambled away from him, her back against the wall, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury. She was like a cornered animal, ready to lash out at anything that came near her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No," she hissed. "I am not 'okay'. I am a prisoner. Again. I tasted freedom for a few minutes, and then they dragged me back here. To you. Those animals beat me once I was in custody." She pointed a trembling finger at him. "All of you Prime Worlders," she spat the name out, "are monsters."

"I didn't know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "They shouldn't have done that. It's against the law."

Property laws that is.

"They tried to shove this machine in my face, but then one of them got a call. What did they want to do? 'Recondition' me, that's it." she said the word like it was a piece of spoiled meat. "What does that mean?"

"It means they would have erased parts of your memory," he explained, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Made you more... obedient. More compliant. I told them not to."

For the first time, a flicker of something other than anger crossed her face. It was confusion. "Why?" she asked. "Why would you do that? I have been nothing but defiant. I tried to escape. A 'good' owner would have had them wipe my mind without a second thought."

"Kory, I am a terrible owner." He mumbled sheepishly.

She snorted. Did she find that funny? Or was it just derision. He couldn't tell.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a first-aid kit and a cold compress. He held them out to her.

She just stared at it.

"Look at your face," He said, nodding towards the mirror on the wall. She looked, her fingers gently touching the bruise on her cheek. Her face hardened again.

She finally took the compress from him, her fingers brushing against his. It was the first time they had touched without **** or restraint. "You are a confusing creature, Curran Solomon," she said, her voice low. "You buy me, claim me as property, and yet you prevent them from making me more compliant. You treat me with a strange, hesitant kindness, and yet you are the cause of all of this."

"I told you, I'm not a great person," he said, sitting down on the ground a few feet away from her. "But I'm not a monster, either. Not like them. Not like the Gordanians. I don't want a doll. I don't want a mindless ****. If you're going to be here, I want you to be... you."

She didn't answer. She just held the compress to her cheek, her gaze lost in the middle distance.

"I'm sorry about your clothes," he said, changing the subject. "And about the... well, all of it."

"I do not care about the clothes," she said, her voice flat. "I care about my freedom. A freedom you stole from me."

"I know," he said. "And I... I can't give that back. Not really. The law... it's complicated. But maybe... maybe we can find a way to make this less of a prison."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"This doesn't have to be a cage," he said, gesturing to the house, the beach visible through the window behind him. "This is a beautiful place. Maybe you can find some peace here. Some... happiness. Eventually."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "You speak of happiness as if it is a commodity you can purchase, like me."

"I don't mean it like that," he said, frustrated. "Look, I don't know what I'm doing here, okay? This is all new to me too. I just... I know I don't want you to be miserable."

She stared at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of the waves outside.

Finally, she spoke. "My name," she said, her voice quiet but firm, "is Koriand'r. I will not answer to 'Kory'. My friends get to call me that." Her gaze was direct, unflinching. "You are not my friend."

He flinched at the finality in her tone. "Right," he said, his voice barely audible. "Koriand'r. Got it."

She stood up, her movements stiff and deliberate. "I am tired," she said, and turned to walk back towards her room, pausing at the doorway. "Thank you for the medical assistance." The words were clipped, formal, devoid of any warmth.

***

Curran was watching TV in the living room, some mindless reality show about a rich couple trying to decide on which pre-made universe to buy their summer home in, when he heard a soft sound from the hallway. He muted the television and turned to see Koriand'r standing there, watching him. She had changed out of her torn costume into a simple white t-shirt and jeans that he'd left outside her door. The shirt was a bit too big, hanging loosely on her frame, but it was a stark, simple change from the vibrant, alien outfit she'd arrived in. It made her look... almost normal.

"What are you watching?" she asked, her voice neutral.

"Uh, 'Buying a Dimension'," he said, a little taken aback by the sudden interaction. "It's trash. Just rich people flaunting their money."

She walked over to the couch but didn't sit, instead choosing to stand by the armrest, a careful distance between them. "On my Earth, television was... different. Less about this. More about information. And entertainment that did not involve purchasing realities."

"It's a weird world," Curran agreed. "Can I get you something? Water? Food? I... I can make something other than coffee."

She considered his offer for a moment. "I am... peckish," she admitted, as if the admission was a weakness she couldn't afford.

"Right. Okay. What do Tamaraneans eat? Or, well, what did you eat with the Titans? Pizza?"

A flicker of something crossed her face. A memory, maybe. "Beast Boy and Cyborg were very fond of pizza," she said softly, her gaze drifting towards the window. "It was... acceptable."

"I make a mean pizza," Curran said, standing up. "From scratch. Real dough, not that frozen stuff."

He led her into the kitchen, pointing to a stool at the large island. "You can... sit there. If you want."

She did, her posture still wary, watching his every move as he pulled flour, yeast, and water from the pantry. He worked in silence for a while, measuring and mixing, his hands moving with practiced ease. The domesticity of the scene felt surreal, like a scene from a play where the actors had forgotten their lines.

He started mumbling 'That's Amore' while working the dough.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Doing what? Making pizza?"

"This," she gestured vaguely at him, at the kitchen, at the house. "The kindness. The apologies. The medical supplies. It is... confusing. It goes against everything that makes sense in a world like this. You are a captor. I am your prisoner. You are not supposed to care if I am hungry or if my face is bruised."

Curran stopped kneading the dough and leaned against the counter. "I told you, I'm not a great person, but I'm not a monster. The realities of this world are utopian or dystopian depending on who you ask, but things like this are...normal. My science teacher was a Lex Luthor"

"That's...ridiculous," Koriand'r said, her brow furrowed. "Lex Luthor is a..."

"A villain," Curran finished for her. "Here, he's just a guy who got extracted from a universe, bought by a school and now he teaches physics. He still a genius with a napoleon complex but that doesn't mean anything here. It's...weird, I understand that but to me, it's normal. Like going to the zoo and seeing a talking tiger in a business suit, it's just another tuesday."

She processed that. It was a lot to take in. The casual way he spoke about it was what chilled her the most.

"So this is the 'paradise' the Prime Worlders enjoy," she said, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Built on the stolen lives of others."

"I didn't build it," he said, his voice defensive. "I was just born here. And I... I never really thought about the other side of it. Not until you."

He turned back to the dough, slamming it onto the counter with a bit more **** than necessary. "Look, I bought you for selfish reasons. I'm not gonna lie. I'm gonna buy others too. I've seen your file, I know what your powers are when you're happy, what you can absorb." He hesitated. "And yes, I'm attracted to you. It's a huge part of why I bought you."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, as if to say 'tell me something I don't know'.

"But," he continued, his voice dropping. "Seeing you here, scared and angry... it's not what I wanted. It's not a turn-on. This whole situation is... shitty. And I feel guilty about it. So I'm making pizza. It's the least I can do."

He spread the dough out on the bench. "What do you want on yours?"

She was silent for a long moment. He could feel her eyes on him. "Mint frosting."

He stopped. "What."

"Mint frosting," she repeated, her face completely serious.

"You want me to make mint buttercream? I don't think I have the ingredients for that." Curran said, very slowly

"Mint frosting," she said again, her voice a little more forceful. "It is a delicacy on Tamaran. You said you know everything about me."

He stared at her, then a slow grin spread across his face. "You're fucking with me."

The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. "Perhaps."

"Alright," he said, turning to the fridge. "How about Margarita? It's a classic, and basil's basically mint."

She didn't answer. He took that as a yes.

He worked in silence for a while, spreading the sauce, sprinkling the cheese, arranging the basil leaves. The moment was still strange, but the tension had eased slightly. He slid the pizzas into the preheated oven.

"Eat in front of the TV?"

"Your couch is white," she said.

"I like to live on the edge." He grinned.

She was unimpressed.