Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

as at home and on the streets, nothing serious, just fun that boys had. Vincent had been disconsolate when Scrambler was electrocuted by a live wire on a building site they were playing on. They were both nine when it happened, Scrambler coming to his senses and able to walk away from it after a good few hours to recover and get his breath and his brain back. The burns were minimal, and he managed to hide them from his mother for a fortnight and tried to pass them off as a rash. She had his father give him a hiding for not telling them and for lying. The kids managed to get away with a lot between them, but this one didn’t get past them.

Scrambler owned up to his mother in later years about how he got the burns. She’d been horrified to hear it, that he could have died and didn’t receive any medical treatment. She was the one who needed medical treatment then, not far off her death bed. He didn’t like to dwell on that, how they all went downhill. It was better to remember the happy times. Her cooking in the days before the oven packed up for good. She was originally from Algeria and gave them a mix of French dishes and Algerian cuisine. Some of the other kids they knew turned their noses up at the thought of it, but Scrambler and his siblings told them straight that they were missing out. They had the best of both worlds. There was the odd bit of bother that helped them all to toughen up. Their father took no shit. As far as he was concerned, his children were French, and the act of marriage made his wife French no matter where she was from. Mama liked the sentiment behind this and appreciated the public support and would not contradict him even if she had fine print to add. She was the wife of a Frenchman and had as much right as anyone else to be in France. She remained Algerian.

The electrics, watches, all gizmos began to deteriorate shortly after Scrambler was electrocuted. The family pinpointed it down to him relatively quickly. They would send him down to the shops when they wanted to listen to radio shows. They would know when he was heading back down the street because the reception would go. Sometimes they’d come out and wave him away, telling him to come back in 10 minutes. Longer and all. He remembered this fondly, his family accepting of this quirk as some minor inconvenience and not the mark of a freak.

Puberty hit and his presence began disrupting things to the next level. The range of his power increased as did the damage. Temporary fluctuations grew to permanent damage. Vincent’s watch went backwards for four days before giving up the ghost entirely. No lights, no electrics. Buses became no-go zones for him. He began to think he was born in the wrong century. He’d have been fine 500 years ago, although he’d still have to avoid printing presses or anything else that innovators had kicking about back then. The family, bless them, stuck by him. They had candles, they had each other. Just not their health. They fell one by one until the boy that had been shocked close to death was the last one standing.

Loneliness and boredom had seen him wander the streets before he joined the Foundation. It worked to his advantage that he had plenty of prior form for milling around. He would often be sent on his way by the Germans. He had been arrested once, which was a boon as he got to fuck up the building good and proper from the inside. He had not been lonely or bored since meeting the Love Phantom, housing his harem a pleasure as it was great to have company in the big quiet house again. But he wanted them to do a lot, lot more so that they could brag to the Love Phantom about what they’d done in his absence when he came back. Which would hopefully be very soon. It wasn’t the same without him.

Chapter 14

Whose Group is it Anyway?

It had been four days since Marcella last saw César. Not such a long time, especially considering they regularly went longer than that. They didn’t live together. The Love Phantom liked to be alone often with the Love Phantom. She had a hell of a rival for his affections in her own lover. Whether they ever would live together... discussions had been had, the future an unknown entity more mysterious than any member of the Foundation. Ironically, it was a non-gifted member of the Foundation who was the most enigmatic of them all, their agent on the inside of the Vichy administration, Hector. César wore plastic and cloth masks; Hector’s mask was his own face, living the pretence in his job and private life of possessing ideals and beliefs completely contrary to his own.

Hector would not contact them until César was back. That was unspoken yet understood. Who knew how long that would be? Rationally, Marcella knew not to worry about César. The Gestapo would care for him, as everybody did. Still, could they really be absolutely certain they would not be torn by affection for him and the need to do their duty? It was quite possible to love somebody and destroy them. Quite commonplace in some quarters. The chances of him receiving the torture treatment were very, very slim. But until they heard some news about him, anything was possible.

Not working made her worse. It gave her too much time on her hands for her imagination to go into overdrive. César was not equipped to suffer. He had no practice at all, no need to develop mental or physical toughness. Marcella fancied she would fare better if things turned rough than he would.

Why she’d promised him she’d wait at least a