The Imperial/Fiction/Queen of Peace
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
This is one of three short vignettes written about The Imperial by Alumette. The were originally posted in December 2006 on the COHGuru fan forum.
- "The Library"
- "Angola Storm"
- "Queen of Peace"
London, 1941
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. ‘f I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Lydia Drake’s reedy, accented, seven-year-old voice wafted up to the heavens, carried along on the innocence and fervor that only a child could muster. “Bless Sister Mary an’ Sister Agnes. Bless Madeline an’ Abby. Bless Susan an’ Ramona an’ Penelope an’ Molly. An’ I’m sorry f’r hittin’ Eleanor before lunchtime, an’ f’r pickin’ my scab in church. Tell mommy and daddy I love them, an’ hope they have their angel’s wings. Amen.”
Lydia climbed into bed, touching the iron headboard three times before snuggling down in between the crisp sheet and the scratchy wool blanket. Abby had told her it would keep the monsters away, touching the headboard three times. Lydia wasn’t sure why it worked but since she’d come to Our Lady Queen of Peace orphanage, no monsters had come out from under her bed during the night; so it must work. She could hear the sounds of the other children breathing, coughing, crying. Everyone was trying to be quiet, it was lights-out time; and it was hard enough to sleep in a room with 39 other girls, all with rumbling tummies—there was never enough to eat—and the gaping loneliness that comes from not having parents. Most of their parents had been killed in the war. Some girls had seen their parents die before their very eyes; others had come home from school to find their house in ruins after a German bombing run, or had heard the news from a constable during an otherwise routine day. In Lydia’s case, she had been the only one to survive when her house had been bombed to rubble a year ago.
She listened to the darkness in the room, trying to fall asleep in her usual way: mentally running through the procedure to follow during an air raid: the gas mask, line up, follow the sisters to the take-shelter area, pray. She visualized it, she counted each step in her mind. As many times as they had had air raid drills, and even real bombing runs, she knew: it was 12 steps from her bed to her foot locker for her gas mask, 43 steps from her foot locker to the hallway, 78 steps down the hallway to the old staircase; which had 26 steps to the cellar, where they would line up against the wall and tuck their bodies into tight balls, heads covered, listening for their names and then, “Present!” Somewhere between steps 38 and 39 between her foot locker and the hallway in her little mental exercise, Lydia began to drift off to sleep.
The banshee wail of the air raid siren yanked her from her much worked-for peaceful state. Some of the other girls were crying, but Lydia hopped out of bed and began counting her steps. …10, 11, 12. Foot locker. Still creaky. Gas mask. Sister Agnes appeared in the doorway with a torch, its batteries freshly replaced, and began shepherding the girls into their single-file line. Lydia’s heart pounded, she kept to her counting to keep the images of her dying mother and crushed father at bay. …40, 41, 42, 43. Hallway. Turn right. Try to keep Abby in view. Hallway is dark. Can’t see. Stupid gas mask—too big. …22, 23, 24…
She could hear the planes, their low rumbling, droning, like giant bees. They were getting closer. Distant, high-pitched whistles and their accompanying explosions told her this was not drill. She remembered how the whistle of the bomb that came for her house sounded different than the others. She listened and prayed she wouldn’t hear that sound again. Her little heart pounded in her chest. Keep counting…35, 36, 37… Lydia shivered, her bony elbows and shoulderblades pushing her too-big threadbare linen nightgown out at odd angles as it hung on her body like a dust cover on furniture in an abandoned house. The roar of the airplanes came closer, and Lydia’s tiny feet pattered along faster on the tile floor. She tried hard to keep Abby in view ahead of her, but in the darkness, and with her gas mask slipping down, it was hard. 58, 59, 60…
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeee BOOM! Dust rattled from the ceiling and the walls shook. A window shattered and the concussive force knocked several of the little ones to the floor, crying. Suddenly the hallway was no longer quite as dark, as the flames from the nearby bomb blast tauntingly sent their dancing light creeping in and around the edges of the window shades, drawn per curfew regulations to make it harder for the Germans to target their bombs and rockets.
This one had hit the orphanage kitchen. Lydia’s breathing grew shallow and she and the other girls began to run towards the staircase. What step was she on? The explosion had made her lose count! She was going to die! Where was Abby? Sister Agnes? The plane was right above the orphanage! She heard the whistle of the rocket coming straight towards them.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEE Boom! The brickwork near her shattered and crumbled inwards. Lydia ducked, cowering away from the debris as the rest of the wall fell away. Where was the explosion? How come she wasn’t dead? The light of the blazing kitchen fire spilled in through the gaping hole in the wall and Lydia looked out across the courtyard, dazed. She could see the crater where the rocket had hit, a kilometre or so from the orphanage, half-illuminated by the kitchen fire. How had it missed them? She stared…
…and then saw a man in burgundy and gold bound out from the crater and fly off into the night. Her eyes grew wide.
“Lydia! Lydia Drake!” Sister Agnes was pulling her by the hand towards the staircase.
IMPERIAL RESCUES ORPHANAGE! The newspaper photo was impressive, showing the Imperial in a dynamic pose, wrestling with the deadly rocket, his face a mask of grim determination.
“Lydia Drake?” The lady at the registration desk called her forward, and Lydia closed her scrapbook, smiling.
“Welcome to Paragon City,” the registrar said. “Have you filled out your hero registration?” Lydia nodded confidently, now a young woman in her early twenties, and handed the form across the desk. The registrar smiled, glancing over the form, “Queen of Peace,” she smiled. “That’s a nice name for a heroine.”
