Terra #1 (of 5)

-Prologue 2-

“<Unacceptable!>” Queen Zenobia screamed in rage.

“<My dear, she has no family now,>” King Viktor said. “<We cannot simply leave her-->”

Zenobia slapped him hard across the face. Four times.

“<The brat child of your second mistress!>” she cawed so fiercely that her voice was fading, but she was far beyond caring. “<Second! Were it not for our legitimate boys, I would divorce you now!>”

“<And I would keep the boys,>” Viktor said darkly, “<And you would be the outcast, exiled and alone. Do not test me. I accept your rage at my infidelity; but I will not accept it towards the child. Is that clear?>”

Zenobia stared at him a long moment with cold eyes. Finally she said, “<The brat is your child, not mine. I will have no more to do with her than I have to.>”

“<That is probably best for all concerned,>” he agreed.

She stormed out.

Neither of them knew that both princes were wide awake and listening. They had heard the shouts, and while they could not make out the words, both of them were bright enough, and had heard enough whispers, to know what the were about.

Gregor, the older brother, crown prince at age 9, was moved to envy and fear of this new, unwanted child they had heard about.

Brion, the younger brother, at age 4, was moved to pity.

-1-

Markovia, Four years and seven months ago...

Princess Tara Illyichia Markov stormed out of royal chambers, with the strident cawing of the Queen and the more mocking call of her eldest half-brother echoing after her.

Prince Brion followed.

"<Tara, please-->" he began.

"<No, Brion.  Not this time.  Not even for you!>"  Tara's blue eyes were full of hate.  "<To hell with her!  To hell with them!  To hell with old daddy dearest!  To hell with this whole country!>"

"<You can't just run away,>" Brion pleaded.

At that she stopped, and turned to look at him, trying her best to control her anger.  To not lash out at the one person in the world who understood. 

She did her best to control her breathing.  "<Not just,>" she said finally.  "<And not run, not this time.  No, I'm cleverer than that, bro.  I've always been cleverer than that.>"

She turned away and began stalking down the corridor, more slowly.  With purpose.  With a plan.

"<Your cleverness was never the issue,>" Brion sighed.  "<Your temper is.  What are you planning now?>"

"<I won't tell you,>" she said.  "<But you gave me the idea.>"

"<Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better,>" Brion sighed.

"<It wasn't meant to,>" she said, and kept going.

She didn't look back.

-3-

Four years and six months ago....

In the basements--dungeons really--below the Markovian Royal Palace, Tara Markov lay on a metal-and-plastic table.  Above the table hovered an ominous device that looked part laser cannon and part giant syringe.

In the shadows, Doctor Helga Jace smiled grimly down at her.  "<I've refined the process a bit since I used it on Brion.  Your powers will be similar, but not identical.  Are you certain you want to go through with this?>"

"<More certain than of anything I've ever been in my life,>" she answered with equal measures of pride and anger.

Jace chuckled at her naive enthusiasm. “<Very well,>” she said.

She pressed three buttons and threw a switch. The power blazed on and an orange-golden line of energy lanced downwards from the cannon into Tara.

She screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

-5-

Four years and five months ago.....

Doctor Jace had put her back in her room without incident. Recovery from the “illness” that was her trauma had taken three days. Not unexpected; Brion had suffered similarly. But the pain.....God, the pain....

She had shaken it off; it was more than worth it. Instead of Brion's games with lava manipulation, she could control the Earth itself. This excited her, and Jace too, realizing how much potential she had. It was Jace that facilitated her escape, this time.

Tara thought it would be some intrigue; in the dark of night or some such. But Jace was going to meet some people; officially it was supposed to be some kind of seminar on genetic manipulation; but in truth she was going to meet members of a secret organization called the Manhunters. Tara stowed away in her car, and by the time anyone even realized she was missing, she was in the more remove provinces near the northern border. Doctor Jace had suggested a disguise, but Tara hadn't given it any real thought until she was out there, alone. Using her powers to steal enough money to sustain herself was easy; keeping from being caught or identified was another. And as she was still in Markovia, it was only a matter of time. So she crossed the border and fled, eventually ending up in Lithuania.

She hadn't really started out planning to be a costumed super villain; it had mildly bemused her to realize that was what she was becoming.

So she had raided a costume shop in the Lithuanian town of Taurage, and came up with the original version of her costume. After some thought, she chose the name Terra for herself, based on the Latin name for Earth.

-7-

“I still don't know about this,” Tara muttered.

While Tara had hated the Royal Palace, had wanted nothing but to get away from Markovia at the earliest possible opportunity, it was also the only life she had ever known. She had seen American and Japanese cultural influences on television, of course, and while not an internet person in those earlier days, she had skimmed it and seen things that interested her. But by culture and understanding, she had been Markovian through and through, whatever her feelings about the country. Being a freelance villain had been a culture shock, not only in how other cultures went about their business, but especially in matters of cuisine.

So when Gar had found out that a Markovian ethnic restaurant had opened in New York, her feelings had been mixed. On the one hand, she would delight in eating the cuisine she had been raised on again. On the other, any reminder of her home was always disquieting, at best.

But Gar saw it as being like that visit to the quaint retro ice cream parlor in Philadelphia. When Tara got twitchy about it, he suggested they bring some of the other Titans with them. This irritated and placated her in equal measures; one the one hand she'd prefer a night alone with Gar, on the other the Titans had long since accepted her, and their support would be welcome.

That thought sometimes brought her up short; the Titans had long since accepted her.

It wasn't just that she was accepted—a still sometimes mind boggling thing to her—but that she was no longer even the new girl. That was Carrie, now. Tara was looked on as one of the trusted veterans of the team. She had never found that kind of acceptance anywhere. Not in Markovia, not in Geomancer's crew, not in the Suicide Squad. Well, except for Killer Frost....and Frost had issues of her own.

So they eventually decided that Dick, Kory, Rachel, Wally, and Carrie would go with her and Gar to the restaurant.

The place did not require reservations, at least not yet. Apparently they were trying to drum up business and did not yet want to risk turning anyone away (the Markovian immigrant population of New York was thriving, but small). But they did require formal dress. So Tara had slipped into a little black dress and matching silk gloves. Emeralds glittered around her neck. It suited her style in terms of how provocative it was, but not in terms of how rich and pretentious it was. Carrie actually appreciated the dress code; it enabled her to bind up her wings and hide them under the heavy velvet dress she had chosen. She rarely got to go out in public as anything but a costumed superhero.

They closed in on the doors of the place, amber light spilling out onto the street.

“Relax, it will be fine,” Gar assured her.

Tara hissed a sigh through her teeth.

“I'd thought you'd want to reconnect with your heritage,” Carrie said softly behind her.

Tara quelled her hanger and looked back over her shoulder. “I know why you feel that way, red. But my country isn't a place I ever want to go back to.”

“Perhaps you blame the country too much for what happened to you personally,” Rachel said.

Tara shrugged. “Maybe. I don't want anything bad to happen to the country; just don't want to go back there. Ever.”

“Um, maybe this ain't the best time to point this out,” Gar said, “But your natural accent slipped through a little when you said that.”

Tara stopped and stared at him. “It did?”

“You even dropped a personal pronoun,” Dick said.

Tara stomped her foot. And that hurt; she hardly ever wore heels. “Ugh! Come on, let's get this over with.” She stormed through the front door.

Inside, the lighting of the place was warm candle light, no electric light anywhere (save the kitchens); but the walls were cold stone like a mausoleum. Though the kitchen and dining areas were on the main floor, it nevertheless had the air and feeling of a cellar.

“Welcome to--” the maitre d began, then stopped, and stared.

At her.

“<Princess?>” He gasped in Markovian.

Tara buried her face in her hands. “<Oh no. Please, no....>”

But he was already turning and shouting back into the kitchen in Markovian. “<The princess! Princess Tara has come to us!>”

“<Please, stop,>” she begged him. “<I only came to sample the food of the old country-->”

“<Yes, but we must honor you properly!>”

“<There is nothing to honor! I am an unwanted bastard of the throne, you must know this!>”

The man sobered a little. “<Princess, the crown may not have appreciated you, but we did. The people do not turn away one who was, in so many ways, one of us. You are loved more than the other royals.>”

Tara stared at him. “<What? But....but I...I was never really one of you at all!>”

The man flinched; at first Tara thought he was offended, but then realized he was trying not to bow before her. “<You are not the first unwanted child of the Throne in our history, your Highness. The current dynasty was founded by such a one, did you know that?”

Tara blinked and swayed a little on her feet. “<No....no I didn't....>” And she felt a moment of stunned realization; that was the reason Zenobia truly hated her. Father's infidelity was secondary. Zenobia had always seen her as a threat to her boys. How much it must have galled her to acknowledge Tara's claim to the throne when Gregor died! For all that Tara did not want it.

“<It was Prince Brion who first told us where you had gone, and inspired us to come here.>”

“<Oh he did, did he.>” Tara ground her teeth. “<I shall have to speak to him next time I see him. Really, there was no need to pretend the people favor me.>”

“Uh, Tara?” Gar asked her, but she waved him into silence.

The maitre d looked sad. “<I assure you your majesty, I tell you true; the people do love you.>”

Tara sighed and quelled her rage. “<I am no royal, save by accident of birth. If the people value me, then I appreciate that; but I am royal in name only.>”

“<Nevertheless, you are seen by many as the people's princess. Please, let us honor you.>”

Tara sighed again, heavily. “<All right then. But no ostentatious feast, please. Let me and my companions choose from the menu. One of the reasons I consented to this at all was to show them the food of....of our lands.>”

“<Certainly, certainly!>” But as he led them into the restaurant proper, half the wait staff was bowing and scraping, and one of the cooks had come out to kneel.

Tara sighed. This was going to be a long night.

-9-

That night, as they lay on the bean bag chair, Tara said, “All right honey, you win.”

Gar turned in the semi dark and looked at her. “Win what, doll?”

“We'll go meet your pa-...the Doom Patrol.”

He hugged her and she sighed.