Myfireplacewentboom

25, London

[myfireplacewentboom]

Deciphering Cupid - Chapter 6

(A Dean Cipher romance story)

Miranda Lovelace can make anyone fall in love. Ranked Ninth in Godolkin University’s coveted Top Ten, ‘Cupid’ knows what she wants and how to get it: to become the most famous influencer in the world.

Unfortunately, the new Dean isn’t so impressed. Since taking up the mantle, Cipher has made himself abundantly clear: supes are soldiers, not influencers. After he humiliates her, Miranda plots devious revenge: make Dean Cipher fall pathetically in love. Having him wrapped around her little finger will be so much fun…

But as her relationship with the Dean develops, Miranda discovers not everything is as it seems. Horrifyingly, she catches feelings for Cipher herself. As she falls deeper and deeper in love with him, the man she thought she knew as ‘Cipher’ threatens to drag her further and further into the darkness…

6. Submission

Alone and hidden from all witnesses, Miranda Lovelace had finally seen the cracks in Dean Cipher’s perfect mask of propriety. Their kiss in the forest had been frantic, almost painful, as Cipher’s hands had gone to her waist and he’d pulled her against his body with the animalistic urgency of a man furious with desire. She had gasped against his mouth in shock at his sudden forwardness, her insides squirming with hideous delight as her brain frantically processed her body’s actions. She was kissing Cipher. She was kissing the Dean! She had breathed him in — that clean linen scent she adored — and her hands had flown to Cipher’s hair and her fingers had knotted themselves tightly within his soft, dark curls. More. She had pressed herself closer against his ironed cotton shirt, giddily savouring the warmth from the man’s chest. She needed more.

Miranda’s hips arched up and down as she pleasured herself. Eyes closed, mouth set tightly in concentration, back pressed firmly into the mattress. Cipher’s amused, wicked smirk and his deep, velvety voice played over and over again in her mind like a phantom. “You can’t tell anyone about this.” He had warned her strictly that day, lifting her chin with his thumb. “This will be our little secret.” He had made her promise him this before he’d pressed his mouth to hers again, smirking. “So… Your lips do taste like cherries…” 

She circled her clit slowly with feather-light fingers. She remembered the feel of Cipher’s lips and his short, scratchy beard and his cool breath in her ear with quivering excitement. She remembered the subtle tent in his trousers, the satisfaction and rush she’d felt when she’d pressed her stomach slowly against the hard length in his tan linen pants and heard him quietly groan. She imagined him smoothly unbuttoning those trousers, pinning her firmly against a tree, and seizing his pleasure right then and there with dark, smirking eyes as the forest rocked around her. Her sex ached with longing.

The door opened.

Fuck! She yanked her hand away. Threw down her skirt and closed her legs. Georgia and Joe walked in a second later, deep in conversation. Her best friend threw her a curious, cursory glance but turned away again, and the two paid her no further attention. Thank God… Cheeks bright red, heart hammering, fingers slightly sticky, Miranda fell back onto the bed and watched them both subtly as she pretended to scroll on her phone.

“—I don’t know if I want to go back, Joe, I just don’t know. You weren’t there. Vikor crushed his spine and bent it like a pipe — I saw it happen.” Georgia’s voice was strained. She dropped her bag onto the floor and ran a hand through her hair, looking helplessly at him. “What if Cipher brings him back? What if Vikor goes after me next time? Or Lisa?”

Joe looked concerned. “Is Lisa still planning on going?” 

“I think so. I was the only one who asked Cipher to take me off the list.” Georgia said, climbing onto her bed and sitting against the wall. Joe followed her, taking her hand in his.

“I think you’ve done the right thing.”

“Take you off what list?” Miranda interrupted. She sat up on her bed and looked at the two of them confused. “What’s going on? Why are you back so early?”

Georgia hesitated for a moment. Her mouth opened and closed a few times and her brow furrowed. “Cameron’s dead.” She said at last, flatly.

Miranda blinked. “What? How?” She asked in disbelief.

Georgia looked very tired. “He was killed in today’s class. Please don’t ask me to get into it, I’ve just told all of it to Joe and I don’t want to recount it all again.”

“But Cameron’s invincible when he touches metal—”

“—I said he’s dead, OK?”

Miranda sat back, stunned. Cameron Johnson, the mildly irritating football jock who had dared to ask her out in first year was… dead?

“But he was just a student,” She said stupidly. 

Joe gave her a small, sad smile. “Since when has that ever counted for anything? Remember Shetty and her super virus? That any of us are alive today is a bloody miracle,” He pointed out, though not unkindly.

“But he was a student,” Miranda repeated, to no one in particular. Georgia and Joe had turned away again and were quietly talking amongst each other. Miranda shivered, drawing her arms around herself. She watched the two of them in silence and felt very alone.

“It feels stupid to give it up now, though. I worked my arse off to get into that class,” Georgia said exasperatedly. “And it was going really well and I was improving so much and I was happy… How could they have done that to him? It was a slaughter, Joe. He didn’t even give him a chance to fight back… I was so angry…” Then her voice faltered, and doubt flickered across her face. “Urgh. What if I have done the wrong thing, asking Cipher to take me off? It was such a spur of the moment thing, I wasn’t thinking straight. Oh god, I don’t know.” She mumbled, putting her hands over her head.

Joe rubbed her back. “You don’t need to decide right now. Give it a while and think it over properly and if you decide you want to go back, you can. There’s no rush,” He said kindly.

“No rush?” Georgia laughed humourlessly. “There’s only graduation in June, remember. What if this stops me from getting into The Seven?” She shook her head, her voice rising. “I can’t let this stop me, Joe!”

“Hey! Hey, listen to me — you still have time. Graduation’s months away. You just watched your classmate die. You need time to process this,” Joe said firmly. “No-one is going to blame you for this. Missing a few of these classes isn’t going to hurt your chances of joining. You think The Deep went to all of his classes? Really?”

Georgia smiled weakly. “You’re right.” She said quietly. Then her face crumpled and she looked apologetic. “Sorry, it’s just been a really long day.”

“You’re all good.”

She drew him into a fierce hug. “Let’s do something else, please. I don’t want to think about this anymore right now. Let’s do literally anything else.”

“Why won’t we watch the next episode of Critical Role? And I can go make us some tea if you want?”

Georgia smiled. “Yes, please.”

Miranda observed all of this quietly hiding behind her phone screen, and averted her eyes when they kissed. She watched Joe jump up from the bed, grab Georgia’s laptop from her bag, and pass it to her. She watched, a gnawing pain in her chest, as he took out two ceramic mugs — the rabbit one and the squirrel one — and dropped a teabag into each, whistling along with the kettle. The pain in her chest grew stronger. She wanted to say something, she didn’t know what, anything to get Georgia to look her way again, but the words seemed to get stuck in her throat and the silence grew louder and louder. Finally, when Joe walked back in with two steaming mugs of tea, Miranda cleared her throat awkwardly and coughed.

“Ahem… I’m going to the library… I’ll see you later.” She mumbled, sliding off the bed and grabbing her handbag.

Joe waved at her. Georgia said nothing, staring at her laptop. Then, when Miranda reached for the door handle, she said suddenly, “Wait.” 

She glanced back. Georgia was looking at her, frowning. “Are you still trying to make Cipher fall in love with you?”

Joe spluttered into his tea. “You’re trying to do what?” He choked.

Miranda’s face grew very hot. The two of them were staring at her intently. Cipher's deep, authoritative voice flooded her mind. You can’t tell anyone about this… This will be our little secret. Nobody can know. 

Ignoring Joe’s outburst, Miranda kept her eyes focused on Georgia. “No. I gave up on that a little while ago. It lost its fun,” She lied.

Georgia did not look convinced. She hesitated — her mouth opened, and for a moment it seemed as if she had more she wanted to say. But her gaze turned. She nodded curtly. “Well, have fun at the library.” 

Miranda nodded. The door shut firmly behind her.

…

She hated her stupid, childish anxiety, hated how fast her heartbeat raced, hated how the tiny little hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck stood up in the cold, dark corridor as she stood outside the Dean’s office, waiting. Her hands itched. It was the waiting that was unbearable. Fingers trembling, Miranda took out the compact mirror from her handbag and frowned in concentration. God damn it. There was just the tiniest smudge of eyeliner right above her left eye… 

“Come in.” Cipher’s deep, authoritative voice ordered from behind the door, causing her to jump and almost drop the mirror. Her stomach fluttered sickly. She quickly wiped the smudge above her eye. As she stepped inside, her left hand rested on the mahogany doorframe as she looked around unsurely. You've been in this office a hundred times, Miranda scolded herself. And yet today was different. There was an uncomfortable, unsaid weight hanging in the air. It was the first time she had seen Cipher since the kiss.

The Dean stood at the back of the office next to his desk, underneath the elaborate crest of Godolkin University. The stained glass window cast a beam of multicoloured light upon him and split his face into sinister patchworks of red and blue. Deep crimson lines were drawn across his forehead. His lips were twisted into a dark blue frown. She was surprised to see him wearing a black suit instead of his usual favoured grey, which he’d paired with a black-and-white checked tie which made him look all the more severe. Dark purple bags haunted the underneath of his eyes. His arms were folded and in one hand he clutched a tightly rolled up newspaper. 

Miranda hovered uncertainly by the door. “Are you free?” She asked lightly. 

She felt so stupid, a silly little girl with a crush. She hoped Cipher didn’t notice how pink her cheeks had gone, or the repetitive way she smoothed down her perfectly curled hair. She suddenly felt a wave of anxiety overcome her. It was a mistake to have come. It was a mistake to have kissed him. Cipher would not be interested in a silly girl like her. “Sorry — you’re busy. I’ll go.” she said nervously, taking a hesitant step back into the freezing corridor.

Cipher’s lips twitched upwards in the eerie blue light. “No. Come in and shut the door.” He ordered, throwing the newspaper down hard so it slapped upon the desk. When she didn’t move, but stood there staring anxiously at him, he asked dryly, “Or are you going to hover there all day?”

Blushing, Miranda obeyed. She pushed the door shut gently, turning the fine mahogany handle carefully until she heard it click into place. Cipher watched her approach with dark, inscrutable eyes. She wondered if he, too, was preoccupied by what had happened in the woods on Sunday. It was all she could think about; it plagued her incessantly. She had to know that it wasn’t a mistake. That he didn't regret what he'd done.

“How are you?” she said softly. She didn’t know what else to say. ‘Hi, I want to talk about what happened between us on the weekend’ seemed a little bit too forward and the Dean had a frown on his face. She shouldn’t have come. A student had died this morning. It wasn't the right time for romance.

Cipher ignored her question. Instead, he asked slowly, purposefully, “You want to know what I really hate?”

Miranda paused, confused. Did he think she had told someone about their illicit kiss? He had to know she would never tell anyone, right? Sweat beaded on her palms. 

“What?” she dared to ask.

“Mediocrity.”

She looked at him, lost. Cipher continued, gesturing widely around them. 

“This university ranks amongst the highest colleges in all America — no, the world. It is the most exclusive, the most expensive, the most desirable school any self-respecting super-abled student possessing an ounce of ambition could dream of attending. The talentless out there—” he waved a hand at the stained glass window, “—why, most would give up their right arm to have superpowers and train in a school like this. In these hallowed halls we cultivate perfection and nothing less. We take on new identities, we take on destinies, we become something much bigger than ourselves…” Cipher’s eyes took on a cold, frightening edge. She watched him nervously although his tone remained casual. “It sickens me to witness the mediocrity of students at this school.”

Miranda did not know what to say. She fiddled with the pearl bracelet on her left hand, heart hammering. Cipher drew closer and for one wild, giddy moment she thought he was about to touch her, but the Dean glided past and filled a glass of water from the carafe on the table. 

“I assume by now you’ve heard of this morning’s little incident.” He said, taking a sip. “In case there’s any confusion about what I’m referring to.”

“Yes, I heard… How awful.”

Cipher nodded. He set the glass back carefully on the table and drummed his fingers against the surface. “The boy’s death is unfortunate. Vought will not like it when I inform them of another student’s death on campus. It spooks their shareholders.” he said, leaning against the table and staring up at the high stone ceiling contemplatively. Away from the stained glass window, in the bright morning light, she noticed how old he suddenly seemed, with the dark bags and tired, creased frown.

She debated her next question, hesitant to anger him. But her curiosity finally won. “How did Cameron die?” She asked.

Cipher cocked an eyebrow at her. “You really want to know?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

The Dean’s expression turned gravely serious. He spoke with the slow solemnity of a priest in sermon. “He was crushed to death by Vikor’s enormous hammer. His brains splattered all over the floor.”

Miranda stared at him, aghast. She didn't know exactly how she expected their first conversation would go since he had kissed her in the woods but it certainly wasn't this. 

Cipher snorted. A snicker gargled its way out of his throat and he laughed wildly, throwing his head back as the sound echoed harshly around the heavy, stone walls. “I mean, that must have been some way to go!” He spluttered though laughs. “Talk about overkill on Vikor’s part, oh my god! I wouldn’t be surprised if the poor cleaner was still there now cleaning up the chunks.” He wiped his eyes. “I’ll have to have a word with Vikor…that fucking Viking.” Then he seemed to notice her again and frowned.

“Oh, come on, what’s with that face? You didn’t actually like the boy, did you?”

“I-I didn’t really know him—”

Cipher cut her off with a wave. “He was part of the mediocre rot that permeates this school to its core. He should never have been allowed in in the first place. Another bullet point in my predecessor’s long, disappointing list of failures.”

“He was still a student…”

“Please. Do you think this school should tolerate such weakness? Coddle such mediocrity?”

Miranda wiped at her eye. She pulled her hand back and was surprised to see liquid glistening back at her on her fingers. “No… Sorry… I just—”

Cipher eyed her coldly. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m sorry…” She whispered. 

She hated when he was angry with her. The tears were falling now, hot and ugly. The room and the man in front of her swam with blurry distortion. Why are you always crying, she asked herself angrily. But Miranda knew why. Reality had broken her fantasy — of course Cipher had better things to do than think about kissing his silly little PA. Of course he wouldn’t want to discuss what happened. He was busy thinking about Vought and the shareholders and the dead student, for god’s sake. What did she think was going to happen when she stepped through that door? That he would take her into his arms and declare his love for her? She knew him better than that.

Cipher moved towards her in the watery visage. She felt him take her hands in his. His skin was cold to the touch. Like a serpent, she thought suddenly, a cold-blooded creature. 

“Sometimes I forget that you’re so young, that you’re not used to seeing death all around you like I am,” He murmured, his thumb tracing light circles on her hand in a sudden, surprising display of affection. “I wish I could keep you this innocent forever.”

A shiver ran deliciously through her body and all her worry evaporated instantly. There he was again, her favourite Dean. The Dean who cherished her. The Dean who desired her. The touch of his hand reassured her. Yes, he still wanted her. She wasn't deluded. Cipher's words held the thrilling promise of her inevitable corruption. He would strip her of her innocence, remould her in his image, and she would never cry again.

“You know, you’re one of the most powerful superheroes I’ve ever trained,” Cipher continued. His voice dropped to a low whisper and she drank up his words like honey. “And together we’re going to change the world.”

She had nothing to worry about. He didn’t regret the kiss, Miranda confirmed with elation. They would remake the world together, she at his side. Her body sighed with relief. Cipher threw a quick glance over his shoulder. Breath hitched, Miranda closed her eyes and waited eagerly for his lips to touch hers… 

They never did. 

Embarrassed, she opened her eyes. Cipher looked back at her with an amused look on his face. She knew her disappointment was obvious; she’d never been good at hiding her feelings.

“Not whilst we’re on campus.” He warned softly, releasing her. 

Miranda nodded mutely. She looked away, cheeks burning, blinking rapidly before any more tears had the chance to fall.

The Dean’s tone then became very serious. “I need your help with something,” He said quietly.

“Y-yes, of course. Anything,” She stammered.

“Good girl,” Cipher smiled. “It concerns your roommate — Georgia Moorhouse. The supe known as ‘Hurricane.’”

“What about her?”

“The two of you are rather close, aren’t you?”

Not recently, Miranda thought bitterly, but she nodded. The Dean continued, smiling sadly. “Then you’re likely already aware, but Georgia was deeply affected by Cameron’s unfortunate demise. She was… overwhelmed, and quit the optimisation seminar shortly afterwards. It’s such a shame — I understand she used to have aspirations of joining The Seven one day. She was quite the rising star.”

“She still does,” Miranda said uncertainly. “Want to join The Seven, I mean.” She clarified.

“Which will be very difficult without her completing the course —Vought will notice her absence. Perhaps you can give her the little encouragement she needs, hm?”

“You want me to use my powers on Georgia?”

“Correct,” Cipher said, “It’s for her own good. The particular talent she possesses — it would be a crime to waste. And in this war we need all the soldiers we can get,” He added solemnly.

She shivered under his enigmatic gaze, considering his words. She had never used her powers on her best friend before; the two of them shared an unsaid, mutual understanding that this would be crossing some sort of sacred boundary. Miranda would never, ever use her powers on Georgia. This was their Rubicon. And yet, Cipher’s words made complete sense. Georgia did want to join The Seven. She did excel in her optimisation seminar. And if she never found out…what was the harm?

“OK,” Miranda whispered.

“Good girl,” Cipher nodded, pleased. “And — try not to faint. After all, I won’t be there to catch you this time.” He joked mockingly. “Now, you’re delightful, but I need to prepare for the opening address of Modesty Monarch’s uninspiring new course so I’ll see you later. After all, I can’t embarrass myself in front of you all on stage now, can I?” He winked at her in what was a clear dismissal and leapt up the stairs to his desk.

Miranda followed him hesitantly. “Can I help at all?” she asked.

Cipher smiled patiently. “I’m afraid not. Love the enthusiasm, but just do what I told you — get Georgia back to class. I won’t have others following her example. We need all the soldiers we can get; we can’t have drop-outs,” He said gravely. “Remember, this is a fight for our survival.”

Whilst the Dean was speaking, Miranda’s eyes drifted down towards the newspaper he had thrown earlier upon his desk. The paper had unfurled from its roll so she could read the headline, which surprised her.

‘MARIE MOREAU SIGHTED IN WEEHAWKEN.”

Her curiosity emboldened her. “You’re still looking for Marie?” She asked. “She went missing months ago. Why?”

Cipher twirled his fountain pen and looked up at her with dark, unreadable eyes. When he spoke, the resolve in his voice sent a shiver up her spine.

“I told you. We need all the soldiers we can get…”

…

“Submission. It’s a dirty word, isn’t it? A taboo word. A word we women have learnt to shy away from. We don’t like being told to submit — we’re superheroes, we have powers, we’re not like other women — why should we submit?” asked Miranda’s ex-favourite professor. She paused dramatically, pursing her pale pink lips. “But what if I told you — and this is the truth that I’ve fought my whole life to share — that submission is a woman’s greatest superpower? Human, or indeed, otherwise.”

Her translucent wings shimmered prettily underneath the harsh stage lights. Miranda fought back the urge to roll her eyes as Modesty Monarch continued, “In today’s America, we women have forgotten how to live harmoniously with our divine feminine purpose. To serve and attend our husbands, our saviour Jesus Christ, and our heavenly Father who guides us from above — God.” She paused, smiling. “Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Living a godly life. A life that He can be proud of. As a devoted daughter, a wife, and one day, as a mother.” 

Murmurs of approval sounded throughout the audience. Modesty Monarch’s voice took on a harsh, unpleasant edge. “Liberal feminism is the root cause of all problems in our society. The rise in cost of living, the shortage of affordable housing, the spike in male youth violence — all of these issues sweeping our glorious nation today have grown because we women have abandoned our ways. We have become selfish. America is suffering. We are suffering.” Modesty Monarch gave the audience a long, hard look. “But it’s not too late. The damage wrought by these hairy, overweight feminists on our beautiful country is reversible. One step at a time.”

She beamed as the screen lit up pink behind her displaying bold, white lettering. “That’s why I’m so proud to stand before you all today at the launch of my new course at Godolkin University for young, super-abled women: ‘Super Submission.’ Let’s make American women modest again! Thank you.” She held her hands together and smiled piously as rapturous applause sounded throughout the lecture theatre.

As she clapped politely, Miranda looked to where Cipher stood at the side of the stage. He was grinning, with both hands resting on the podium. She tried to catch his eye. As the Dean’s gaze drifted over the audience to land on hers, Miranda raised her eyebrows at him.

“Submission.” She mouthed, and winked.

Cipher held her gaze for a second longer. His eyes glittered dangerously.

Then he looked away. He became the Dean of Godolkin University again — the mask of propriety was firmly back in place. He adjusted the microphone pointing towards his face and leant forwards.

 “Thank you, Modesty Monarch, for that impassioned introduction to your new course.” Cipher said, and gesticulated grandly towards the crowd, teeth flashing in the blinding spotlight. “Here at Godolkin University, we are proud to continue our legacy of welcoming thought across a broad political spectrum. We do not bend the knee to liberal cancel-culture, but encourage all our students to engage in a diverse array of discourse,” He announced, his voice echoing around the lecture theatre, deep and sonorous. “In my capacity as Dean, it is my solemn oath to you that we will protect our celebrated value of free-thinking, no matter the threats from the left-wing, mainstream media. I’m pleased to leave you in Modesty Monarch’s eminently capable hands as you begin this crucial journey of self-discovery.” 

Applause sounded as Cipher thanked the audience, adjusted his suit blazer, and strode off stage. Miranda watched him go. She pondered his request — that she use her powers to return Georgia to his class — and wondered how she should go about this without Georgia or Joe realising what she had done. This would be hard… Or would it?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Emma Meyer, who was whispering loudly to Jordan Li in the row in front of her. 

“—Can’t believe we’re stuck listening to this bullshit when we could be searching for Marie right now!”

“For the last time, we don’t need Marie!” Jordan’s tone was sharp, cutting.

“How can you say that?” Emma asked. She sounded distraught. “We can’t just leave her out there! What if it was you all alone out there? Wouldn’t you want us to keep searching for you?”

“Emma, she left us. She made her choice back at Elmira. She escaped, alone, and left us behind. It’s just the two of us now.”

Elmira. Miranda’s eyes widened. There was that name again, this time right out of Jordan Li’s mouth. The Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center — the words she had seen printed on the side of that mysterious beige van. The words that came up with nothing when she typed them into every search engine she could think of. Jordan and Emma knew about Elmira? They had been imprisoned there along with Marie? No wonder Cipher kept his cards close to his chest. If word got out about this…

She spent the rest of the lecture coming up with a long list of questions to barrage them with. Why were they being kept there? How did they get out? Why hadn’t Marie come back to school? What was Cipher doing there? But when the class finally ended, Modesty Monarch spotted her in the audience and called her over. 

For god’s sake! Miranda thought bitterly as she watched Emma and Jordan leave. Her mouth twitched. She forced a pleasant smile onto her face. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised; she had been skiving her ex-favourite professor’s classes for over a month now. Ironically, it had been Cipher who ordered her back to them. Something about needing to maintain a ninety percent attendance score in order to gain enough credits to graduate this year. He had informed her of this in his strict, velvety ‘Dean voice’ in the car on the way back from their forest excursion, and she had sighed huffily and reluctantly agreed whilst he’d chuckled.

“Miranda! It feels like it’s been absolutely forever since I’ve seen you.” Modesty Monarch embraced her in a tight, suffocating squeeze. Her perfume was overpowering; sickly sweet and cloyingly artificial, which made her choke. “I heard you were ill with the flu, poor thing. How are you?”

Before she could reply, the professor gripped her arm suddenly, teeth flashing in the light. They were so perfectly white against her pale pink lips Miranda was reminded of tiny shards of china porcelain or little white shells on the beach, bleached from the sun. 

“I have some exciting news for you. After you performed so well in the Annabella commercial last month, Vought production teams got in contact with me,” She said delightedly, speaking fast. “Miranda, they want to speak with you! I told them all about how Dean Shetty never signed the paperwork for the T.V contract the University guaranteed you when you first enrolled. They agreed to send over another contract! For your own matchmaking television show, ‘Candid with Cupid! Miranda, this is it, this is where your dreams come true!”

…

…Tiny shards of china porcelain. Little shells on the beach.

Empty. She felt empty inside. What would have once made her weep tears of joy now made her feel absolutely nothing. As she stared back at Modesty Monarch’s beaming, triumphant smile, Miranda had the feeling that something inside her had been changed irrevocably forever. And there was no going back.

“—Have to discuss all the options with them, of course, but we have time. I’ve worked in marketing for years, we’ll make sure the release date works. If you start filming the first season a week after you graduate, it can be released right before Valentine’s Day. Of course, I’ve told them all about your powers, how you make people fall in love—”

Miranda cut her off. “My power isn’t making people fall in love,” She said.

Modesty Monarch looked surprised at being interrupted. “What are you talking about, sweetie?” 

“My power isn’t making people fall in love,” Miranda repeated firmly. “It’s creating and severing connections. Between people, ideas, things. You know this, right?”

Her ex-favourite professor nodded slowly in confusion. “Well, yes, but we have to focus on what’s marketable here. Remember, you need to make people happy, you need to make them feel good. Everyone loves love. That’s what America wants from Cupid.”

“So all this time, you knew I could also destroy connections?” Miranda asked icily. Her voice had started to shake with anger. “You just never bothered to tell me?”

“Miranda, I don’t understand. I thought you’d be excited.” The beginnings of a would-be frown were starting to crease on Modesty Monarch’s face as much as the botox would let it. She pursed her lips in displeasure. “Do you know how much effort it took me to get Vought to send over a new contact? Do you know how many women would kill to be in your position? Are you not even going to thank me?”

Miranda closed her eyes. She had been dreading this conversation all month. She wondered if this had been Cipher’s plan all along, when he’d ordered her back to class with an amused smirk and a glint in his eyes. 

“Thank you for all your help,” She said at last. “I know you’ve always tried to help me. But when I think properly about what I want in my life, I realise I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to be a television star. I don’t want to be an influencer. The Annabella advert didn’t make me feel powerful, it made me feel stupid. I’m tired of feeling stupid.”

It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders; she could have sighed in relief. A curious emotion bubbled from within and with a little surprise she realised it was pride. Miranda Lovelace was beholden to Cupid no longer.

Her professor’s face had gone completely white. When Modesty Monarch spoke at last, her tone was cold and stilted. “If that’s what you want. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want, of course,” she said curtly. 

Miranda nodded and made to turn away, but Modesty Monarch stopped her. “You silly girl! You’re throwing away the greatest opportunity of your life,” She said with sudden vitriol, and laughed nastily. “I don’t know what point you’re trying to make by doing this. Well, listen to me — you might think you’re special, but there are thousands of girls like you, Miranda. Vought certainly won’t care, they’ll just give the contact to the next girl who comes along. You're replaceable. I hope you realise that.”

Miranda smiled. She felt an extraordinary, blissful sense of peace. “I hope it makes her happy,” She said honestly, and then turned her back on Cupid forever.

[myfireplacewentboom]

Deciphering Cupid - Chapter 5

(A Dean Cipher romance story)

Miranda Lovelace can make anyone fall in love. Ranked Ninth in Godolkin University’s coveted Top Ten, ‘Cupid’ knows what she wants and how to get it: to become the most famous influencer in the world.

Unfortunately, the new Dean isn’t so impressed. Since taking up the mantle, Cipher has made himself abundantly clear: supes are soldiers, not influencers. After he humiliates her, Miranda plots devious revenge: make Dean Cipher fall pathetically in love. Having him wrapped around her little finger will be so much fun…

But as her relationship with the Dean develops, Miranda discovers not everything is as it seems. Horrifyingly, she catches feelings for Cipher herself. As she falls deeper and deeper in love with him, the man she thought she knew as ‘Cipher’ threatens to drag her further and further into the darkness…

5. Connection

For the first time since enrolling at Godolkin University, Miranda Lovelace felt powerful. Not just cute, not just sexy, but actually dangerous. A force to be reckoned with. A superhero.

She had been training with Cipher for over a fortnight now. In the daytime, Miranda helped the Dean prepare for his meetings and managed his diary whilst attending her own lectures and classes. In the evenings, Cipher would take her back to the locked concrete room and push her to her limit. He had started her training on humans to begin with; their brains were a lot easier to control, he had explained. Miranda didn’t ask him why, assuming it was knowledge he had collected over the years of working as one of Vought’s top behavioural scientists, or from his own personal experience through his puppetry. Every evening, Martin (whom Miranda had learnt had the useful power of selectively wiping someone’s memories) would bring in a new human ‘volunteer’. Every evening, Miranda would spend the training session forcing this human to become either achingly in love with her, fanatically devoted to the superhero cause, or curiously obsessed with any particular random object she could think of. That one never failed to make her giggle. She liked watching the humans embarrass themselves in front of their little audience of three. Martin would always guffaw loudly, whilst Cipher would shake his head and roll his eyes. Then, when she had grown bored of her juvenile entertainment, Miranda would practice severing all of the connections she had created, and would start the process all over again. Cipher would stand next to her writing notes on his clipboard, meticulously detailing all of his observations down in his swooping, cursive penmanship.

He would catch her every time she fell. Her fainting spells were embarrassingly common. It always happened when she severed rather than created a connection within someone. Severing connections left her feeling exhausted, completely drained of all energy, as she would delve deep into the humans’ minds and rip open their hearts and yank out pink tendrils of affection she had forced in there only a little while beforehand. She would awaken in Cipher’s arms each time, a little flustered. The Dean would frown and sigh and remind her sternly that he wouldn’t always be there to catch her, but his dark eyes would betray hints of humour within them and he would always hold her for a second longer than necessary. Earlier tonight, when she had pretended to stay unconscious for longer than she actually was, Miranda had caught Cipher staring at her lips. She had watched through her eyelashes, heart pounding, as he had drawn close enough to her mouth that she could feel his breath on her face. She hadn’t dared to breathe. His expression had been conflicted, like he was struggling to decide something, lost deep in thought. When she had finally let out the air in her lungs she had been carefully holding, the Dean had cleared his throat and had quickly turned away.

The rest of the night’s training session went by rapidly. Miranda finished the lesson by brainwashing her latest human volunteer, the elderly part-time cleaner Patrick, into a die-hard supe-worshipping fanatic. Patrick had ranted on and on about the glories of Homelander for a solid five minutes whilst Miranda watched, wide-eyed, before Cipher eventually turned to Martin and ordered him to knock the elderly cleaner out. 

“Thank you, Martin.” He dismissed him, still jotting everything down on the clipboard. He turned to Miranda as Martin dragged Patrick’s unconscious body out of the room. It was hard to tell from Cipher’s expression whether he was impressed with her or not. 

“You’re improving steadily,” he said. “Good. That took two minutes, forty-nine seconds for you to get a hold of him then. The first time you tried forcing a connection with an abstract concept instead of another living thing, it took you just over five minutes,” Cipher observed. He spoke in a detached, scientific way. Every comment he had made about her training so far had been done in a cold, factual way which made her feel a little like his own personal lab experiment.

“Why did he go on about Homelander for so long?” Miranda asked, perplexed. “None of the others did that. I didn’t tell him to,” She added.

“No, you didn't.” Cipher agreed, putting away his notes. “More accurately, you can’t tell him to. Your power doesn’t work that way.”

“But that was me. I just brainwashed him—”

The Dean held a hand up. She stopped mid-sentence. Miranda had learnt by now that meant no talking. 

“You know who Cate Dunlap is, right?” Cipher asked. Miranda nodded; everyone knew who Cate was, especially after all the events that had unfolded last summer. She was a Guardian of Godolkin and one of its most top ranking students. There was a rumour going around that even Homelander himself had sought the use of Cate’s terrifying mind control power against some of his enemies.

“Friend of yours?”

“Not really. She’s in the year below, we don’t have any classes together.”

He pressed her. “But you’re aware of her powers, correct? You know what she can do?” 

Miranda didn’t know where Cipher was going with all of this. “Of course. It’s similar to what I can do, right?” She said slowly. “We both control people.”

“Wrong,” Cipher emphasised. She stared back at him, confused. He continued, clipboard in hand, speaking urgently, “Yes, on the surface they appear alike but this is only on the most basic superficial level. You both persuade people right, you control them? At least, that’s what it looks like. But the main difference is you, Miranda, don’t actually control people,” He let the words hang in the air for a second. She blinked back at him.

“You don’t control people,” Cipher repeated, “You influence them. You create a connection in someone’s mind with a particular person, an agenda, a random fucking object, etcetera, etcetera. That person then adjusts their behaviour accordingly. But what they actually do with that behaviour… Well that’s up to them, not up to you,” He explained, as she watched with rapt attention. “You can’t give people specific orders like Cate can. You didn’t order Patrick there to go off on a five-minute patriotic monologue when you created that connection in his brain. He did that himself. The old man probably goes around monologuing about all kinds of crap in his life. You, Miranda, just happened to sway him towards one about Homelander, which he did with gusto and bored us all to fucking tears… Understand?”

“I… I think so.”

Cipher looked her over. “How do you feel? You fainted twice today.”

“Fine.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine, honest,” Miranda repeated. “Just a little thirsty, that’s all.”

Cipher started rummaging around in his blazer. She watched curiously as he pulled out a completed Jitter Bean coffee shop stamp card and presented it to her. “Here. Get yourself a free drink on me.” He said, pressing it into her hand. “I’ve been carrying around this card in my pocket for what feels like forever. What’s that one you always get? Vanilla matcha latte something-or-other? I can’t keep up with all the coffee trends you young people have these days. It’s like a fucking candy store.”

“Venti-iced-matcha-latte with coconut milk and two pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup,” Miranda said playfully. She thanked him for the card and tucked it into her handbag.

“Venti iced matcha… Whatever it is, it looks disgusting. Coconut milk? Oh my god.”

“You literally drink blended salmon.” 

They both looked at each other for a second — Cipher's lips were curled upwards in amusement — and laughed.

“I told you, omega-three stimulates the brain,” The Dean said smiling. “You should really try some next time — maybe then you’ll be able to brainwash someone and actually remain conscious afterwards.” He winked at her and then said lightly. “You know, you should really consider working on that by the way. What’s going to happen when you're out in the real world instead of this nice, cushy training room?” He gestured around him.

Miranda suddenly felt very bold. “Why do I need to fix that when I have you there to catch me?” She asked suggestively, heart thumping.

Cipher did not reply. His dark eyes flicked over to hers.

She laughed aloud, suddenly shy, breaking the tension. “Besides, you said so yourself; I’m improving, aren’t I? I ripped open that cleaner’s brain like a sponge — I could feel it.”

Cipher stepped closer to her. “I told you, didn’t I?” He was so close she could smell him — the soft, clean linen scent she had come to recognise as his. “The human brain is an extraordinary thing,” He marveled, “It’s an incredibly complicated organ, made up of an unfathomable number of interconnected nerve cells firing off hundreds of billions of electrochemical signals every second. It’s a masterful feat of human evolution, really. And yet, for all the brain’s impressive evolutionary prowess, it can be controlled like that.” 

He snapped his fingers and climbed inside her mind again. She watched helplessly as he made her body perform a perfect pirouette like she was his little ballerina doll. She kept spinning and spinning, a prisoner locked within her own mind.

“Who’s the sponge now?” Cipher asked mockingly.

He released her so Miranda stopped twirling suddenly and almost tripped up in her stilettos. Cipher grabbed her arm, pulling her against his chest. 

“Careful. I don’t know why you insist on wearing those ridiculous shoes,” He muttered.

She tried to ignore how good Cipher’s body felt pressed up against hers. He was wearing her favourite pale blue shirt again and she could feel the warmth of his skin underneath the soft cornflower cotton. Cheeks tinged a faint pink, Miranda lifted her head slowly to meet his eyes.

“Can I try on a supe next time?” She breathed.

“You’re not ready.” 

“I am!” She said a little sulkily and stuck out her lip.

The Dean’s eyes glittered in amusement. Sometimes he seemed to like it when she acted a little bratty with him. “I want you to master the basics first,” He ordered as she sulked. “Master those completely and you’ll have a much higher chance of unlocking your full potential. We don’t want to cut any corners. Once you’ve reached this I promise you we will get you properly involved in the war to come — not as a student, but as a weapon,” Cipher emphasised with an exalted timbre, eyes dark and gleaming like light on tar. “I have grand plans for you, Miranda.” 

He punched in the code to unlock the room’s front exit. They both watched as the huge metal doors slowly rumbled open. A cool night breeze tickled her face and Miranda sighed contentedly. She liked it when Cipher talked about her role in the upcoming war on humankind. She didn’t quite understand where she fitted in or what he would want her to do, or who the war was against exactly, other than the Starlighters, but the Dean’s words made her feel important. He gave her a purpose; he made her feel strong. When she was with him, Miranda felt like she could do anything, be anyone. Her future stretched out ahead of her, unlimited and wrought with endless, exciting possibilities. No one had ever made her feel this way before…

Cipher motioned to her to go outside, which she did, then he turned off the lights and locked the doors again. They closed with a muffled clang and a hiss as the bolts secured into place. The two of them stood outside alone in the deserted campus, faintly illuminated from the soft light coming from the other university buildings.

Miranda smiled at him and raised her hand shyly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

Cipher shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t,” He said. She looked at him, puzzled, lowering her hand. “I’ll be out all day at an external meeting. Vought has organised this last-minute joint government strategic two-day conference in the city which apparently all ExCo members are required to attend.” He explained, and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s incredibly irritating — I was only notified this morning.”

“Do you need me to print any papers for you?” She asked, trying to mask her disappointment, “I don’t mind going back to the office and doing it quickly now—”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” The Dean cut her off. He did not elaborate any further.

Weird. He was acting even more secretive than usual, she thought. He had never had any problems with her printing and reading all the ExCo papers before, even giving her the pack afterwards for her to nose through his notes. A two-day conference in the city centre? He was supposed to be meeting with Stacey Ferrera and discussing the plans for the new Student Union tomorrow. She would have to reschedule it for a third time now…

“I guess I’ll see you on Monday then,” Miranda said reluctantly. She waved and turned to head back to the university accommodation block but Cipher called out from behind.

“Wait.” 

She turned her head. He looked as if he was contemplating something; he was rubbing his beard, brows furrowed. Then he lifted his dark, piercing eyes and suggested slowly, “Why don’t we move our training session to the weekend instead? We'll take the opportunity to get off campus and go and test your powers out in the real world. After all, that’s what it’s all about, right? You can’t stay locked up in that concrete room forever.”

“What did you have in mind?” She asked.

“That’s for you to find out,” He said breezily. “Meet me at my residence off campus grounds on Sunday morning at ten. You know where the Dean’s house is, right? Cosy little place. I’ll let security know in advance, of course — wouldn’t want the boys giving you a scare. Although, with your powers I’d quite like to see how that goes…”

Miranda’s heart raced. Meet Cipher at his private residence off campus? On a weekend? She nodded quickly, praying it was too dark for him to notice her childish blushing. She wondered what his house would look like, what kinds of personal artefacts he would keep there, what it would smell like.

Cipher grinned like a cheshire cat. “Until then.” He nodded at her, turned on his heel, and strode out into the darkness.

…

The office felt lonelier that Friday without him. It appeared bigger, emptier somehow; the space between her desk, the long table, and the two chesterfield sofas suddenly seemed to her uncomfortably large. The grey stone walls loomed imposingly high above and the room felt unusually quiet without Cipher’s sardonic commentary and frequent, oftentimes unreasonable, demands.

Miranda sat at her desk, bored out of her mind. The latest Sabrina Carpenter album was playing out loud from her phone; anything to drown out the uncomfortable, constant silence. She was in the midst of a mildly infuriating email spat with the Head of Student Life, Stacey Ferrera. Stacy was demanding to know why her appointment with Cipher that had originally been scheduled for today at three o’clock had been pushed back last minute to next Tuesday. Miranda was just about to send off a polite email back and had just started painting her nails, when the onerous honeybee supe started calling her on her laptop. Rolling her eyes, Miranda put Sabrina on pause and grudgingly accepted the call.

“Good morning Stacey, how are you?” She beamed through the screen, abandoning one nail halfway through so there was only a thin layer of polish. “Thanks so much for calling, I was actually just about to respond to you.”

Stacey did not look happy. Her lips were pursed in displeasure as she spoke impatiently, “Hi Miranda, why has this been pushed back by another week? I thought I told you on the chain I need to speak with the Dean urgently about a concern with the Student Union,” She said haughtily. “If we don’t get his sign-off on the budget it’s going to delay the entire freshmen housing transformation project. Do you understand the timelines I’m up against here? This is the third time now — what’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry about this. It’s just that something important came up which meant I had to cancel all of the Dean’s meetings today. He’s not in the office at all until Monday.”

“Where is he then?”

Miranda paused for a moment, thinking. She wondered how much information Cipher would want her to divulge. Not that he had given her any detail about the conference anyway. She hadn’t been allowed to see the papers; he’d kept them locked in one of the secure cabinets he hadn’t given her the passcode to. 

“He’s at a two-day conference in New York City with the rest of ExCo,” She said eventually. “We were told attendance was strictly mandatory. I’m sorry about this, it only came into the diary yesterday.”

Stacey seemed to accept this answer, although her lips were still pursed in a tight frown. Miranda decided she didn’t like the lipstick she was wearing; it looked dry and chalky, and her foundation was too matte. Or was that the powder? 

“Can I see him first thing on Monday?” Stacey demanded.

“He’ll be at a breakfast roundtable then with the Deans from all the Ivy League colleges. You can see him in the afternoon instead?”

“Fine. But this had better be the last change!”

Miranda smiled at her. “Great. I’ll send a scheduler to your calendar now,” She said, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Thank you so much for your flexibility.”

An hour went by. Everything was remarkably, painfully quiet. She did not receive any new diary requests for the Dean, or any emails at all in fact. Miranda had finished painting her nails, opting for a deep red colour rather than her usual hot pink. She admired the glossy crimson tone, thinking they made her look much more grownup and serious. She was wearing a rich red lipstick to match.

With little else to do other than count down the hours, she decided she would be a good personal assistant and tidy the office whilst Cipher was out. She found cleaning, and any sort of household chore really, weirdly therapeutic. A hangover from her days of being deeply invested with the trad-supe, antifeminist movement, perhaps. Modesty Monarch would be so proud of her, Miranda thought with amusement as she wiped down the glass table and washed and dried the glasses. Amusement quickly faded into guilt. She had been avoiding her so-called favourite professor for over a month now, ever since the cringe-inducing Annabella commercial was first released. That fucking advert. It haunted her every time she stepped outside. The day they had started playing it in the Godolkin campus of all places, Miranda had thrown all of the free lipglosses Annabella had given her into the bin. Cipher had mocked her relentlessly that day. The curl of his lip and his dark, teasing eyes were what she had thought about later that evening when she’d been alone in bed as she’d slowly pleasured herself, hips arched in frustration. 

She wiped down Cipher’s desk and rearranged the papers he kept there. He was always reading some scientific journal article or newly published research paper, devouring each one hungrily as he sipped on his white meat, green veg, nut butter smoothies. Within the desk drawers were last week’s ExCo papers, the briefing for Monday’s breakfast roundtable which she had printed off and put there this morning, and an old newsletter article about Marie Moreau, the freshman supe with the power to move blood who had disappeared from the university a couple of months ago after the events in summer. Alongside the papers were some minimalist silver cufflinks and a blue silk tie. Miranda lifted the tie to her nose. It smelled like Cipher. Blushing, she hastily put it back. Don’t be such a creep, she scolded herself.

She vacuumed the floor around Cipher’s desk, and then moved to the heavy navy curtains, switching out the nozzle on the hoover. Whilst she was standing by the window fiddling with the machine, she caught sight of something strange. The Dean’s office was one floor up, and Miranda had a good view of the university campus’ entrance. A beige van suddenly pulled up outside out of nowhere. Squinting out of the window, she managed to make out the words ‘ELMIRA ADULT REHABILITATION CENTER’ written on the side. The passenger door of the van then opened, and her eyes widened in surprise as Cipher stepped out.

So much for being in New York City. Miranda watched, frozen, hiding behind the curtain. The Dean exchanged a few words with the driver, who nodded and then pulled away. Cipher did up his blazer and straightened his tie. He walked over to a black car which she suddenly noticed had been parked across the road. The car was stationary for a moment and then drove off slowly in the opposite direction.

Vacuuming abandoned, Miranda raced back to her seat and opened up her laptop. She opened a new incognito browser and typed in ‘Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center’. Come on…come on…

Nothing. Nothing came up when she searched. No webpages, no wikipedia article, no mention of it on any social media platform whatsoever. She checked every single one, hands trembling. What had Cipher been doing there instead of discussing strategic planning at a conference in the city with Vought? And why did he not want her to know? Lost in thought, she closed her laptop.

…

Distracted, Miranda left the office at lunchtime after texting Georgia and asking if she would like to grab food together. They met in the cafeteria a short while after, just the two of them. Thankfully, Lisa (who Miranda had noticed was spending an increasingly annoying amount of time around them) was off visiting her parents in Denver for her birthday. Miranda was grateful for the rare alone time; she missed Georgia. Despite the two of them sharing the same room, she felt like she’d hardly spoken with her recently. Georgia was always off at one of Lisa’s parties (which Miranda never received an invite to), or spending time with her new boyfriend Joe, a guy whom she had met at one of said parties. Joe seemed nice enough; Miranda had met him once or twice when Georgia brought him round before she had headed off to her private training sessions with Cipher. She didn’t know what his powerset was; he didn’t like to talk about it. Instead, Joe liked to talk about the fantasy book he was currently writing, and the Dungeons and Dragons game he had somehow roped Georgia into playing with him. Miranda would always nod politely along, privately judging the two of them. Dungeons and Dragons was a game played by a bunch of sad people who had been bullied in school.

She was standing next to Georgia in the long line wrapping around Jitter Bean’s coffee shop. It was always this busy on a Friday and Georgia had complained when she’d told her she wanted to go, but Miranda was absolutely dying for her daily matcha. She clutched the completed stamp card given to her by Cipher closely in her palm. Georgia was chatting a bunch of nonsense about something she didn’t care about - something about the antics of her dwarven cleric-healer or whatever. Miranda just nodded along every minute or so, bored out of her mind.

“And then Joe — who’s the dungeon master — told us we all had to roll for initiative, and I got a two! So I had to go last, and then Lisa’s high elf sorcerer got attacked by the beholder and I didn’t know what to do so I ended up using my last spell slot to heal her—”

“Cool.”

“—And then Lisa cast fireball which is of course her favourite spell, and—”

“Hey, have you ever heard of something called the Elmira Adult Rehabilitation Center?” Miranda turned to her, interrupting Georgia’s story mid sentence.

“Um?” Georgia looked taken aback. “No? Should I have?”

Miranda shook her head. Damn. Not that she was expecting Georgia to know, of course, but it had been a tiny possibility. Surely someone around the Godolkin campus must have also seen the mysterious beige van. It couldn’t just have been her.

 “I was just wondering. Nevermind, don’t worry about it,” She said quickly. “What are you going to order, by the way? They’ve started doing pumpkin spice lattes again, look.”

Georgia didn’t speak for a minute or two. Miranda was too busy inspecting the new October menu to notice. “I was still talking just then, by the way,” She said suddenly.

“What?” Miranda glanced at her.

“I said, I was just talking earlier,” Georgia said, tone increasingly frustrated. “You interrupted me. Again. You know you always do that, right? I don’t do that to you.”

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“...Forget it.”

They stood there in an uneasy silence for the rest of the time in the queue. Miranda was relieved to finally reach the front of the line. She recognised the girl behind the counter, with her dark long hair, hexagonal glasses and mulberry coloured lipstick. It was Sarina, the girl who had helped her that one time in reception when she had seen the flyer pinned up advertising the PA role in the Dean’s office.

“Hi, what can I get you? Oh - it’s you!” Sarina said smiling. “I heard you ended up getting the job after all — congratulations! Must be pretty busy right now, hope it’s all going OK!”

“Thanks,” Miranda replied, looking a little confused. “Sorry, don’t you work at reception?”

“I do! But I also work here. And in the library. And on the winter ball committee...” She chuckled to herself at some kind of inside personal joke.

Miranda blinked at her. “Four jobs? How does that work?” 

“Well, I like to keep myself busy,” Sarina said. “And it’s pretty easy having multiple jobs when you can teleport!” She winked at her, “Speaking of, you’ve just reminded me — I actually need to check back in on the reception desk. I’ve been away for too long and Belinda might need me. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of my colleague Tess here. Tess, would you mind serving them?” She waved cheerfully and disappeared into thin air, making a little pop sound.

The other barista turned to her. “Hi, what can I get for you today?” She asked in a deadpan, monotone voice. 

Miranda’s blood ran cold. It was her.

She recognised the girl from the locked concrete room instantly. Tess Galloway, her first human ‘volunteer.’ Miranda had radicalised her at the behest of Cipher’s order during her first private training session. Tess had passed out under the strain from the mental rewiring. Martin had then wiped her memories whilst she had lain on the floor unconscious and had dragged her out the back doors. Yes, this was definitely her. She recognised her long brown hair, her watery big blue eyes. Only — Tess’ eyes weren’t bloodshot anymore, just …vacant. As if she was seeing everything around her but wasn’t really taking any of it in. She stared right through Miranda like she was a ghost and repeated her question with the same undead lifelessness. It creeped her out.

“I’ll, uh, have a pumpkin spice latte please,” Miranda told her, deciding to switch things up now that autumn was in full swing. She put Cipher’s full stamp card onto the counter. “I have this card? It’s full.”

Tess looked at it and picked it up. She nodded wordlessly.

Whilst Miranda’s pumpkin spice latte was being made, the television screen opposite them which had been playing an advertisement for Modesty Monarch’s new Silence and Submission class switched over to the Vought News Network. Firecracker, the replacement anchor after the mysterious disappearance of previous host Cameron Coleman, burst onto the speakers with her loud, drawling twang.

“Howdy y’all, it’s Firecracker here, your favourite host at VNN bringing you only the complete truth bomb!” She grinned wildly. “And that bomb’s coming in real toasty right now as we bring you a fresh story hot off the press. The treacherous Robert Singer who conspired with Starlight and the underground pedophile ring to betray this great nation heads to court for his long-awaited trial. Bringing you live updates from outside the New York Court of Appeals — a mob of nasty, vicious Starlighters has just attacked a group of peaceful Hometeamers. The situation has turned incredibly violent and the national guard has had to be sent in! We can’t go on like this folks, wake up, they are killing us!”

Whilst Firecracker was still speaking, Miranda pointed a finger at the screen and raised her chin at Tess. “Hey, what do you think of all this Starlighter - Hometeamer stuff?”

Startled, Tess glanced her way, blinking nervously. “I… I don't know. It's bad when they fight, I guess. Why are you asking?” She stared down at her feet.

Well that wasn’t what Miranda had been expecting. Usually after Cupid made someone fall passionately in love with another, her powers would linger in their target for around a month or so before Miranda would inevitably get a request from their conniving partner begging her to top it up. It was such good blackmail material. She’d had a lot of fun with it in the past, enjoying making people squirm and plead with her for a little more of that love juice. With Tess though… Miranda hadn’t been exactly sure how long her powers would manifest in someone after she created a connection between them and a specific agenda, but she had sort of been expecting Tess to at least make a comment in favour of the Hometeamers or something. She had been looking forward to it. For goodness’ sake, it had only been two weeks since she’d brainwashed her! She dreaded revealing this irritating flaw to Cipher when she felt like she was finally starting to impress him. 

She tried again. “Do you like Firecracker, Tess? Do you think she's a good host?”

“Um, she’s OK… I’m not really sure. Sorry, we just play whatever’s on the news…” The barista glanced around anxiously, the cup of latte forgotten about in her hands.

Miranda decided to press her. “But do you support what she’s doing?” She asked impatiently, raising her voice. “You know, holding the Starlighters to account — those fucking monsters? I mean you must have an opinion, right, watching the news all day? Go on, what is it? I want to know.”

Tess’ eyes started watering. She started steaming the milk, tears running down her face. “I… I don’t know, I'm sorry. Why do you keep asking?” She filled the latte cup with a shaking hand. “Sorry, do — do you want something?”

It was at this point when Georgia decided to cut in. Up until this moment her best friend had been engrossed in a separate conversation on her phone with Lisa, asking her how her birthday celebrations in Colorado were going. She put down the phone and glared at Miranda.

“No, she doesn’t. I’m sorry, please ignore her,” She said sharply as Tess nodded and wiped her eyes, sniffing.

The moment the two of them had sat down at one of the empty cafeteria tables, Georgia launched into her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She demanded, “Why did you do that? Couldn’t you see she was literally crying?”

“She’s one of the human volunteers I trained on,” Miranda hissed back, keeping her voice low. “I wanted to test if my powers were still working.”

“What the actual fuck…”

“They’re volunteers,” Miranda emphasised, rolling her eyes. “They signed up, they knew what they were getting into! And keep it down, people are staring.”

“Does that look like a willing volunteer to you?” Georgia ignored her, jabbing a finger towards Tess. “What did you do to her? She’s like a zombie or something! She can barely string a sentence together.”

Miranda took a slow sip of her pumpkin spice latte. She leant back in her chair, smiling and nodding at the students around them who were watching the two of them with increasing curiosity. “I created a connection between her and the pro-supe movement, that’s all,” She explained breezily, smugly. “I was asking her those questions because I wanted to see if she was still brainwashed or not,” She sighed. “It appears it’s worn off, annoyingly…”

“Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop,” Georgia warned her seriously.

“It will wear off,” Miranda said through gritted teeth. “Probably.”

Georgia snorted. She shook her head incredulously and laughed in disbelief. When she lifted her head and met her eyes again she seemed to see Miranda through a completely different lens. Her eyes turned cold and hard. “What you’re doing is immoral. Get Cipher to train you another way.”

“I can’t. This is the only way I can grow my powers. I need to practice on humans because their minds are easiest to control.” 

“That is so fucked up.”

Miranda felt herself getting angry. Her face turned hot and when she spoke, her voice shook. “Oh right, so when I train my powers it’s ‘fucked up’, but it’s perfectly fine to make fucking fire tornados with Lisa and throw people across the room with them, is it? Of course it is. Talk about hypocrisy.”

“That’s different, it’s against other supes. Nobody actually gets hurt.”

“Oh yeah, well what about that time with your sister?”

Miranda regretted the words immediately after they’d come out of her mouth. She wished she could rewind time and swallow them all back down her throat and into the nasty place which they had sprung from. It was too late, of course. Georgia’s face had gone completely white. She was gripping the sandwich she had been clutching all this time — too distracted to eat — with shaking hands. She stuffed it back into her bag and stood up.

Miranda held out her hands. “I’m sorry, that was so out of order. I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry…” 

Georgia turned to her before she left, her expression strained. Her voice was flat when she spoke. 

“Enjoy the rest of your lunch.”

…

The Dean’s residence was a twenty minute walk from campus. In keeping with tradition, every Dean of Godolkin University ever since Thomas Godolkin himself had founded the school in 1965 had occupied it during the duration of their tenure. It was strictly off limits to students; the only way to get past security was through personal invitation. Miranda had heard rumours that Dean Shetty used to extend these to Cate Dunlap from time to time. Despite numerous pleas with Shetty to discuss the television contract promised to her since her enrolment, an invitation had never been extended to Miranda before. Until, that was, today. She was curiously excited.

The residence was on the other side of the sports field down a private gated road, surrounded by a cluster of tall evergreen trees and a beautifully maintained flower garden. The house was modern, but fashioned in a mock vintage style with cobbled stone walls, diamond grid windows, and rose and honeysuckle trellises decorating the front and sides. As she walked eagerly up the driveway, Miranda was reminded of the holiday cottages she had sometimes stayed at in the Lake District with Nanny as a young child whilst her parents had holidayed abroad. Ambleside on Lake Windermere had been her favourite. She remembered Nanny would always give her these rhubarb-and-custard hardboiled sweets to reward her for good behaviour when they walked through the village proper down to the picturesque little cottage by the lake. She remembered how much she enjoyed the tart, sharp fruit flavour juxtaposed with the mild creamy taste, and the way Nanny would chuckle at the pink and yellow colouring it would leave on Miranda’s tongue when she stuck it out. The Dean’s residence at Godolkin reminded her of this cottage from her childhood, with its cobbled walls, grey stone roof and perfectly trimmed green hedges. The main difference being, of course, the two burly security guards permanently stationed outside with their handguns and their tasers. 

What would these guns even do though, Miranda wondered, as she passed nervously through the gate. Most supes had some sort of bullet resistance, including her. Maybe the guards had other powers as well.

She had nothing to worry about. It appeared Cipher had already given security a heads up about her. As she walked tentatively up the steps to the residence’s front door, the two men just nodded at her and stepped aside. One of them even smiled and wished her a “Good morning, Miss.” Miranda smiled prettily back. The door to the house was a large, heavy oak one, decorated with a golden lion knocker that was surprisingly difficult to lift as she knocked hesitantly and waited.

Movement inside. Miranda pulled out the compact mirror which she kept on her at all times and checked her lipstick. She had started eschewing her signature rosy pink for a rich ruby red, enjoying the way it made her feel more professional and adult-like. She wondered if Cipher had noticed the swap. She wondered if he liked it. As she pouted, inspected, and admired her mouth, the golden lion knocker stared back at her menacingly.

The door opened.

“Miranda. Good morning, please, do come in.” Cipher held it open for her. 

He was wearing a white cotton shirt and cream cardigan, paired with tan trousers and a brown braided leather belt. She liked him in cream. Without the suit he looked softer somehow, more approachable. He looked like he shopped at Marks & Spencer and she would find him in the food aisle buying poached salmon fillets. Looking closer, she noticed he had dark bags underneath his eyes. Something to do with his mysterious business at Elmira? No doubt he would try and pass it off as lack of sleep from his trip if she commented on them.

Cipher beckoned her in and closed the door, leading her into the residence. She didn’t know what she had been expecting the inside of his private abode to look like. His office at the university was grand, cold, and imposing, with walls reminiscent of a medieval European castle. Fitting for the authoritative Dean who ruled the university with an iron fist and revelled in his speeches of war and destruction. His hero optimisation room was barren and clinical — where the fanatical scientist who lived within him ran his experimentations. 

Cipher’s home off campus was surprisingly …tasteful. Normal, even. The diamond grid windows let in a generous amount of mid-October sun into the dark panelled room with its high wooden beams. Everything was decorated in a timeless, neutral colour palette, with the two centrepieces of the room being a grey stone fireplace and a large black-and-white rug which complemented the mahogany furniture without drawing too much attention from it.

She wouldn’t go as far to describe the house as homely, however. It all seemed too perfect, too conformist — almost unlived in, like those idealised showrooms she would sometimes see flicking through home catalogues. She struggled to imagine the Dean relaxing in the armchair in the corner with its perfectly plumped cushions, for example, leafing through one of the scientific journals she knew he paid a subscription for. Or eating alone at the large polished dining table after a busy day of ExCo meetings, strategy deep dives, and training sessions with students. Not that Miranda had ever seen Cipher eat anything anyway. The Dean insisted on maintaining a one hundred per cent all liquid calorie diet. “I’m watching my figure.” He had teased her once, when she had asked him why. God, she had such weird taste in men…

“So, what do you think of the rug?” Cipher asked her, gesturing as he went and leant against the table. “I’m intrigued to know. It’s new — I bought it from this artist in New Hampshire a week ago. The black and white design is supposed to invite contemplation. A little pretentious, yes, but I like it.” He watched her, rocking back on his heels.

He wanted her opinion on …interior design? She glanced at the rug again. “You want to know what I think?” Miranda asked, bemused.

Cipher shrugged. “Well, yes. You have an eye for fashion, don’t you? You always look so put together when I see you,” He said casually. “Or is that just for me?”

She felt her cheeks burn hot. “It’s …nice. It ties the room together.”

He grinned. “Doesn’t it just?”

She stared at her feet, hovering by the entrance. She didn’t know whether to take her shoes off or not. How long were they going to chat here for before Cipher took her away to the mysterious training location? Not that she minded, of course. It was nice seeing another side of him, away from the distractions of university life and all the printing and briefing and logistical administration. He must have realised her dilemma, as he stopped leaning against the table, straightened himself up, and looked apologetic.

“Your training, yes. I’m sorry — just give me one moment and then we can be on our way. I’m rather embarrassed to admit this but I misplaced my notebook last night. I was hoping to have found it by the time you arrived. Minor mishap from the conference, unfortunately. Wait there and I’ll check the study once more — it should be there somewhere.”

“Sure, no problem,” She said. Cipher inclined his head at her and crossed into another section of the house. He disappeared from view. Miranda called out after him. “So, where are we going today, anyway?”

“You’ll find out soon.” Came the reply. His voice sounded like it came from the back of the house. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise for you. Don’t you just love surprises? You’ll love this one.”

“I hate surprises.”

“Of course you do.” She heard him reply, and there was an audible sign. She imagined him rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Cipher then called out in his sardonic, mocking tone, “You really are a brat, aren’t you?”

A shiver ran up her spine. Miranda imagined him rebuking her sternly, dark eyes gleaming, his hand raised, as the Dean bent her over his knees and spanked her hard. “You really are a brat, aren’t you?” He would say, lifting up her skirt and smacking her bottom firmly. He would recount all the times she misbehaved and then inform her with a sadistic glint all the ways he would discipline her as a result…

Miranda opened her eyes, stomach clenched. You can’t keep doing this, she scolded herself, he’s like forty-nine years old…

In desperate need of distraction, cheeks tinged a dusty red, Miranda wandered down the hallway whilst waiting for the Dean. She was surprised to see it decorated with dozens of different oil canvas paintings and row after row of framed photographs. The paintings weren’t at all to her taste. They were all rural, idealised landscapes — sweeping, romanticised versions of the countryside full of picturesque farmhouses, sprawling with cows and chickens and laughing chubby children carrying basketfulls of eggs with bows in their straw hats. The photographs were all black and white and serious. Most of them looked to have been taken in the 1950s and early 1960s, depicting groups of various young and middle-aged men and women standing rigidly in their finery. 

One photograph caught her eye. A group of Vought scientists — all men, of course — posing primly in their white lab coats. The names of the individuals were written down in tidy handwriting underneath. With a start, she realised that the man wearing glasses smiling proudly in the centre of the group was none other than Thomas Godolkin himself, the founder of the university. She pressed her fingers gently against the glass. One of the first things Cipher had done as Dean had been to install a magnificent bronze bust of Thomas Godolkin in the main university quad. Miranda never would have recognised the man from the bust from his photograph here — Godolkin looked so disappointingly unimposing and weedy on camera.

At the end of the corridor she spotted something unusual. Something that didn’t belong in an ordinary house. Godolkin’s photograph already forgotten about, Miranda hurried over for a closer look, her stilettos echoing loudly.

It was a huge metal door. She had seen this before, she realised: the hero optimisation room. She recognised the giant spin lock and electronic code box. Yes, this was definitely the same door. It was an exact replica in fact, down to the ten metal bolts around the main spin lock which she knew would hiss and detach when the right code was entered and the door opened. She could almost hear the sound now…

Was this another training room? Was this where he would teach her today? Why would Cipher need another locked room when he had the one on campus? And why in his house?

Someone cleared their throat behind her. Miranda jumped and spun around.

“Find anything interesting?” Cipher asked quietly. His tone was casual, but she felt his eyes scrutinising her intently.

She flushed, heart racing. “Sorry, I—”

He held up a notebook — dark brown with a leather back. “On my bedside table all along. Come on, the driver’s waiting outside.” The Dean said lightly, gesturing to her to move. 

“Is that another training room?” Miranda dared to ask, as she followed him. Her palms felt sweaty and she wiped them nervously on her dress as they left the residence.

Cipher did not look back at her. “No.” was all he said, as they went down the house’s stone steps.

The driver — a serious-looking man with a handgun attached to his hip — waved to them both from a smart black car parked on the driveway. The same car Miranda had seen the Dean enter on Friday after he’d exited the mysterious Elmira van. They climbed into the back, Cipher holding the door open for her before going round and getting in on his side. The car pulled smoothly out of the driveway and through the residence’s gates, which slid open for them. She watched them close immediately the second they passed through.

They drove further into the woodland, passing through great areas of forestry, where the mid-autumn leaves rustled gently in the wind in a brilliant array of amber, red, and gold. Miranda guessed from the scenery they were heading upstate, away from New York City.

Cipher confirmed her guess when she asked. “That’s right. There’s a country park I frequent from time to time not too far of a drive from here. That’s where we’ll train you today.”

He refused to answer her subsequent questions about what the training would entail, why he had chosen this park in particular, or how long they would spend there. Miranda grew whinier and whinier as Cipher just tapped his nose maddeningly, looking faintly bemused. She folded her arms, pouting. His frequent mood swings often made her head spin, but she was glad he was back to his usual taunting self, the strange locked room forgotten about. She decided not to bring it up again, not wanting to spoil the lighter mood. I will uncover all your secrets one day, Miranda promised him silently, better yet; I’ll make you reveal them to me yourself. 

“So.” She said after a while, smiling at him suggestively. “You think I’m fashionable.” She crossed her legs slowly, making sure her knees brushed against his. 

Cipher rolled his eyes. But in the reflection she saw his lips twitch. Miranda laughed delightedly and leant back into the seat, closing her eyes and enjoying the sun on her face as the autumn trees rushed by.

They drove for what felt like twenty minutes before Cipher cut in. “Just over here please, Henry.” He ordered, looking out the window. The car rolled to a stop. “That’s great, thank you.”

Miranda opened her eyes and blinked lazily. Outside the car, she spotted the words ‘BEVERLEY HYRST COUNTRY PARK’ on a wooden sign next to a path leading into the forest. The words were painted white, above a motif of a sunflower between two large, entwined antlers. She didn’t recognise the name or the image.

“Wait here until we return,” Cipher told the driver. He undid his seatbelt and exited the car, shutting the door firmly. Miranda followed his lead, cautiously trying to avoid the mud in her beloved cream stilettos. She made a face, realised the Dean had strode on ahead, and hurriedly chased after him.

“What are we doing here?” She asked, following Cipher down the trail path. “It’s so muddy!”

He glanced down at her footwear. “You are ridiculous.” 

The woods soon opened out into a clearing. A small pond lay in the centre of the space, within which a laughing Eros sculpture poured out water from a vase. Around the fountain were a number of wooden benches. Two elderly couples rested on them peacefully. She could hear rustling from the trees around them, the odd birdsong from the branches above, and the steady trickling of water from the winged youth’s vase. Apart from that, the country park was quiet. They had passed no one on the trail.

Cipher gestured for her to sit. He joined her, speaking softly so only she would hear. 

“Beverley Hyrst Country Park borders on the small village of Beverley, a little way outside the city. It’s a village with a population so old the average resident’s age is now over sixty-eight.” He stated.

As he spoke, an elderly woman in one of the couples opposite them subtly pointed their way. She leant over and whispered something to her husband which made him chuckle. Miranda watched the two of them, puzzled. She wondered what the woman had said to the man to make him smile like that.

“So why are we here?” She asked Cipher curiously.

“I’m coming to that,” The Dean smiled. “So far in your training you’ve only severed temporary connections, right? Connections that person has only had for maybe a few minutes. Connections you gave them. Like, I don’t know, wanting to fuck a chair. Speaking of which, I am never going to get that image of Patrick out of my head so thanks for that.” Then his voice turned serious, his expression grave. “But to grow your power, Miranda, to level up and actually become useful in this war, you need to start breaking bonds people have had for years.” He gestured flippantly in front of him. “Like these old couples, for example — I want you to break one of them up. Whenever you’re ready. It shouldn’t be too hard — I mean, they must be practically braindead already.”

Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. She stared at Cipher uncertainly, not sure if she had heard him correctly. “What?”

He frowned. “I don’t know why that was so difficult for you to understand. I want you to break one of these old couples up.” He emphasised each word, jabbing a finger in each of their directions. “Go ahead, pick whichever one you’d like. Please, don’t mind me.” He took out his notebook and pen and waited patiently. There was an amused glint in his dark eyes.

Miranda felt sick. The rustling of the leaves was too loud, the birdsong out of tune, the gushing water too violent. What was she doing here? Why was he making her do this? Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, her palms cold and clammy.

She jerked a sharp breath. Relax. Focus. Think of the cause. Then looked at the couples opposite her.

They both looked of similar ages - somewhere in their late seventies or early eighties, she guessed. The couple to the left had a small dog with them. It was lying quietly underneath the man’s feet, head resting on its paws with its tongue out. The man had a walking stick resting on the bench next to him, and the woman had a pair of colourful mittens on. In the couple to the right, the woman who had pointed at Cipher and Miranda and giggled was wearing a chunky purple fleece. Her husband had a short, wispy beard and wellies on. They had stopped chuckling and were sitting quietly, smiling. They looked so… happy. 

Miranda felt very, very wrong.

These people hadn’t done anything to deserve this! They weren’t part of the dangerous Starlight agenda tearing down the fabric of America. They didn’t look like pedophiles or baby killers or vaccine pushers. They were just two normal couples, enjoying time together in the autumn sun.

“I can’t do this,” Her voice was thick and unsteady. She watched silently as the little dog lifted its head and sneezed before daring to take a glance at the Dean sitting next to her.

Cipher looked bored. “Yes, you will.” He said, clicking his pen.

“Please don’t make me,” She said, close to tears. “They haven’t done anything to deserve this… We can try on someone else — someone who’s done something bad! There’s an abortion clinic not too far away from here, I saw it as we passed—”

Cipher waved dismissively. He tutted, looking down at her like a disappointed parent and speaking as if she was a small child. “I need you to stop the whining, Miranda, the fucking moral posturing. This isn’t any different to all the times you’ve done this before. Remember what you told me all those weeks ago, that you could take it when you begged me to train you? Well here’s your chance — take it.”

Her chest tightened. She felt painfully, nauseously ill. Her eyes darted back to the forest path. The car was just over there, she reminded herself. She could still remember the way…

“Of course, I could always force you,” Cipher cut in, reminding her. He smiled expectantly, tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear. “Or you could pull up your big girl panties and do it yourself, hm?” 

She shivered at his touch. You can do this, Miranda told herself, you have no choice.

Turning to the couple on the right, she focused hard on the woman who had pointed at her. The one with the hideous purple fleece. Why did you point at me, Miranda wanted to ask her, what did you say? Clenching the side of the bench until her fingers turned white, she blocked out all other senses and willed the old woman’s heart open.

The heart took her by surprise by manifesting as a gigantic purple blob that threatened to swallow her up, with a thick jelly-like consistency, slimy and congealed. She had never encountered a heart the size of this one before — this, this, conglomerate monstrosity. Peering into it closely, she could make out all these different coloured strands of thread inside, matted and twisted in knots. Miranda wondered if she had made a terrible mistake choosing the wife instead of the husband.

You can do this, she thought again through gritted teeth. She reached into the sticky mess with two forceful hands, frantically gripping on a bright red strand and yanking on it hard with no pretense of care or precision. It was ugly work. She ripped and pulled and tore as the heart squealed and groaned and swayed. Other strands came tumbling out with it as Miranda ripped it out from the jelly — delicate little blue ones, fraying green stripey ones, and two shimmery gold threads that all spilled out onto the floor in one messy, tangled heap. A single pink thread was all that remained, floating inside the blob as it seemed to hang onto it protectively. Not that one, the heart seemed to plead with her, please not that one! She wrenched it savagely out. The heart let out a slow, agonising wail. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Miranda closed her eyes and covered her ears, her hands dripping in dark, inky blood that ran down her arms and down and down and down and down…

Shaking, she awoke, slumped over on the bench. Cipher had a hand against her shoulder, stopping her from sliding onto his lap. “Sorry,” She whispered. As she sat up she saw his notebook was full of carefully detailed observations she did not want to read. How long had she been out for? How much time had passed?

Cipher’s eyes flicked her way. “Good girl,” he murmured. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Miranda knew she was a coward. But she could not bear to look at the consequences of her actions. As they walked back down the forest path she stared numbly at the ground ahead, moving one foot in front of the other. Every step took her further away from the old woman’s scared disorientated whimpers, her echoing bloodcurdling screams. Every step would become easier, Miranda told herself. Just one foot in front of the other.

High above in the trees, the leaves surged violently in fiery shades of red, orange, and gold. A sea of burning flames. Staring into this fire above, Miranda Lovelace wondered for the first time in her life if she would go to hell when she died. She imagined herself burning at the stake in a sea of flames such as this, fire melting away her lungs, dissolving her eyes into brine, blistering her skin in its righteous, merciless fury. All of her — her fanciful wishes, her shallow, base existence — cleansed away in hallowed fire and brimstone until naught but smoke and ash. 

She was nothing. She was nothing. She was nothing.

“Why are you crying?” Cipher asked her sharply. Was she? Trembling, Miranda wiped at the tears which had slipped down her face with her sleeve.

“Sorry,” Her voice was a whisper.

The Dean took her arm roughly and pulled her aside. Her tears were falling freely now. They dripped off her chin and splattered on the forest floor, mixing with the mud and the fallen leaves. The woodland stretched out wildly around them, trees whipping in the wind — fire in every direction.

“Look at me.”

Cipher repeated the order when she said nothing. “Look at me.” He lifted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were so very, very dark. She shuddered. She felt like she was staring at the epicentre of two swirling black pools she could fall into and drown in. These were eyes that roamed every part of her. Eyes she couldn’t hide from. Eyes she couldn’t run from.

“You understand why that was necessary, don’t you?” The Dean asked her quietly. When she didn’t reply, his voice took on an urgent, almost fanatical edge. “We are facing the greatest existential threat to our existence we could ever imagine. Don’t you understand? Do you know how many humans want to kill us, take away our powers, wipe out our very existence? And what they could do to us if they ever put their fucking brains together? They want to destroy you, Miranda. They want to destroy all of us. 

“But you — your powers could stop them! In fact, your abilities are absolutely critical to our survival! Do you think I would have trained you if they weren’t? Do you think I would have spent day after day, evening after evening helping you unlock your highest potential if I didn’t think that one day you would leave your mark on this world and save us all? That’s why I pushed you back there, that’s why it needed to be done! Because your powers — you, Miranda — are going to save our entire fucking race! So I suggest you get your act under control, summon a little girl power, and pull yourself together!”

“But that woman…” Her voice tinged with hysteria.

“She was human!” Cipher shouted. “She was nothing!” 

Then he pulled her into his chest, wrapping one arm around her tightly. He cupped her face with his other hand and wiped away her tears. 

“Shhhh… Shhhh… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for you. I know you hated doing that. I’m harsh on you, I know… But it needed to be done,” Cipher said, smiling sadly at her. “You needed to level up. Remember, all of what we do is for the greater good. For our survival. Everything you do will all be worth it in the end.” He tucked a strand of hair gently behind her ear. “For the cause.”

“I thought I was supposed to make people fall in love,” Miranda said shakily, “Make them happy.”

“And who told you that?” His arm was still wrapped around her waist, gripping her tight. She felt like he was the only thing tethering her to this world. 

“Everyone,” She laughed weakly, sniffing.

Cipher studied her with his cool dark eyes. Up above, the fire surged violently, a swirling storm of death and hate that blackened the sky. There was no escape; the flames were all around her and within, she could feel them roaring in her chest. Her blood burned in her veins. Her skin blistered to the touch.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Cipher asked her slowly. Miranda shook her head. “I see a girl who’s been constantly underestimated by everyone else around her. A girl who’s had her entire life dictated to her by the short-sighted idiocy of others — given one of the greatest psychic abilities to ever grace this world and brainwashed into wanting to become an influencer. What a terrible waste. Terrible.” 

He stroked her cheek. She smelt his familiar, clean linen scent amidst the fresh forest air, felt his cool breath on her face as he leaned in, lips hovering millimeters above hers.

“I will never underestimate you,” He promised. Her stomach clenched and she closed her eyes. Cipher’s words were a whisper against her lips. 

“We were made to be gods...”

He pressed his mouth against hers urgently. She gasped into him. 

The flames roaring above burned and burned…

Link to Chapter 6

[myfireplacewentboom]

Deciphering Cupid - Chapter 4

(A Dean Cipher romance story)

Miranda Lovelace can make anyone fall in love. Ranked Ninth in Godolkin University’s coveted Top Ten, ‘Cupid’ knows what she wants and how to get it: to become the most famous influencer in the world.

Unfortunately, the new Dean isn’t so impressed. Since taking up the mantle, Cipher has made himself abundantly clear: supes are soldiers, not influencers. After he humiliates her, Miranda plots devious revenge: make Dean Cipher fall pathetically in love. Having him wrapped around her little finger will be so much fun…

But as her relationship with the Dean develops, Miranda discovers not everything is as it seems. Horrifyingly, she catches feelings for Cipher herself. As she falls deeper and deeper in love with him, the man she thought she knew as ‘Cipher’ threatens to drag her further and further into the darkness…

4. Assistance

Cipher’s eating habits were really, really weird. “I’m on a strictly all-liquid diet.” The Dean had informed her, as he’d detailed exactly what foods she could and couldn’t add to his lunchtime smoothies. She learnt that he typically went for a white meat protein — usually chicken or fish, although on the odd occasion he would incorporate lamb or pork too. “For some variety.” He’d winked at her. Then a plant-based protein like chickpeas or a nut butter, a green vegetable, and finally a generous splash of semi-skimmed cow’s milk for ease of blending.

Today’s lunch would be two salmon fillets, almond butter, and spinach. She’d accidentally forgotten to order the milk for this week so she would use water instead. She hoped he wouldn’t be able to tell.

She was alone in the office. Cipher was out at the university Executive Committee Board meeting. The Board met once a month to discuss the various ongoings at Godolkin and take decisions on matters of funding, staff headcount, and longer-term strategic oversight. Miranda had printed out the agenda and papers for the Dean this morning and had given them to him in a pack before he’d set off. She had been surprised at the number of Vought executives at these meetings, although she supposed it made sense given the joint graduate training programme and the sheer number of alumni who had become part of the superhero company. 

Georgia had been clear about her intention to join those numbers after graduating. It was her life’s dream to become a real superhero and make a difference in the world. She had been inspired originally by Starlight, before… everything that happened. Miranda had written off the idea herself. Cupid was a cherished global influencer; she lifted people’s spirits, brought a bit of joy into the world, and sold absolutely killer perfume whilst looking like a million dollars. But she wasn’t a superhero. She didn’t save people. 

But that could all change now. After Cipher’s training, who knew what the future Miranda was capable of? Your real power is creating and severing connections. How could she not have known this before? How could Dean Shetty, how could her parents, have hidden this from her? And for what reason? No longer would she be kept in the dark. No longer would she be underestimated. I will become the most powerful superhero Godolkin University has ever seen, Miranda vowed.

That was, if Cipher ever trained her.

She had been working as his personal assistant for two weeks now, with not a whiff of teaching in sight. Instead of learning how to break minds, Miranda had learnt how to manage Cipher’s diary, book meeting rooms, and work the photocopier machine. She’d learnt about his freakish eating habits, how he never drank anything apart from milk or plain water, that he rode a bike each day to work wearing a stupid little helmet looking like an absolute tool.

She learnt she wanted him, too. It was getting harder to deny to herself. She dreamt of Cipher regularly, each dream more visceral and explicit than the last. Often, she would sit at her desk in his office with her thighs clenched, throwing the Dean the occasional glance across the room as he reclined in his chair inspecting papers. She would admire the sight of him in the different shirts and suit pants he wore, and would blush at the thought of what lay under them. Today, Cipher’s shirt was a deep reddish plum. But Miranda decided the pale blue was her favourite. Her own outfits had become braver: her dresses tighter, the necklines more plunging. Last Friday when she had been especially frustrated, Miranda had used her powers on the Dean again for a third time. Cipher had not said a word, but at the end of the day, out of the corner of her eye, she had noticed him observing her intensely with those dark eyes of his. She liked being observed, she discovered.

Sighing, Miranda dumped the two salmon fillets into the blender with no attempted grace. She ripped open the bag of spinach, chucked half inside, then scooped up some almond butter and watched it fall off the spoon. Taking the glass carafe from Cipher’s desk, she poured enough water in until the spinach started floating. This is fucking disgusting. The blender churned to life with a roar. Its contents turned a sickening light coral shade and the smell of fish filled the air. Miranda wrinkled her nose.

The door to the office opened. Cipher strode in, beaming. “Mmm… Is that lunch I spy?” He said. He had put on his grey blazer, which he'd paired with a dark silk tie. The papers he had tucked under one arm. 

Miranda nodded. “Salmon, just like you asked for.” 

Cipher set the ExCo papers down on the table and took the blender from her gently. “Thank you.” His hand brushed against hers. “Looks delicious.”

He poured half the fish, almond, and spinach mixture into a glass. It looked slightly curdled. Then he gave it a quick swirl and drank from it enthusiastically. Miranda thought she was prepared for the sight but she wasn't. Her stomach recoiled. A little dripped from Cipher's mouth, ran down his chin, and into his beard. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. 

“Want some?” He offered her the blender.

She shook her head vigorously. “I’m OK, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Cipher poured the rest of the mixture into the glass. “Although personally, I find omega- three very stimulating for the brain. Gets the neurons all fired up.” He closed his eyes and drank heavily again.

“How was ExCo?” Miranda asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He replied. She turned to him, confused.

Cipher was still smiling. He was standing so close to her she could smell the salmon on his breath. “I saw you reading the papers before you gave them to me this morning. You're quite the little spy, aren’t you? Find anything interesting in there?” 

“I wasn’t — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Miranda stammered.

“It’s OK,” Cipher said. He picked up the stack from the table and offered them to her. “You can read them.” She took them hesitantly. “There you go. Why don’t you keep onto them for me?”

“Are you— are you sure? Aren’t these sensitive?”

Cipher chuckled. “There’s not much of interest in there, believe me. You wouldn’t believe how long these Vought executives go on for. Two and a half hours! Are you kidding me! Everyone thinks that being Dean at America’s most exclusive university is such a glamorous job, and then you get here and you realise so much of the role is just relationship management...” He downed the rest of his glass and winked at her. “Hell, with your skillset, you’d be much better at it than me.”

Miranda smiled politely. She wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. “Thank you.” She said uncertainly. “I won't tell anyone, about the papers I mean.” She added.

“I know.”

“You trust me?” 

Cipher leaned in close. She realised just how much he towered over her. Her back hit the table. 

“...I trust you not to upset me.” His tone was low and ominous.

Miranda nodded quickly. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest. The Dean let the threat hang in the air a second longer before he pulled away from her and bounded up the stairs to his desk.

“Clear my diary for the rest of the afternoon!” He called.

Miranda wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “What?” 

“Cancel all of my appointments. I’ve got a zoom call with Mark Zuckerberg in five minutes.” Cipher said. “Do I look OK? Not got any smoothie around my face, do I? No?” He made a circling gesture towards his mouth.

“But you’re meeting with Professor Polarity at half-past,” Miranda protested. “You agreed to speak with him about what happened to his son, Andre, remember?”

Cipher made a slicing motion against his neck. “Push it back to next week. He can wait,” He said. “I don't mean to sound insensitive, but his son is already dead.” 

He opened his laptop and started fumbling around with a pair of headphones, plugging them in and putting them over his ears. Miranda stood there, hesitating, still clutching the ExCo papers. Noticing she was still there, Cipher shoo-ed her away with a hand, frowning.

The flippancy of his dismissal infuriated her. Snatching up the dirty glass and blender, Miranda turned before she left the room and asked sourly, “And what about my training? What happened to that?” 

Cipher’s dark eyes flicked over to hers. “Shut the door,” He mouthed firmly.

…

She was sitting in the lecture theatre in Modesty Monarch's ‘Advanced Influencer Fluency’ class. Up until very recently, this had been Miranda's favourite seminar with her favourite professor. Not because she necessarily believed anymore in all the trad-wife propaganda the butterfly supe loved to push onto them, but because Modesty Monarch made no attempts to hide her favoritism amongst her students, and Miranda was most definitely her favourite student.

“A beautiful power for a beautiful girl.” She had told her once in her first year at Godolkin. “Love is the most precious gift of all, and it is our responsibility as women to cherish and nurture it. You're going to go far, sweetling.” It was a little silly looking back, but first-year Miranda had swelled with pride to hear those words. Finally, someone who respected her powers! Someone who didn't think she was a complete joke. With Modesty Monarch's help, Miranda's social media mastery had sky-rockketed. She had even landed a spot in the renowned Top Ten (albeit ranked Ninth) purely from the size of her Instagram following. That was, before Cipher had changed her ranking to last place. She was still annoyed at him for that.

Ironically, she owed Modesty Monarch her entire career. The trad-supe, anti-feminist propaganda had consumed her entirely for her first two years at university. ‘Super in the Streets, but Obedient in the Sheets’ had been Miranda’s most watched video on YouTube. Georgia loved poking fun at her and embarrassing her about it now. “Remember when you wore nothing but milkmaid dresses for your entire second year —even in winter? Remember when you had that poster of Homelander above your bed?” Miranda always flushed bright red and reminded Georgia of when she had a poster of Soldier Boy above her bed.

They were sitting in the front row of the lecture theatre, where Miranda insisted they always sat. But this time, Lisa Heron was sitting with them. She was on Georgia's right side. Lisa had fire powers, Georgia had explained to her; she could shoot fireballs and conjure flames out of thin air. She was supposedly one of the top performers in the Dean's hero optimisation seminar, just behind Jordan Li and Cate Dunlap. Looking at her, Miranda didn't think Lisa was anything special. Lisa's front teeth were a bit too big for her mouth, and when she laughed — which she did a lot — it sounded like a donkey braying.

Georgia and Lisa were talking about the hero optimisation seminar again. It was all they ever seemed to talk about. Modesty Monarch's lecture had already started, so they had to speak in hushed tones.

“Next time you make a tornado, I'll try setting it alight!” Lisa whispered excitedly.

“You can do that?”

“I can try! It'll be a fire tornado!”

“That would be so cool!” Georgia exclaimed.

“Right? Imagine the look on the Cipher's face!” Lisa laughed, making that annoying farmyard sound again. Haaww-haaww-haaww.

Miranda could feel a headache coming on. “What is the actual point of a fire tornado, though?” She asked acidly. Lisa stopped laughing.

Georgia looked at her strangely. “What do you mean? It's just a bit of fun.”

“We're supposed to be learning how to become weapons,” Miranda said impatiently, “It's not ‘just a bit of fun’.” She crossed her arms.

Lisa smirked at her. “We're in an Instagram class, babe.”

“Well, if you guys ever stopped talking and listened, you might learn something useful—”

“Miss Lovelace!”

Miranda whipped her head back to the front of the stage, horrified. Modesty Monarch was looking at her disappointedly. Her thin, pale lips were pursed in displeasure.

“It's not very lady-like to speak when others are talking. I'm sure you already know this.” Her favourite professor chastised her, as Miranda flushed a deep scarlet. “Please refrain from chatting until class is over, girls. Remember, our greatest power as women is our ability to keep quiet and listen to others.”

Miranda apologised profusely and was silent for the rest of the seminar. The class was useful and informative; Modesty Monarch explained to them how to use their platform to secure coveted brand deals and sponsorship opportunities. Her advice seemed especially targeted to Miranda; she talked at length about working with different beauty companies and fragrance lines. Miranda knew she had done this on purpose — Modesty Monarch was kind to her like that. She felt incredibly guilty about talking over the professor earlier, and even guiltier that she was still struggling to give the presentation her full attention. 

It was all Lisa's fault. The ginger-haired supe was still whispering incessantly to Georgia, who was holding back her giggles behind quiet coughs. Miranda could feel Lisa smirking at her out of the corner of her eye. Haaww-haaww-haaww. 

Shut up! She wanted to scream. I could make you completely, utterly obsessed with me if I wanted to! That is the power I hold over you! 

For a brief moment, Miranda wished she had the power of puppetry like Cipher did. Fire tornado… I’d make you walk into a fire tornado, she thought darkly.

The seminar passed by quickly. She made a show of note-taking, raising her hand to answer questions, and appearing to listen attentively. When it was over, Miranda had finished packing up her bag and was about to follow Georgia and Lisa out of the theatre when Modesty Monarch called her name. She stopped and turned around.

The professor’s hands were cupped together expectantly. “Can I speak with you for five minutes?” She asked politely, but her too-wide smile said, ‘this is not a request’.

“Yes, of course.” 

Miranda paused to let Georgia know she was going to hang back a while. She was going to suggest she go on without her, but to her surprise there was no-one there; Georgia had already left. This hurt more than she expected. Georgia never left the room without her. Whatever. Forcing an apologetic smile onto her face, Miranda headed over to the butterfly supe. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier,” She said, “It won’t happen again, I promise.” 

“Thank you for apologising. I’m sure it won’t. I just didn’t want you to miss the part about brand deals…” Modesty Monarch said graciously. She looked around and waited until all the other students had left the room. “That’s actually why I called you over — what I want to talk with you about.”

“Oh?”

The professor’s wings seemed to shimmer in excitement. “I think I might have just found your first professional brand deal!” She said, beaming. “Fruit-flavoured tinted lip gloss! With Annabella!”

“The skincare company?”

“They're looking to branch into make-up. Their director of marketing reached out to me yesterday saying Annabella are interested in partnering with a young superhero for the launch of their new tinted lip gloss. Miranda, you'd be perfect for this. It'll be flirty, a little cheeky, but nothing too ungodly — we can't have you losing all your Christian fans, now can we?” She winked and Miranda laughed alongside her.

“So, what do you think? You want to be the face of Annabella?” Modesty Monarch asked, but she wasn't really asking. Her smug expression said it all. As if Miranda would have to think about this opportunity. As if she would ever turn this down.

Miranda Lovelace, the face of Annabella? Selling fruit-flavoured tinted lip gloss? Modesty Monarch was right; this was the perfect brand deal to hard launch her career. It was so girly, so flirty, so perfectly Cupid she should have been delighted. 

…But she wasn't. 

She felt a little empty inside, actually. Like, cool, tinted lip gloss, whatever. She could have laughed at the dichotomy of it all; whilst she was selling lip products, Cipher was puppeting minds and Georgia and Lisa were making fire tornados. Still, a girl had to make do with the cards she'd been dealt with…

Miranda dug deep inside and summoned the Cupid within her to respond. The Cupid she was slowly growing to despise.

“I would love to work with Annabella.” Cupid beamed at her professor, who laughed in delight and clapped her hands. “This opportunity is perfect… Truly — I just can't thank you enough.”

“Wonderful! And it's no trouble at all, I'm just so happy for you. I'll let the director know right away and we'll get something scheduled soon.” Modesty Monarch put her arms around her and squeezed her tightly. “Just you wait, this will be the start of everything you've ever dreamed of.”

Miranda's cheeks had started to hurt with all the smiling. “I just really appreciate everything you're doing for me,” She said sweetly.

The professor simpered back at her. “Well, there is actually something you could help me with in return, actually. I do hate to ask…”

Here we go. “Of course, anything you need.” Cupid’s eyes widened in concern.

“I’ve just launched a new course for young women, ‘Super Submission: Erasing the Stigma and Embracing Silence.’ It would mean so much to me if you advertised it on your platform.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to see you join as well. You know, for the visuals.”

Miranda’s smile became painfully, achingly forced. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Modesty Monarch clutched her arm so hard she could feel her freshly manicured nails digging into her skin. “You are such a darling.” The professor said, squeezing tight.

…

Her mother had flown in specially for the commercial. Miranda had told her the news the night before - that she was to become the face of Annabella and would be shooting an advert for their new fruit-flavoured tinted lip gloss. Mrs Lovelace had jumped on a jet that very evening and had arrived in New York overnight. She had met her daughter in Lower Manhattan especially tired and irritated, and had spent the entirety of their time at the studio as unofficial director - barking angry orders at the cameramen and makeup artists.

Once the photoshoot was finished, her mother had taken her for dinner at One World Trade Center on the one hundredth floor to celebrate. Miranda was still wearing Annabella’s tinted lip gloss in the shade ‘Kiss me, Cherry’. Her lips were sticky. When she licked them they tasted sickly sweet.

“Thank goodness I was there to direct them.” Mrs Lovelace muttered, sipping her white wine. She flicked through the food menu critically, pausing occasionally to scan the ingredients and pursing her lips. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me about the deal earlier, I could have explained to them my vision from the start. Instead, I had to jump on a plane at a ridiculous hour in the morning and come all the way over… Do you know how tired I am?”

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said lamely. She licked her lips again.

“Stop doing that,” Her mother snapped. “It makes you look stupid. You don’t want to look stupid, do you?” Miranda shook her head silently. “No. And sit up straight — you’ll damage your spine like that. I shouldn’t have to remind you about this — you’re twenty-one years old.” 

She ordered the duck confit for the both of them. When the dish came, Miranda picked at it delicately, tearing away the meat with her knife slowly and staring out at the view surrounding them whilst her mother argued with the waiter. She could see Vought Tower from here, the giant number ‘7’ along its side all lit up with superhero splendour. The tower didn’t look so far away… She wondered what it would be like to have her own suite up there, to walk those halls alongside the likes of Homelander, Queen Maeve, and The Deep. She wondered what it would be like to be part of the Seven. Dare she even dream…?

“Hello? When I talk to you, please look at me,” Mrs Lovelace said, frowning. “I just asked you a question. I asked you how university is going. When are you graduating?”

“I think it will be in June.”

“I think it will be in June.” Her mother corrected her as Miranda looked at her in confusion. “You just said you feel it will be in June.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Her mother drank her wine again and started shaking her head angrily, “Your mandarin has definitely worsened — I told you that you should start taking classes again. Grandmother is going to be so upset. You are Chinese, do you not respect your own language?”

“I’m only half Chinese...” 

“You are Chinese,” Mrs Lovelace repeated firmly. “When I talk to you, you speak in our language. Do you understand me?”

“...Yes.”

“How is university?”

Miranda had to pause for a minute and think of the correct vocabulary. She sipped on her wine, mind racing. “It’s good. I’m doing well in all my classes,” She said slowly, “And I’ve just taken a part-time role in the Dean’s office.” 

Her mother frowned. “Yes, OK. But what about your plans for graduation? Are you talking with anyone about your career — are they supporting you?”

“My professor secured me the Annabella deal, actually.”

“Good, that’s a start. Your father is paying that university a considerable amount of money, you’re aware? We need to have our money’s worth when you’re finished there. Otherwise why did you move to New York? The Annabella advert is only the beginning. There needs to be more…” Mrs Lovelace said impatiently, swirling her wine around her glass and looking out of the window contemplatively. After a brief pause she suddenly focused on Miranda again and asked suspiciously, “What’s this business with the Dean’s office? You shouldn’t be wasting your time in administrative roles.”

“It’s nothing. I'm probably going to quit soon anyway.” It's not like Cipher is teaching me anything useful, Miranda thought.

Her mother nodded, satisfied. “Don't waste your time. Focus on your career.” She jabbed her knife into the duck and cut aggressively.

…

Miranda was silent all the way to the airport. Mrs Lovelace grumbled the entire taxi ride about the decline of British Airways, the dirtiness of New York, and how she was not looking forward to flying back to London because ‘it had rained for an entire two weeks.’ They said their good-byes at the departure hall, where her mother suddenly grabbed her arm fiercely.

“Your father and I will come over for Christmas. Or do you want to come home? It might be nice for you to be back for a while.”

“I'd rather stay here…”

“OK. Then we will visit you.” Her mother smiled, squeezing her arm. Her eyes filled abruptly with tears. Miranda froze awkwardly and watched her wipe them away with her fingertips.

“Mum…?” She asked uncertainly. How much did you have to drink?

“I know I am hard on you,” Mrs Lovelace said, her voice strained and uncharacteristically fragile. She suddenly seemed a lot older to Miranda — a lot smaller and weaker. “With the mandarin especially. But it is so hard seeing…seeing…” She gulped and took a deep breath, “We should have taken you to classes as a child. Then you would be fluent by now.”

Miranda looked down at the floor. “I'll start classes again.” 

Her mother looked relieved. “That would make your Grandmother so happy.” She smiled tearfully, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she had sourced from her handbag. Her grip on Miranda’s arm became painfully tight. 

“...I am not your enemy, Mei-Hua,” Her voice had taken on a frantic, almost hysterical edge.

“I know that,” Miranda said tensely, becoming increasingly conscious of the number of passersby who were giving the pair curious looks.

“We just want the best for you. That is all we want. All we've ever wanted. It's why we enrolled you at Godolkin, why your father and I took the offer from Vought when you were a baby—”

“I know.” 

Mrs Lovelace patted her arm. “You did a good job today with the commercial. I told you, have more faith in yourself. You’re going to go so far,” She said and grinned, “Think of your future television show!”

She kissed her cheek before she left. Her mother’s lips were cold against her skin. Her rouge lipstick left a faint smear, which Miranda wiped off with her hand. As her mother rounded the corner and waved a final goodbye, an onslaught of exhaustion enveloped her. Thank god that’s over. Her arms fell heavily at her sides. Yawning, Miranda drifted out of the departures hall of John F. Kennedy International Airport and went to hail down a taxi to take her back to campus.

She stopped at the edge of the pavement, arm out, shivering in the cool night air. A taxi cab flashed its lights and started making its way over to her. As Miranda stood there waiting for it to pull up, her eyes caught sight of an electronic billboard on the side of the airport entrance. 

She did a double-take.

It was her, scantily dressed in that cerise lingerie-bodysuit Annabella had made her wear this morning. The camera rode up her body slowly to her face, and the girl in the advert blew a big kiss and battered her eyelashes.

“My lips taste like cherries.” Cupid breathed sultrily, then winked and started giggling as she stretched out on a huge white bed. 

Out on the street outside in the real world, Miranda felt a swirl of nausea bubble like acid in her stomach as a sickening realisation hit her.

 Cupid didn’t look sexy. She didn’t look cute. She didn’t help people find love as the host of an award-winning television show, and she certainly wasn’t a sharp-witted, charismatic superstar beloved across the globe. In fact, Cupid wasn’t really anything at all. She was just a stupid, simpering piece of eye candy flogging overpriced, sticky cosmetics.

She got in the taxi and slammed the door shut. The cab hadn’t even got to the end of the road before Miranda started sobbing.

…

 “So, your lips taste like cherries?” Cipher asked mockingly as she entered the office on Monday. He was sitting at his desk wearing a dark blue shirt and grey tie, which matched the hints of silver in his hair and beard. He’d had a fresh haircut since they'd last spoken — it was shorter and neater than when she'd last seen him. He looked smugly, frustratingly handsome, as if he'd known she would wake up this morning with dark circles under her eyes and a pimple on her nose (which she'd done her best to cover with concealer) and wanted to rub it in her face. Twat.

When she gave no reaction to his taunt and said nothing, Cipher grinned. “Wow! So touchy.” 

Miranda ignored him again, making her way over to her desk and dumping her bag on top. She sat down and opened up her laptop. That fucking advert… How could Modesty Monarch and her mother have ever thought that was a good idea? How could she have let herself go along with them? ‘My lips taste like cherries’ — what a stupid tagline. People had been quoting it to her all week. Cameron Johnson had shouted it to her across the sports field this morning. Even Georgia had thought it was amusing, as she’d tried her best to hide her reaction from her thunder-faced roommate. Miranda never wanted to see another fucking cherry as long as she lived.

“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me not to say anything. I mean, I can respect the hustle, but you’ve got to admit, that commercial is hilarious,” Cipher said. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him lounging back in his chair and smirking.

Miranda logged onto the university portal. “You have time in the morning for paperwork, then Stacey Ferrara has asked to speak with you after lunch, then you’re having an alumni interview with The Deep at four o-clock,” She announced emotionlessly.

“...Whatever possessed Modesty Monarch to think that was a good idea for you…”

“You have the university budget exemptions submission in your inbox to clear by today,” Miranda continued, tone growing increasingly short. “I’ve printed out the talking points and approved questions for your interview with The Deep. Do you want them now or later? And Polarity has requested once again to speak with you after you cancelled on him last Friday. That was the third time now. Do you want to see him or not?”

Cipher frowned. “I’ll have the questions now. And I’ll see Polarity instead of Stacey — she can wait until tomorrow. Nothing she says is ever useful anyway,” He said. “And that stinger! Every time I look at it I throw up a little in my mouth.”

“OK.”

Miranda took the papers out of her bag and walked over to the Dean, ready to pass them to him and quickly turn back to her desk. As she was handing them to him, Cipher grabbed her wrist. She was surprised at how soft his hand was against hers, how gently he held her. 

Humour danced in those dark eyes. “Miranda, look, I like you,” Cipher said, “But the advert was a little trite. Perhaps now you realise why I wanted you to focus on much grander ambitions.” 

She ignored how good his hand felt around her wrist. “So you keep saying,” Her tone was clipped, brusque. She pulled her arm away. Cipher looked at her quizzically as she continued, “You haven't actually taught me anything yet though, have you? All I've done since I started is organise your calendar, print your papers, and make you lunch. At least Modesty Monarch tried.”

He nodded slowly. “You're right, I accept that.”

“Were you ever going to train me? Or was it just a carrot you dangled in front of me whilst I embarrassed myself as your PA?” Miranda said accusingly.

Cipher's eyes flashed. “Careful,” He warned.

“It is, though. It's embarrassing working for you, blending all those smoothies-”

He hit the desk hard, making her jump. “You should be fucking grateful I hired you as my PA. A spoilt brat like you!” Cipher shouted. She stared back at him, shocked. “Forgive me if I have more important things to do like run this entire university than train a silly little girl who likes to preen about in her lingerie.”

Miranda turned around so he wouldn't see the tears welling up in her eyes. She blinked them away furiously. 

“...I understand. I'm sorry.”

She wiped away an escaped teardrop and walked shakily back to her desk. Sniffling quietly, Miranda opened her laptop and sent a hasty email to Stacey Ferrara rescheduling her two o’clock meeting. She could barely see the words on the screen as she was typing, through the water pooling in her eyes.

She had ruined everything. Her chance at escaping becoming Cupid, her opportunity to train her powers, her relationship with Cipher. There goes my shot at real power, Miranda thought bitterly. Good luck getting into The Seven now. She'd be flogging lipgloss until the day she died. An air-headed, vacuous, D-list celebrity. A nobody. 

Resigned to her fate, Miranda mentally prepared what she would say to Modesty Monarch tomorrow afternoon at class. ‘Thank you ever so, professor. Why I would simply love the opportunity to model again. Perhaps I could advertise vanilla scented eyeshadow next? Or strawberries and cream tasting perfume?’ She could do it, she told herself; she could become Cupid. She had no choice now. She could do it. She could do it…

Her tears fell like London rain — fat little droplets that dripped from her chin and splashed against the keyboard. Plink…plink…plink…

A tissue was offered to her.

Miranda looked up, blinking heavily. Cipher stood in front of her desk, hand outstretched. His gaze was directed at the dark mahogany door to the right of them. She took the tissue from him timidly and dried her eyes.

“Get up,” He ordered. She obeyed, a little unsteadily. His dark eyes swept over her. “You can leave your bag here, you won’t need it. We’ll do it now.”

“Do what now…?” She asked stupidly.

Cipher gave her a pointed look. “Your training.”

Heart beating fast, Miranda followed the Dean as he led her across campus to a small building separate from the rest of the university block on the west side. She recognised it immediately as the location of the hero optimisation seminar, having enviously followed Georgia and Lisa one time out of masochistic curiosity. This is it, she thought, stomach fluttering in anticipation, he’s finally going to teach me. She watched eagerly as Cipher punched in a code on a keypad attached to a huge metal door, which released its bolts and slowly swung open revealing a barren concrete room. Cipher flipped a switch and the space lit up with a harsh, white glare. 

The hero optimisation seminar room… She turned to the Dean, eyes wide. He pointed to a spot on the floor marked with a small ‘X’ in black tape. 

“Stand over there, please.”

Her footsteps were muffled by the creaking sound of the door closing behind them. A sudden shiver ran down her spine and Miranda shuddered involuntarily. She was locked in with him. She’d been alone in a room with Cipher before, of course, but this was different. Nobody could disturb them here. There was no risk of anyone walking in and interrupting them. He could do anything he wanted to her here and she would just have to take it… The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

Cipher pulled out his phone from his suit pants and spoke into it, “Martin. Have Subject A prepared and ready, please. Don’t bring her in yet, wait until I say so.”

“Subject A?” Miranda asked curiously.

The Dean nodded, gesturing to her. “Your power, Miranda, is creating and severing connections in someone. To another person, to an object, to an idea. Naturally, in order to train you, you need to use your powers on someone. A willing volunteer,” He explained.

“Who?”

“You’ll find out.” 

Miranda looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about powers?”

Cipher smiled enigmatically. “I told you before — it’s my job to.” 

When she stared back at him unconvinced, he paused for a moment. His gaze dissected her intensely, seeming to examine every change in her expression and every encounter she had ever had with him before he finally admitted, “I was the top behavioural scientist at Vought for over a decade. I’ve spent years studying all kinds of supes, watching them grow and learning what makes them tick. It’s… incredibly frustrating, being a witness to so much wasted potential.”

His expression looked almost pained. They were both quiet for a while. Miranda was surprised Cipher had revealed so much information about himself. The man was exceedingly secretive. She supposed that was what had drawn her to him in the first place — his air of mystery. When she had first joined his office as his personal assistant, Cipher had fastidiously detailed exactly which cabinets she could and could not open. Each one had its own five dial combination spin lock. The sheer multitude of passcodes had made her head spin. It was impressive how Cipher managed to memorise all of them at once.

The top behavioural scientist at Vought, huh? Impressive, indeed.

“Is that why you agreed to train me?” Miranda asked softly, “Because of ‘wasted potential’?”

Cipher looked at her impassively. Whatever candidness he had displayed before had quickly disappeared. He pulled out his phone and spoke into it.

“...Martin, bring in Subject A.” 

There was a low, rumbling sound as another double metal door — this time to the front of her — opened slowly. Miranda turned to face it and watched in bewilderment as a maintenance man she recognised vaguely from around campus walked into the room, tightly grasping the arm of a young woman with a familiar face. Where have I seen her before…? Miranda thought, frustrated at herself. It was right on the tip of her tongue…

The barista from the cafeteria.

Yes, that was it. It came back to her in an instant. The one who had served her and Georgia after Miranda had first used her powers on Cipher at Polarity’s welcome speech. The one with the Starlighter ‘RESIST’ poster which Miranda had gently suggested she take down. She had made a really good matcha… What was her name again? She had had it written on her shirt.

Cipher cut off her train of thought. “Thank you, Martin. Over here, please.” He ordered, pointing to a spot on the floor two metres in front of Miranda, where a small ‘X’ had been drawn in white chalk.

‘Martin’ marched the young barista over to the X. She stumbled a little in the maintenance man's strong grip, fear written all over her face. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. They searched the room frantically and settled on Miranda. 

“Please,” She croaked out.

Miranda turned to Cipher, who had taken out a clipboard and fountain pen and was jotting something on it, brows scrunched together. 

“What is this?” She asked.

“Your first exercise,” The Dean said, and indicated to the trembling barista with his pen. “Tess here works at the Jitter Bean coffee shop as part of the human support staff. You might have seen her around campus, might have ordered a vanilla matcha latte or two from her yourself. Unfortunately, it's become apparent to the university that Tess here is also an avid Starlight supporter who keeps putting up posters and trying to recruit Godolkin students to join her cause,” Cipher paused and tutted, shaking his head. “Not a good idea.”

Miranda watched as the barista’s knees started quivering. “Please,” She gasped again.

“Now, this can't continue for obvious reasons. But I see no need to let her go. There's no reason why we can't deal with this quietly; Tess just needs a little re-education, that’s all,” Cipher said, smiling. “And you, Miranda, are going to give that to her.” He walked over to where she was standing, close enough that he loomed over her, and pointed at the terrified barista with his clipboard. “I want you to dig around in her brain, scoop out all of the Starlighter woke fucking bullshit, and replace it with unquestioning, die-hard loyalty to the superhero cause. Can you do that for me?” Cipher asked, his gaze unblinking.

“I…I don’t know. I’ve never tried with an idea before. Only a person,” Miranda stammered.

His hand lightly touched her back. “You have so much potential, Miranda. I know you don’t see it yet, but I do. And once you gain mastery of your powers, you will become unstoppable,” said Cipher urgently. “Now — I need you to fill her brain with adoration for the cause.”

Tess screamed and fought against her captor, stomping on Martin’s foot and making a break for the door. The maintenance man swore and chased after her, grabbing onto the barista’s arm and spinning her around as the girl’s legs gave out and she sank to the floor.

“Hold her still!” Cipher shouted, “She needs direct line of sight for this to work!”

Martin yanked Tess up aggressively, pinning her arms behind her back and marching her once again to the white ‘X’ marking. The barista sagged against him, crying silently. Miranda swallowed and turned towards her, brown eyes zeroing in on Tess’ bloodshot blue ones. She took a deep breath and focused on the sound of the young girl’s heartbeat. Thump…thump…thump… Miranda was vaguely aware of Cipher beside her, scrawling vigorously on a sheet of paper on his clipboard. She zoned him out. There was only her and the human, Tess. 

Miranda willed her heart open. In her mind, it appeared as a powder blue feathery thing — a little bird — delicate and sweet. It hopped onto her lap and she fed it corn and ricecake. It unfurled before her and she dipped a hand inside and wrenched out a shining golden strand. Starlighter trash… In its place Miranda placed visions of Homelander, Firecracker, the American flag — over and over again she filled the little bird with patriotic visions of a glorious supe-led America. Over and over again until the bird heaved, squawked, and at last collapsed…

…

Gasping, Miranda broke the connection. 

…She was in Cipher’s arms. Her legs felt like boiled jelly. He must have caught her as she’d slumped towards the ground. The Dean’s left arm was wrapped around her waist, the other supporting the back of her neck. His clipboard was nowhere to be seen. Dazed, Miranda tilted her head towards Tess, who was standing there numbly in Martin’s grip, a vacant, dream-like expression painted on her face. She was no longer crying, but instead the very picture of serenity. She looked…happy.

Miranda turned back towards Cipher. “Did that…did it work?” She asked between coughs, taking the Dean’s arm and using it to steady herself back on her feet.

Cipher looked at her. His dark eyes burned with glee. He removed the hand behind her neck and with it he cupped her face and stroked her cheek gently with his thumb. Her breath hitched in her throat.

“You are magnificent,” He whispered.

She smiled triumphantly back at him.

Link to Chapter 5

[myfireplacewentboom]

Deciphering Cupid - Chapter 3

(A Dean Cipher romance story)

Miranda Lovelace can make anyone fall in love. Ranked Ninth in Godolkin University’s coveted Top Ten, ‘Cupid’ knows what she wants and how to get it: to become the most famous influencer in the world.

Unfortunately, the new Dean isn’t so impressed. Since taking up the mantle, Cipher has made himself abundantly clear: supes are soldiers, not influencers. After he humiliates her, Miranda plots devious revenge: make Dean Cipher fall pathetically in love. Having him wrapped around her little finger will be so much fun…

But as her relationship with the Dean develops, Miranda discovers not everything is as it seems. Horrifyingly, she catches feelings for Cipher herself. As she falls deeper and deeper in love with him, the man she thought she knew as ‘Cipher’ threatens to drag her further and further into the darkness…

3. Reinforcement

That night, Miranda dreamt of Cipher.

She had everything she ever wanted. She had reached the dizzying heights of global fame as a love guru superstar. Every girl wanted to be her. Every boy wanted to be with her. She had her own television show on Vought+ at long last! ‘Candid with Cupid’ drew in millions of viewers all over the world as Miranda chatted with people looking to find love and sent them on elaborate match-making schemes. Ratings wise, it was the most successful television show in Vought entertainment history. She had singlehandedly ushered in a brave new age for dating, and for womankind. Her face was splashed on every advertisement on every billboard in Times Square. But, like, in a feminist way with minimal retouching which she didn’t need anyway because she had glass skin. She had her own makeup and fragrance line. She owned a bridal boutique.

Miranda was on set in her private studio in New York, filming a February Valentines’ Day special. She was happily gushing away with a newly engaged couple from Alaska who had found love on her show a year ago. Dennis and Megan, both thirty-six years old, lived together in Barrow. He was a journalist, she was a doctor. Dennis had proposed to her in Rio de Janeiro for their anniversary, Megan was recounting to her, on a moonlit beach underneath a sky full of stars. Miranda was coo-ing over the sparkling diamond ring decorating Megan’s hand. It glittered in the light as she moved, laughing away.

All of a sudden, the lights dimmed. The cameras turned off with a sharp click.

What the hell? Miranda peered around the studio set, eyes wide and blinking frantically in the darkness, but there was no-one there.

“Hello?”

No reply. She turned back around.

Dennis and Megan were gone.

With a high-pitched shriek, Miranda leapt up from the loveseat and stumbled into someone familiar. Cipher? What was he doing here? He put his hands on her shoulders and steadied her as she fell into his chest. Pale blue shirt. She looked up. His dark brown eyes were surprisingly soft.

“What are you doing?” Miranda stuttered, “You can’t be here.”

Cipher ignored her. One hand reached up to touch her chin and she flinched. Smirking, the Dean leaned down as he asked mockingly, “Is this really all you want in life? Little influencer.” He gestured around at the empty set. “When you were made for so much more?” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” She whispered.

Cipher chuckled, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, making her shiver. “So much more.” He promised.

Miranda closed her eyes and wrenched herself away from his touch. “Get the fuck out of my head…”

…

She awoke with a start, panting. The dorm room was dark. She could hear the faint sounds of birdsong coming from the trees outside. Georgia’s bed was empty. Confused, Miranda sat up and looked around, blinking rapidly. The digital clock by her bedside read 06:37. Groaning, she lay back into her pillow, heart racing. What is wrong with me? Gingerly — ever so slowly — she extended a hand down under the duvet cover and then hesitantly under her knickers. Her face burned hot as her fingers came away wet.

A sliver of light crept in as the door slowly opened. She quickly removed her hand. Georgia slipped in silently. Seeing Miranda awake, she grimaced apologetically.

“Sorry, I didn’t wake you, did I? I was trying my best not to.”

Miranda yawned and shook her head. She squinted. Realising Georgia was fully dressed in what appeared to be athleisure gear, she asked sleepily, “What are you doing up so early? It’s not even light out.”

Georgia looked uneasy. She crossed the room to her bed, bent down on all fours, and started rummaging frantically underneath. “I came back to change my shoes,” She explained. “These ones are rubbing.”

“Are you going for a run or something?”

“No. Sorry, have you seen my other pair? I swear I put them… Nevermind, found them.” She triumphantly pulled out a dirty set of trainers and gave them a quick inspection.

“What’s going on?” Miranda sat up. She yawned again and wiped the sleep out of her eyes.

Georgia turned to face her, looking sheepish. “I was going to tell you last night but I forgot,” she admitted. “I got a note in my pigeon hole yesterday. From Dean Cipher. Apparently, someone dropped out of the hero optimisation seminar so there was a spare place. He asked me to join… I said yes.” She pulled off her shoes with a yank and started lacing up the new ones.

“Oh.”

“You’re not upset, are you? Sorry, I really was going to tell you earlier. I was just so tired last night from Emma’s party.”

Miranda forced a smile onto her face. “Of course not. That’s great news! You’re going to do amazingly.”

“Thanks.” Georgia beamed at her. “I was a bit nervous actually. Apparently it’s quite brutal. But then I thought, I’m at this school to learn. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll be brilliant. Just think of it as a chance to grow your power. Proud of you!”

“Thanks!” Georgia looked at her phone and made a face. “Sorry, I’ve really got to head — don’t want to be late for my first time. Do you want me to leave the lights off?” She hovered by the door.

“Please.”

“See you later.” Then, with one foot out the door, Georgia asked her, “What are you doing up so early?”

Miranda stretched, pulling up the duvet covers and sinking back into the bed. “Just a bad dream…” She sighed.

…

With Georgia still at the hero optimisation class and with nothing else to do, Miranda decided that she would check her pigeon hole too, just in case. Maybe there was more than one drop-out, she hoped, as she made her way over to the other side of campus. The early afternoon sun was invitingly bright and warm. She enjoyed the walk over, feeling the breeze on her face. There were students playing soccer on the university sports field. A few of them waved at her as she walked by, sipping her iced matcha latte.

She wondered if, one day, the Dean would ever extend the invitation to her, if she proved to Cipher that she was serious about ‘levelling up’. But what did ‘levelling up’ even look like? She hadn’t properly understood what Cipher had meant when he had told her her real power was creating and severing connections. ‘Severing’ them? Did that mean Miranda could also make people fall out of love? She disliked that idea. It was so, so against the very core of her identity — against everything that Cupid stood for. She was America’s next superstar sweetheart! She wasn’t some, some homewrecker! What about Miranda’s future perfume line? Her bridal boutique!

If Miranda Lovelace wasn’t Cupid, then she wasn’t loved. That was what her mother had told her. You aren’t very smart. Luckily for you, you are pretty. That is the only thing you are good at. 

Cupid was everything. Without love, she wasn’t Cupid. Without Cupid, she was nothing.

Miranda would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she was ever-so-slightly envious of Georgia. For the first time since joining Godolkin University, Miranda wished her powers were more demonstratively useful. Visually impressive. ‘Hurricane’ Georgia could conjure storms out of thin air, throw people across rooms with a blast from her hands, summon whirlwinds with a whisk of her fingers. She was also a dab hand at blowdrying Miranda’s hair… Now that was real power. No wonder Georgia had been personally invited to join Cipher’s seminar, and she hadn’t.

Unusually glum and despondent, Miranda walked into the university’s reception lodge. A girl she vaguely recognised was manning the desk. She had long dark hair and wore gold hexagonal glasses. She tried to picture where she’d seen her before but couldn’t place it. Maybe she was one of her TikTok followers?

“Hi, morning! What’s up, how can I help?” The girl asked her cheerfully.

“Hi, I’m here to check my pigeon hole.” 

“Oh, those have all moved. Come here, I’ll show you,” The girl said. She was wearing bright red lipstick and vibrant leopard print heels, which was a little too out-there for Miranda’s tastes but she decided suited her. She followed her over to a backroom to the right, where the girl pointed out the array of open-fronted compartments.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.” Her heels clacked back to the front desk.

Holding her matcha latte carefully in one hand, Miranda bent over to inspect the slot labeled ‘ Lovelace, M’. To her dismay, it was empty. No note from Dean Cipher, no letter from her parents, not even a postcard from her Aunt Xiu Ying from one of her many holidays in China. She didn’t know what she had expected, but seeing the completely empty box in real life made the whole situation weigh even heavier on her shoulders.

Feeling sorry for herself, Miranda stood up and glanced around at all the other students’ pigeon holes seemingly stuffed to the brim with envelopes, gift boxes, and leaflets, and mourned the lack of attention. As she looked, her eyes caught sight of an especially interesting flyer pinned up on the reception noticeboard.

HELP WANTED: PART-TIME PERSONAL ASSISTANT TO THE DEAN.

A slow smile spread across her face.

“Hi, excuse me,” Miranda called out, “Do you know if this position has been filled by someone yet?” She walked back over to the front desk, flyer in hand, and placed it in front of the dark-haired girl. Adjusting her glasses, the girl peered at it for a second.

“No it hasn’t. I actually only put it up this morning. Why, are you interested in applying?” She asked.

“Can anyone apply?”

The girl hesitated. “Anyone who’s not in first or second year. Are you…?”

“I’m a senior.”

“Perfect.” The girl smiled. “Then you can definitely apply, yes. You know, if you get it, it counts for fifty credits.”

“What exactly would I have to do?”

The girl picked up the flyer and inspected it again. “From what I understand, there was a lot of admin work created by the switch in Deans,” She explained. “Dean Shetty had been at God U for over four years and she was actually a professor here previously. But I think that Cipher was some sort of researcher — no, a scientist -— beforehand? Anyway, he isn’t as used to how things run here so needs some help with the general university admin.”

Miranda’s attention was piqued. “Scientist? What type of scientist?” She asked.

“I’m not sure. That’s just what Reception told me anyway. I don’t know the details, sorry.”

Cipher was a scientist? Like, at Vought? Interesting… That explained why he knew so much about powers. Why he was so invested in pushing them all to their absolute limit.

“So, just to be clear,” Miranda asked, “I’d be supporting the Dean with his admin work?”

“Yep. Like booking meeting rooms, printing paperwork, helping to manage his diary, that sort of thing. It’s pretty basic stuff. It’s only part-time so just for a few hours a week. Should be pretty flexible.”

“Great. And I just write a cover letter and email it here?” Miranda pointed to the email address listed on the flyer.

“Yep. And Reception will get back in touch if you’re successful to schedule an interview with the Dean.” The girl winked at her. “He said he wants to meet all of the candidates personally.”

Miranda shivered a little at the thought of this, remembering her dream from last night and Cipher’s rich, dark eyes. Why am I getting so worked up? It’s just an interview. Taking out her phone, she took a photo of the flyer and handed it back to the girl. 

“Thanks so much for your help. I’m Miranda by the way.”

“No problem! And I know who you are, you’re Cupid right? You make people fall in love? I’m Sarina, nice to meet you.” The girl waved as Miranda left reception and called out after her, “I hope you get the job!”

…

Georgia burst suddenly into the dormroom, making her jump.

“See you later!” She called over her shoulder into the corridor and waved, her cheeks bright red and forehead drenched in sweat. Shutting the door with a contented sigh, she fell into the armchair opposite.

“Hey, how was it?” Miranda asked. She had been working on her laptop, sitting at her desk. She closed the laptop and swivelled her chair around. “You were gone for ages.”

“I know.” Georgia groaned, sinking deeper into the cushion. “I’m shattered. Like, actually fully shattered. I think my legs are going to give out.”

“Want some tea? I was just about to make one.”

Georgia perked up instantly. “Ooh, yes please, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Of course.” Miranda filled up the kettle, put it on, and pulled out two woodland animal mugs from a cupboard in their shared kitchenette. A rabbit mug, and a squirrel one. They’d bought them together at a vintage fair upstate last summer. “So how was it? It must have gone on for hours.” She dropped a teabag into each mug and poured the boiling water in before adding a splash of milk into each and stirring.

“Amazing,” Georgia said. She reached down and unlaced her trainers. “Exhausting though, I can barely feel my toes.” She wiggled them, peeling off her socks.

“So what did you actually do?” Miranda asked, handing her the rabbit mug.

“Thanks.” Georgia blew on the tea and slurped. She sighed happily. “Everything. So much. I’ve never used my powers like that before. We were in this special concrete training room with this giant sealed door. We were put in pairs — I was fighting Jordan Li! Can you imagine?”

“You were against Jordan? Who won?”

“They did,” Georgia admitted. “But it was exhilarating. And Cipher was watching us the whole time, making notes on this clipboard and giving us suggestions. I know you don’t like him, but he’s such a good teacher, Miranda. I feel like I unlocked a whole new level of power I didn’t even know about, being in that class. I created a tornado! It threw Lisa across the room — you know the girl with the fire power? I wasn’t even aiming it at her!”

“That’s great,” Miranda said.

“Right? It feels like I've been waiting for this class all my life. Dean Shetty would never have done anything like this. But Cipher, he's completely different. He really gets in your head, tries to understand you,” Georgia said excitedly. “I wish you could have seen me.”

“It sounds really cool.”

“I just feel like… like I have a proper shot at joining The Seven now, you know? Sorry, that sounds so stupid to say aloud,” She giggled. “Forget I said anything.”

“It’s not stupid,” Miranda reassured her. “If that’s your dream.”

“It is.” Georgia said, and smiled. She staggered out of the armchair. “Right, I’m going to take a shower and get out of these clothes. Thanks for the tea.” She started pulling her top over her head and then paused, one arm still in her sleeve. “By the way, Lisa invited a few of us back to hers later tonight if you wanted to come along too? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. You know her, right?”

“Not really. I’m OK. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Well let me know if you change your mind.” Georgia dropped her gym top onto the floor. She grabbed her towel and some clean clothes and headed into their shared ensuite. A moment later, Miranda heard the sound of the shower starting.

She opened her laptop again and stared blankly at the screen. Her tea sat untouched beside her. Miranda couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just be happy for her best friend. Georgia had always supported her with her TV ambitions, patiently taken what must have been thousands of photos of her for her Instagram page, and even agreed to help her with her insane, harebrained scheme to seduce Dean Cipher. So why couldn’t she share in just a slice of Georgia’s happiness? Was she really that pathetic? Miranda slumped even lower in her chair. She was such a shit friend.

Suddenly, her email account flashes with an important notification. Who was emailing her at this time in the evening? Curiosity perked, she clicked on it and scanned the written contents. Then she started giggling.

“What’s so funny?” asked Georgia as she padded back into the room in her flipflops and underwear. A towel was wrapped tightly around her head.

Miranda reached for the squirrel mug and sipped her tea. “My plan is working.”

“What’s happened?” Georgia undid the towel and started scrunching her hair with it.

“OK, this is slightly unhinged but I found out earlier the Dean’s office is hiring a part-time personal assistant.” Miranda tilted the laptop in her friend’s direction. “Looking to start immediately.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Oh my god…”

“Whilst you were out, I took the liberty of sending off a quick application...” She paused for dramatic effect. Georgia watched her in amusement. “And I’ve just been invited to an interview tomorrow!”

The two of them burst into laughter.

…

The corridor to the Dean’s office was just as cold and dark as she remembered. Has this man not heard of central heating? Sat shivering on the sofa outside, Miranda drew her blue blazer around her tighter. Luckily, it was fairly thick and gave her some needed protection. She had found it hung up at the back of her wardrobe the night before when she and Georgia had raided her closet for a suitable interview outfit. Miranda had picked out the blazer and a smart grey pencil dress in the hopes of giving Cipher a more professional impression, so that he would know she was a serious candidate. She also had vivid memories of the lingering chill in the Dean’s office despite the early autumn sunshine. It was only September. Miranda dreaded to think what it was like in the winter.

Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Why am I so nervous? It’s just a silly interview. Whilst Georgia had been at Lisa’s last night, Miranda had stayed up late in preparation, running over what she would say was her motivation for applying, and trying to guess the types of questions Cipher would throw her way. Was he surprised to learn she had applied? Would he be especially hard on her? Did he not want her to get the role? All of this was mere speculation, of course; Cipher was a complete enigma. She had never met a man with so much control over his facial expressions. Each one seemed meticulously thought out. Every time he looked at her impassively, she wondered what gears were turning in the Dean’s mind. I’ve already charmed him twice now… Her powers should be working. 

The door opened. She flinched and straightened her back. Cipher stepped out, one hand on the frame. He was wearing a dark pink shirt and grey tie. The colour suited him. Heat rose in her cheeks. Cipher studied her for a moment and then gestured for her to come in.

Miranda rose. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Miss Lovelace.” Cipher inclined his head towards her. “Please, shut the door behind you.” He said, as they entered his office. It was just as imposing as Miranda remembered. The heavy, stone masonry seemed to loom over her and diminish her presence. She felt very small — very silly and very girlish — against the grander of those stained glass windows and the authority of the man walking next to her. She started regretting her recklessness coming here. As if she stood a chance…

“Take a seat,” Cipher ordered. She obeyed, perching rigidly on one of the two brown chesterfield sofas. The Dean crossed the room, picked up an empty glass, and filled it from a jug on the table. “Water?” He offered it to her.

“Thank you.” She took it and sipped politely.

“So, how has your morning been so far?” Cipher asked, filling up another glass for himself.

“Um, fine thanks. Quiet. It’s nice and sunny outside…” Miranda said uncertainly. She cleared her throat and asked, “How was yours?”

“Good! Productive, I hope.” The Dean laughed, drinking from the glass and then putting the water down. “You know, before you came in, I just got off the phone with Homelander? I was explaining to him that normally we don’t allow reserving places that far in advance for children, but in this case I was willing to make a special exemption. Just think of it - the first natural-born supe studying right here at this school! Why, it would blow Thomas Godolkin’s mind.”

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and sat opposite her, skim-reading it. “I suppose we had better get started then.” Cipher cleared his throat and looked at her, “So, Miranda, you want to be my personal assistant.”

“That’s right,” She confirmed.

He made a face. “You know, if I’m being completely honest with you, I was surprised to see your name amongst the list of applicants.”

“Why?”

Cipher smiled wryly. “I was under the impression that you harboured grand television aspirations for yourself. That was what they guaranteed you when you first enrolled here, right, a contract with Vought+? ‘Adding ‘executive assistant, experience in office management and printing’ to your CV doesn’t exactly strike me as a step in that direction.” He lifted his eyes again to meet hers. “So, do you?”

“Do I what?”She asked, confused.

“What to be on TV? Become a big, famous influencer with the show, the product placements, billboard on Times Square, yada yada. The whole nine yards. That’s your dream, correct?”

Miranda paused. “I want to have a platform,” She said slowly. “And yes, my own show one day. There’s nothing wrong with that; hundreds of supes major in communicating and influencing. Modesty Monarch says—”

Cipher cut her off with a wave. “Fine.”

He whacked the sheet of paper he was holding with the back of his hand and sighed. “I’m just struggling to understand your motivation for applying, that’s all.” He waved a finger at her application, “I mean, you say here that you want to, and I quote, ‘develop a multitude of transferable skills you can apply to all future workplaces.’ What a load of crap.” He shook his head.

Miranda’s palms became sweaty. She tried to think quickly on her feet. “I think it would be good for me to experience a different working culture, learn how an office environment operates, have some real responsibility for once…” She stammered.

Cipher snorted. “Such bullsit.”

“I’m sorry?”

He laughed at her and asked mockingly, “Come on, you expect me to believe that? You want ‘responsibility’. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day,” Then his voice hardened. His demeanor switched. “No. Don’t lie to me. You don’t want responsibility — you want something else.”

His dark eyes dissected her. Miranda froze. It was as if her own mind had been forcibly pushed out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger’s instead and she could still see and hear and feel everything but could only watch helplessly, limply, like a little puppet doll, as her right hand moved of its own accord and brushed a stand of hair that had fallen out of place and tucked it neatly behind her ear. Her body was utterly unresponsive to her screaming mind. Her legs stopped shaking. Was this… was this Cipher’s doing? Was this his power? She was suddenly overcome with awe.

“Final warning, Miss Lovelace,” Cipher said. “Why are you here? And I want honesty this time.” Quickly as he had taken it away, he gave her back control.

Miranda gasped as he released her. “I… I…”

Honesty? She hesitated, thinking of Cipher’s extraordinary power and Georgia’s praise of him as a teacher. She thought of her own lacklustre power, and the revelation he had dropped on her last time. Your real power is creating and severing connections. It was honesty he wanted? Very well, she would give that to him. At least, part of it…

Miranda looked at the Dean shyly. “I want you to teach me,” She admitted. “I want you to train me, teach me everything you know about my powers. You’re right — I was lying to you earlier and I’m sorry. I wanted to become your PA because I wanted to get closer to you, make you like me. I knew you would never let me join the hero optimisation seminar so I had to find another way! I thought about what you said to me last time — that I needed to prove myself to you.” She gulped suddenly and took a deep breath. “Well here I am! Please take me on!”

Cipher studied her. She looked back at him nervously. Then he leant back into the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “And why should I teach you?” He asked breezily. He was enjoying this, she realised.

Miranda paused, thrown. Cipher was still watching her impassively. She felt like a test subject in one of his experimentations at Vought; a science project he was inspecting and analysing. She could almost see the gears turning in his mind as he considered her, dissecting her every facial movement.

Her voice was thick when she spoke. “Because you’re the only one who sees me as anything more than Cupid. I want to be… more than Cupid. I want to be so much more,” She said helplessly.

Cipher smiled enigmatically. “It won’t be easy.”

“I know.” 

“I’ll work you to the bone.” He warned, “I’ll take you further than you’ve ever gone before.”

“I can take it.”

Cipher jabbed a finger at her violently. She flinched. “And when it gets hard — because it will get hard, Miss Lovelace, it will get very, very hard — can you take it then? Can you break another person’s mind? Rip out the very parts of them that make up their identity and replace it with something else, when I order you to?” He asked, dark eyes focused on her, mouth smiling grimly. “And make no mistakes — I will order you to. Can you take it then?”

“Yes.” Miranda whispered.

Cipher stood up. “Remember, you are a weapon and we are in a war for the cause. All of us are. Do not forget that. You are more than just a girl with a pretty face.”

He gestured to her to follow him. She did so obediently, stomach doing flips inside. He thinks I’m pretty. He just called me pretty. Cipher led her towards the mahogany door and held it open for her.

“I’ll see you at eight o’clock on Monday morning. Do not be late.” 

“I… got the job?” Miranda asked hesitantly, stepping out into the corridor. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

Cipher nodded curtly. “Don’t disappoint me.” He was standing so close to her that she could feel his cool breath against her skin. Her chest tightened. “Have a good weekend, Miss Lovelace.”

He turned around before he could see her blush and closed the door.

Link to Chapter 4

[myfireplacewentboom]

Deciphering Cupid - Chapters 1 & 2

(A Dean Cipher romance story)

Miranda Lovelace can make anyone fall in love. Ranked Ninth in Godolkin University’s coveted Top Ten, ‘Cupid’ knows what she wants and how to get it: to become the most famous influencer in the world.

Unfortunately, the new Dean isn’t so impressed. Since taking up the mantle, Cipher has made himself abundantly clear: supes are soldiers, not influencers. After he humiliates her, Miranda plots devious revenge: make Dean Cipher fall pathetically in love. Having him wrapped around her little finger will be so much fun…

But as her relationship with the Dean develops, Miranda discovers not everything is as it seems. Horrifyingly, she catches feelings for Cipher herself. As she falls deeper and deeper in love with him, the man she thought she knew as ‘Cipher’ threatens to drag her further and further into the darkness…

1. Motive

She loved love.

She loved the idea of it. The butterflies, the giddiness, the blushing and the swooning — it was a drug to her. It was hypnotising. It was addictive.

She loved seeing the initial sparks of romantic attraction fly between two hearts, and with a little of her help, blossom into something more. And although she had never known love herself, she wielded her superpower generously, giving the right people the right push when necessary. She made people happy. More importantly, she made Vought shareholders happy. They gave her a new name, ‘Cupid, and promised her her own television show on Vought+ after she graduated. By the start of her final year at Godolkin University, Miranda Lovelace was one of the most popular, sought-after superheroes in America.

…And she had not made the list.

Miranda stared at the projection screen in confusion, scanning the list of names again with increasing disbelief. She was sitting in Godolkin University’s main lecture theatre with the rest of the student body, next to her best friend Georgia, the supe they called ‘Hurricane’. All Godolkin students had gathered there this morning for the new Dean’s welcome speech at the start of the autumn term. Cipher, the new head of Godolkin, was a tall, slim man in his late forties with hints of silver in his beard and short curly hair, with dark, intense eyes. He had delivered his welcome speech with the utmost solemnity, emphasising the dangers of the woke agenda and the perniciousness of the deep-state conspiracy against superheroes. They had all listened to him wide-eyed, looking around at each other uncertainly before bursting into rapturous applause.

She had clapped alongside them automatically. Miranda wasn’t sure what to make of Cipher. She had liked his predecessor, the fellow Brit Indira Shetty, well enough. That was, before it was revealed Shetty had been secretly creating a super virus down in the labs to wipe them all out. That absolute bitch. How dare she have promised Miranda a lucrative television contract with Vought+ and then died before signing the paperwork! Miranda would never forgive her.

Dean Cipher couldn’t be any worse than Dean Shetty, Miranda supposed. She continued reading the list of names the new Dean had projected to all in the lecture theatre.

Jordan Li, Cate Dunlap, Lisa Heron…No…No…No! She hadn’t misread it - she simply wasn’t on there. Cipher’s new ‘hero optimisation’ seminar was exclusively invitation-only, targeted to only the very strongest superheroes on campus. All of the coveted ‘Top Ten’ had been invited. All of them, apart from her. Even that idiot Cameron Johnson had made the list, and he ranked Fourteenth! Woe betide the incompetent administrative assistant who had mistakenly left her off. She wouldn’t stand for this.

“Excuse me!” 

Miranda raised her hand from the front row of the lecture theatre and waved frantically. Cipher had just finished his explanation of the seminar and was tucking his talking points card back into his blazer.

“Sir? Sir!”

She caught the new Dean before he walked off stage. He paused and turned towards the student body again, looking a little exasperated.

“Yes, Miss…?”

“Miranda Lovelace.” She said, irritated. It had been a while since she had had to introduce herself. Shouldn’t the new Dean of Students know her name? Like, she was ranked Ninth, for goodness’ sake.

“Miss Lovelace.” Cipher said, and gestured for her to continue.

Miranda cleared her throat politely. “Ahem… I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been some sort of mistake. You said the hero optimisation seminar was for the best superheroes on campus. Well, my name isn’t on there.”

The Dean smiled infuriatingly. “An astute observation. Correct — it isn’t.” 

Her nostrils flared in annoyance. “Ahem, I don’t think you understand me. I’m ranked Ninth. That means I’m in the Top Ten of students at this school.” Miranda said loudly, “Everyone else in the Top Ten has been invited, so my name should be on there.” She stared at him expectantly, crossing her arms.

The Dean was still smiling. “I’m afraid there’s been no misunderstanding, Miss Lovelace. As I explained earlier, the hero optimisation seminar is reserved only for this school’s strongest superheroes. Now, if that’s all, I would very much like to take my hour lunch break so if you wouldn’t mind—”

She’d had enough of this. “My parents are God U’s biggest donors!” 

Cipher nodded slowly. “Yes, well, that’s true…” 

Miranda leant back triumphantly in her seat, pleased with herself. Money always winned. That was the most important lesson her father had ever taught her in life: money always, always winned. You had to hit them where it hurt — in the coffers. She smirked at the Dean. See how you like it when all your funding is pulled. She could feel a giggle coming on; it was just too, too easy…

But Cipher continued, unphased by her outburst.

“Miss Lovelace, let me be completely frank with you.” He said, letting the smile fall from his face. “You are only in the Top Ten by virtue of your sizeable Instagram following. In fact, without your father’s generosity — for which this school is very grateful for — you would not have been admitted into this university.”

 Miranda’s mouth fell open.

“Your power is what, remind me? Making people fall in love? Making them feel a little fuzzy inside? Yeah, as if that’s going to save America!” Cipher barked a short laugh and the lecture theatre laughed alongside him. She could feel her face turning red.

 “Look, you’re very marketable — I’m sure you’ll have a slot on Vought+ one day as some second-rate daytime-television fluff piece or whatever. But for those of you who are actually serious about becoming real superheroes, do not forget!” He jabbed a finger into the air and the audience stopped laughing, “There has never been a more dangerous time to be a hero! We are under attack across this entire nation in every city, in every county, in every state! We need soldiers, not limp, insipid influencers!” Cipher glanced her way. His eyes glittered wickedly. “In fact, Miranda, I’m changing your ranking to last place, effective immediately.”

She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “What! You can’t do this—”

“I just did.” The Dean waved a hand, dismissing her. “Now — those of you on the list - be ready in exactly one hour. I won’t tolerate lateness! Greatness waits for no-one.”

He straightened his tie and left the theatre. Miranda watched him go, seething, tears welling up in her eyes from pure, unadulterated rage. That fucking man… He…He… 

“Hey, are you OK?” She heard Georgia ask.

Miranda turned to her, tears streaming down her face and ruining her perfectly applied makeup. “What does it look like?” She shrieked. Students were pointing at her and whispering but she didn’t give a damn. She put a hand to her brow. Her face was so, so hot.

She hated him. How dare he mock her in front of everyone like that? How dare he belittle her powers and strip her of her hard-won ranking? ‘Making people feel a little fuzzy inside’? She would show him.

…She would show him.

Cipher would regret embarrassing her. He would regret underestimating her powers. I will humiliate him in return. I will… I will make him fall in love with me. After all, what better punishment was there than making him fall painfully, achingly, pathetically in love with her by the end of the new school year? When she was done with him, he would worship the very ground she walked on. Miranda giggled darkly at the thought, hiccuping through her tears. 

Yes, Dean Cipher would soon reap the full wrath of Cupid…

2. Attraction

“Dean Shetty would never have spoken to me like that!”

It was a couple of days after the clash in the lecture theatre with Cipher. Miranda was in her dorm with Georgia sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror, putting the finishing touches onto her makeup. She had been at it all morning, prepping her skin with a face-mask, under-eye patches, and her light-weight water-based SPF. She had pondered all night what style of make-up the new Dean preferred, debating with Georgia as they’d tucked themselves into their respective beds whether Cipher preferred the more done up, or the more natural look? It didn’t matter, of course —her powers would work either way –—but having the attraction already there always helped. In the end, Miranda had settled on a mixture of the two. She had perfected a flawless, dewy base, had used a rosy pink lip tint and matching cream blush, and applied some light shimmery eyeshadow. She was wearing a dainty pink dress with a sweetheart neckline that perfectly emphasised her breasts, and she had even curled her hair.

She snapped a quick selfie and posted it on her story, pouting. “Why did Shetty have to die? She was my ticket to getting my television show after graduation, you know? Can you believe she hadn’t signed the contract with Vought before she popped off? Now they’re telling me there’s no binding paperwork…” Miranda whined.

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Shetty tried to kill us all!” 

“She wouldn’t have killed me! She needed Daddy’s money. You know she kept trying to get him to increase our donation? And after all that? Do I have a TV contract? No.” 

“Could Cipher sign one?” Georgia asked tentatively.

“Fat chance of that.” Miranda pursed her lips, “Daddy’s furious with the ranking stunt. He’s thinking of pulling the entire lot.” She held up two pairs of almost identical-looking stilettos. “OK — which ones? The cream heels, or the beige? I’m leaning towards the cream but the beige ones are a bit more comfy.”

Georgia dutifully inspected each shoe. “The cream — they go with your bag.”

“You’re right. Very cute.”

“And I’m going to be honest with you.” Georgia continued slowly as Miranda held up the shoe to her handbag and studied them, “I don’t think Cipher will care. There must be hundreds, if not thousands of donors for God U. I mean, think of all the alumni…”

“He should care! We make a sizeable donation!”

“He was right, you know — not to put you on the list for the optimisation seminar, I mean. I heard from Matthew who went to the first class that it’s basically just aimed at fighters. Apparently they had everyone squaring off against each other. You wouldn’t have liked it.” Georgia said, watching her friend struggle with the clasp on her heel.

Miranda sighed. “That’s not the point.” She frowned, closed her eyes, and doused her face liberally in setting spray. “He humiliated me.”

“I know.”

“Nobody at this university takes me seriously.” Miranda said, emphasising with her hands, “You know, when we’re alone, they all want me to fix their love lives. ‘How do I ask out this girl, Miranda?’ ‘Can you make her like me, Miranda?’ Etcetera, etcetera… But whenever it’s a public setting, they all laugh at me! The men are the worst! Hypocritical idiots…”

Georgia nodded sympathetically. “Modesty Monarch likes you.” She pointed out.

“Because she sees me as a tradwife!” Miranda groaned, reaching for her perfume. “I admit, I was a few years ago, OK?” She held up her hands, perfume bottle and all. “But I’m not like that anymore, Georgia, I’ve changed.”

She spritzed her neck with lashings of the vanilla-strawberry-rose concoction and coughed. Then she smoothed her dark locks down and gave them a little shake.

“How’s my makeup? Is my hair OK?” She asked anxiously.

“You look great.” Georgia said reassuringly, “Very… feminine? Hopefully he’s into women?”

Miranda turned to look at her friend in horror, “Oh my god, I didn’t even think about that. You don’t think…?”

“I guess we’ll find out?” Georgia said, and checked her watch. “Right — we need to get a move on otherwise the room will fill up. You know how excited everyone’s been for Polarity to join. They’ll be queuing outside the door at this rate. Remember, you can’t miss Cipher’s speech.”

Miranda leapt up, wobbling slightly in the cream stiletto heels. “Let’s go!” She grinned.

They ran to the door giggling. Just before they left, Georgia turned to Miranda, one hand resting on the doorknob. She looked suddenly serious.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” She asked.

“Yeah, of course. It’ll be a laugh.” Miranda said breezily.

“Just don’t regret it, OK?”

“What’s there to regret?” Miranda laughed and winked at her,  “I can’t wait to have Cipher wrapped around my little finger…”

…

The two of them managed to squeeze into a spot at the back of the classroom that was hosting Polarity’s welcome address. Thankfully, it was one of the smaller ones and Miranda had a clear view of Cipher. The new Dean of Students was at the front of the classroom wearing one of his usual dark grey suits. He was in deep conversation with Polarity, the newest member of Godolkin University’s faculty.

Good, she thought. It was eminently frustrating how her powers were restricted to maintaining a direct line of sight. She nudged Georgia beside her and they both shared a grin. The two men shook hands and turned to their audience, both smiling widely.

Even from her place at the back of the room, Miranda could tell Polarity’s smile was disingenuous. It just didn’t meet his eyes. Poor man… She hadn’t been close with his son, Andre, but he had seemed nice enough from the few sparing interactions she had had with him before his sudden death. Andre had been powerful, too; one of Godolkin’s rising stars, she remembered. Even ranked Second… She wondered what had gotten him killed, and why his father had decided to enrol as a professor at his old alma mater.

Cipher clapped his hands together. The classroom settled.

“Good morning everyone, thank you for coming.” He began, “Now, our newest member of staff needs no introduction — I’m sure you all recognise him from his acting fame. ‘Area 51’ is a classic. But for those of you who need your memories jogging, he’s a celebrated member of our beloved superhero family, an esteemed alumnus of this fine institution, and of course, the late Andre Anderson’s devoted father. Please join me by putting your hands together and giving a super welcome to our newest professor at Godokin University… Polarity!” With a beam and a flourish, Cipher stepped to the side as the audience burst into thunderous applause.

Miranda clapped alongside everyone else. But when it had all quietened down, she didn’t hear Polarity speak. In fact, she was concentrating so hard on Cipher, eyes locked onto his face, that all noise faded into the background like a nonsensical, underwater blur.

There is only him.

The Dean was listening to Polarity’s speech with rapt attention, arms folded and lips curled upwards in a wide grin. Miranda decided she didn’t like his smile; Cipher’s dark eyes had an unmistakable calculation to them. 

This was it. She took a deep breath. Clenching her fists tightly until her nails dug deep into her skin, Cupid called on her superpower and felt it surge like a wave within her, begging to be released. Gaze locked onto Cipher, she stilled her thoughts and willed his heart open.

Deep within the swirling abstractions in her mind, Cipher’s heart was a small, shrivelled thing. It was a deep dark grey like the suits he so favoured, and oddly papery. It unfurled before her slowly with the frailty of a midwinter rose. Disgusting. She pushed back her revulsion and flooded the lank, grey thing with thoughts of herself: her face, her body, her voice, her scent, her laughter… Cipher’s heart bulged with thick, syrupy liquid. It sat there in her palm; fat, content, and oozing. 

I’ve got you now…

She gave his heart back to him. Then, shuddering, she broke the connection.

…

Breathe… Breathe… Miranda felt herself slipping towards the ground and quickly steadied herself on Georgia. Her best friend wrapped an arm around her, eyes asking silently, ‘Are you OK?’ She nodded. The hardest part — creating that initial spark of attraction — was over. And successful. She was surprised at how quick it was; Polarity was still at the front addressing the students gathered.

He must have already found me attractive. Miranda shivered involuntarily, strangely pleased. She winked at Georgia and the two of them giggled. Then she looked up.

Cipher.

He was staring at her.

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. His face had lost its smile. She suddenly felt very cold despite the heat coming from the hundreds of bodies in the room, and she gripped Georgia’s arm. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach. What have I done?

She blinked and it was over. Cipher took the microphone smoothly back from Polarity, thanked him again, and the two men left the classroom to the sound of loud deafening applause. All the noise was disorientating. Her skin felt clammy. Students started filing out the door in one massive herd and her feet moved with them on auto-pilot.

“Are you OK?” Georgia asked once they’d ditched the crowd.

They were walking by the cafeteria, near the Jitter Bean coffee bar. Georgia was looking at her with concern ridden in her eyes. With a start, Miranda realised she was still clutching her arm. She let go and ran a hand through her black hair, laughing nervously.

“All good.” She winced as a wave of nausea overcame her. “Sorry… I need a sec, actually. The first time is always so draining…”

“Let’s get you something to drink.”

Georgia steered her towards the coffee bar. As they were queuing up, she leaned in close and, whispering, asked, “So, did it work?”

“I… I think so.”

“How can you tell?”

“He was staring right at me afterwards. Like straight at me,” Miranda said quietly. “Did you not see him?”

“No.”

The both cut their conversation short as the Jitter Bean barista turned to them. Miranda ordered a venti- matcha-iced-latte with coconut milk and two pumps of vanilla sugar-free syrup and Georgia asked for a tea. Whilst waiting for her matcha to be made, Miranda’s eyes flicked over to a poster with the words ‘RESIST’ in bold above a yellow star, which had been nailed to the coffee bar’s bulletin board.

“Ahem… You might want to take that down…” She pointed. Georgia looked conflicted but said nothing.

The barista turned to where she was pointing. When she saw the board she let out a cry of frustration, ripped the poster from its nail, and quickly crumpled it with her hands. “I am so sorry about that. I didn’t put it there, believe me…” The barista said, with tears in her eyes.

“...No worries.”

Matcha and tea secured and in hand, Miranda and Georgia made their way to a table at the back in a quiet corner and hung their bags on the chairs. Whilst Georgia blew on her tea, Miranda looked around conspiratorially. Good. The coffee bar was practically empty. And no-one would overhear them from here anyway.

She leaned in close to Georgia. “Cipher was staring right at me,” She emphasised.

“Are you sure?” Her best friend asked. “I didn’t see that. I just saw him watching Polarity.”

“Positive.”

Georgia giggled. “So does this mean he fancies you now?”

Miranda smirked. “Who’s to say he didn’t beforehand? Opening his heart to me was so easy…” She sipped her matcha, content. Then alarm suddenly surged through her and she almost dropped it, shaking. “Wait. Do you think him looking at me means he knows?”

“I don’t know? Maybe?” 

“Fuck!” She held her head in her hands, “I’m so fucking expelled.”

Georgia wrung her hands. “But it normally takes a little while to take effect, right? He could have just been looking at the audience,” She said. “Besides, there’s no proof you ever did anything. And who would he even tell? Think about it. There’s no way Cipher would ever admit to fancying a student. He’d be gone faster than Shetty.”

“You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Georgia said smugly.

Miranda settled back comfortably in the chair, reassured. They sat there in silence, sipping their drinks and people-watching. To their joint curiosity they watched as Guardians of Godolkin, Cate Dunlap and Sam Riordan, entered the cafeteria. Sam was saying something urgently to the pale blonde girl, looking increasingly agitated and worked up. He started yelling at her. Cate raised her remaining hand to his cheek, whispered something in his ear, and he calmed instantly. They both left. Georgia stared after them concernedly.

“One day, that guy’s gonna snap and kill us all,” She said quietly.

Miranda took her lipstick out of her purse and casually reapplied it. “Don’t worry, I’ll just make him fall in love with you before he does anything. Then he won’t kill you.” She smacked her lips.

“Somehow I think that would make things even worse…”

Miranda downed the rest of her matcha and stood up. The caffeine had emboldened her. “Speaking of, time to put phase two of the plan into action. I’m going to go see our favouite Dean.”

Georgia stopped drinking her tea. “See Cipher? Now?”

She nodded. “I’m going to go apologise to him for the other day — for being rude to him. Remember, I’ve got to make him like me.” She explained, taking her bag off the chair and slinging it over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m feeling a lot better now.”

“OK.” Georgia sounded unconvinced. She looked as if she was going to say something else but then changed her mind. “Please be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

…

The Dean’s office was located on the other side of campus, in the administrative block, one floor up from reception. The block was quiet when Miranda arrived; most students were now in the cafeteria having lunch, or playing sports outside in the late September sunshine. The few administrative staff in the corridors ignored her. Nobody asked her why she was here, or if she had an appointment. Miranda was dreading the semi-omnipresent Head of Student Life Stacey Ferrera to pop up and demand why she wanted to see the Dean, but the honeybee supe seemingly had other business to attend to. Miranda walked up the stairs and down the shadowed corridor cautiously. She paused outside the door to Cipher’s office. It was made from a polished, dark wood.

She listened for a minute, ear pressed to the door. She could hear the muffled sounds of someone inside, but there were no voices and only one set of footsteps. Cipher was alone. Heart racing, Miranda knocked hesitantly. The noises inside stopped.

“Come in!” She heard him order.

Giving the handle a twist, she pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside the office. She had actually never been inside this room before, Miranda realised, as she looked around wide-eyed. It was grandly spacious, almost cathedral-like with its polished grey stone walls and stained glass windows, and cold and dark despite the sun shining outside. Despite the heavy, antiquated masonry, the furniture was sleek and modernist. A huge Godolkin University crest decorated the far wall, below which stood a large wooden desk stacked high with paperwork.

Cipher stood to the side of a glass table positioned to the right. He had taken off his signature grey blazer and was dressed in a pale blue cotton shirt. In front of him were three cooked chicken breasts, a glass of milk, a jar of peanut butter, and a heavy duty blender. He looked at her impassively as she entered. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Miss Lovelace. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The door swung shut behind her. Miranda walked cautiously into the room. “Dean Cipher. I, um—”

“Sorry — did we have an appointment?” He looked over his shoulder to his laptop, “My diary’s a complete nightmare these days…”

“No, I…I just wanted to apologise to you, that’s all.” 

“Oh. What for?”

“The other day — in the lecture theatre after your address. When the lists came up for the hero optimisation class…” Miranda said meekly. Cipher nodded, casually scooping a generous spoonful of peanut butter and dropping it into the blender. He sucked the rest off the spoon, watching her. “I just want to say I’m sorry for how I acted. It was really rude of me and completely uncalled for. I’m sorry.” She waited for the Dean’s response, fidgeting with her hands.

“Well that’s very nice of you. Thank you for apologising,” Cipher said, smiling. 

…Was that it? She wanted to laugh at how easy it was. Her powers must have had quite the effect on him—

“But if you thought for a moment that saying sorry was going to get you a place on the list, or make me change your ranking back to Ninth place, I’m afraid you would be mistaken. You know, I got a very angry telephone call from your father the other day. My god, what a terrifying man,” Cipher laughed breezily. “You know he threatened to pull all his funding and your school fees? Of course, I told him that if he did that, your place here at this university would be immediately revoked...”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry,” She stammered. “That’s not why I came here at all, I promise.”

“Good. Then I accept your apology.”

Miranda watched, incredulous, as Cipher picked up the three chicken breasts one by one with a pair of steel tongs and dropped them each into the blender. With one fluid motion he poured the glass of milk inside and then activated the machine. There was the sickening sound of bone crunching, and the slush inside the blender turned a disturbing shade of beige.

With Cipher distracted, Miranda took the opportunity to pull him again. The trick to her ingenious plan was subtle reinforcement, after all. She knew if she unleashed the full might of her power on him in one go, the Dean would realise what was up and she would be instantly expelled. Godolkin University rules were very clear: students were strictly forbidden from using their superpowers on members of staff. She would have to be smart with this, and take things slow and steady. Attempting her best to be subtle, Miranda located the bit of Cipher’s heart that contained her and gave it a little pull, keeping her face blank. With baited breath, she waited.

Cipher showed no reaction. He stopped the blender, unlocked it from its stand, and poured its contents into an empty glass. After tasting the mixture and grimacing, he reached for a salt grinder from a stand next to the table.

“Oh, you’re still here.” He said, turning back around.

“There was one other thing…” 

Cipher gestured to her. “Please, go on. But do be quick. My lunch hour is really the only ‘me’ time I get.”

Miranda cleared her throat. She looked at him nervously before speaking, “I was thinking about what you said in the theatre, about my powers. I know you don’t think they’re very useful… But you also told us at the start of your speech that none of us were reaching our true potential, and that your job was to help get us there.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear shyly. “Does that include me, sir? Could you teach me to be stronger, better, more… useful?”

Cipher studied her. His dark eyes seemed to dissect her every being. He took a slow sip of his drink. 

“The problem I have with you, Miranda, is that you spend your time on frivolous pursuits. Making people fall in love with you, making people fall in love with their friends, posting it all on TikTok of all places… It’s childish. I mean, you don’t even know what your real power is.” He smiled sadly.

“My power is making people fall in love—”

He held a finger to his lips. “No. Listen to me. Your power, your real power, is creating and severing connections. Between people, things, ideas.” Cipher explained. “Do you understand what I’m talking about? The possibilities are endless — you could force devotion in millions and bring them all to our cause! You could create an army! And yet you’d prefer to spend your days vacuously preoccupied with the love lives of all your inane classmates,” He sighed. “Such a waste.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “How do you know all this?”

“Because it’s my job to.” Cipher waved a hand at her flippantly. “Now, run along. I’m sure you have some terribly important Instagram-TikTok social media-whatever boosting seminar to go to. And I have some actual work to do.” He sipped again on his slushie on the way to his desk.

Miranda turned towards the office door. Just before she left she gave a last look at the Dean. He had sat down, drink in hand, and had started inspecting a mountainous stack of papers.

“I’ll get stronger,” She said to him determinedly.

Cipher did not look up. “We’ll see.”

Why was he still being so dismissive towards her? Were her powers not working on him? Was he — god forbid — immune to them? Miranda chewed on her lip, anxiously speculating as she walked towards the exit. None of the students at God U knew what Cipher’s powerset was, and the Dean had not chosen to elaborate on them in his opening address. Oh god, he wasn’t a mindreader was he? She twisted the door handle and was about to walk out into the corridor when the strangest sensation happened to her.

Miranda could only describe it as a full out of body experience. Her hand let go of the door. Her feet stopped moving. The fuck? Her body stood there rigidly, perfectly poised in her pointy cream stilettos like a life-sized human doll, utterly unresponsive to her mind. Panic surged through her. No, no, no, no…!

And then it was over.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. She lurched towards the door, which had swung shut, slamming into it. She pulled it violently open.

“Please be careful, Miss Lovelace,” A voice drawled from behind her, “That’s genuine mahogany.”

She turned her head back towards the Dean, who had looked up from his paperwork. He was smirking. The sight of this should have vexed her but weirdly the only thought running through her mind was just how handsome Cipher looked. How could she not have noticed it before? The sight of him in that gorgeous pale blue shirt, contrasting strikingly against his short dark curls with their tinges of silver threaded throughout…

“Miss Lovelace?” Cipher asked, “Is something wrong?”

Flustered, Miranda shook her head. She tore her eyes away from the Dean, mumbled a hurried ‘goodbye’ and fled the room.

Link to Chapter 3

[myfireplacewentboom]

Jenkins' Boy

18+

Male Corpo V x Arthur Jenkins

Vincent is the perfect Arasaka employee: efficient and ambitious. Arthur Jenkins is a cold, calculating corpo with an eye for talent and a serious grudge. Vincent’s growing obsession with both his boss and his own career spirals and he is forced to confront the realities of the corporate world he has chosen.

Seven minutes past eight in the evening. I have been here thirteen hours, eleven minutes and two seconds. I know this because this is what the timed tracker on my monitor tells me.

I’m sitting at my usual desk in Arasaka’s counter intelligence division, eyes glued to my screen. The text in front of me is blurred; the letters are bleeding into each other and the page I’m reading stopped making sense a while ago. I move a hand to my eyes, restart my cybernetic optics. Blink a few times. No change – the words are a hazy smear of black and grey on white.

As my kiroshis reload and reload, I sit there and surmise this must be a mental issue. This distresses me – it’s a scary reminder of the shortcomings of my delicate organic brain. So I reach for the drawer besides my desk and slide it open. Extend a hand inside for my latest cognitive booster – Trauma Team approved, of course – that had been delivered last Saturday as part of a subscription plan covered by my platinum insurance package. The booster is in its usual place to the left and at the back. I lift it to my mouth, my dry lips close around the cool plastic in relief, and I pump it – once, twice, with practised ease.

The swelling in my head evaporates and my mind settles. I’m feeling sharper now, less distracted. I remove the booster from my mouth and place it carefully back in its usual spot. I resume analysing the Biotechnica files our agent recovered this evening and as I read them I annotate my observations on a separate file. These notes I make are detailed and meticulous (I know what I am doing). In six minutes’ time I will allocate them to my assistant Carter Smith to log.

Harry Johnson is an assistant agent like me who I am forced to work with on this assignment. He sits on the other side of the booth we share and at this moment he decides to release a slow, muffled yawn.

I know Harry has moved his hand to cover his mouth, closed his eyes and stretched in his blue and white striped Appel de Paris shirt which he bought in France two months ago. He yawns again, this time with a long and drawn out finishing crescendo. The image in my head is so painfully vivid it almost brings me to tears.

“Useless piece of shit.” I say.

The intensity of the anger confuses me. I’m really a very calm man. I realise, horrified, that my face is all scrunched up and my eyebrows are low and knitted and I’m glaring at Harry Johnson through my screen.

I do not want wrinkles.

I mould my face into its usual impassivity and lick my lips and swallow. There is a very dry feeling at the back of my throat. I slide open my desk drawer again, pick up the booster and study it and I roll it in my palm, over and over again, licking and swallowing.

My neck suddenly goes cold. I am hyper aware.

The Assistant Director and my direct superior, Arthur Jenkins, strides back into the office. He’s a tall, forty-something man wearing a fitted black suit from Jinguji. His shoes are polished black oxfords (also from Jinguji) which hit the ground loudly as he marches with heavy, purposeful steps. His tie is black and red striped silk done up in a tight windsor knot and his dark hair is neatly slicked as always. A thunderous scowl is etched upon his face.

My colleagues’ murmurings are swiftly ended. The room fills with an uneasy silence. All faces turn towards monitors, mine included, and I ensure that my back is perfectly straight as Arthur Jenkins stops and surveys the room with a cold, critical stare.

I feel his gaze pinpoint on me, as I always do, and my insides squirm hideously. I think that Jenkins is studying me for some time, although I cannot turn around and be sure of this, and I feel slightly ill but also slightly pleased to be once more the focus of his complete attention.

Jenkins moves on.

I chance a secret glance up from my monitor and watch as he stalks into his personal office. From my desk I have a perfect view of his body - his long back, his tense thighs, his perfect ass covered in black silk - and I watch until the double set of doors slide shut behind him.

I can vividly remember the day I first set eyes on Arthur Jenkins. It had been the most important day of my life - my Arasaka interview - a month before I was due to graduate from the Academy, back when my voice used to shake when I was nervous and I had not known the correct amount of pomade to work into my hair. I had introduced myself immediately when he’d walked in and had offered him my hand like I had been coached to, which he had shaken, and then he had assessed me coolly from behind his desk as I had sat across from him in my new suit and eager smile and sweaty palms. The sweat had only increased throughout the ruthless interrogation and I recall at one point my voice had accidentally stammered when he’d asked me for my opinion on the company’s decision to expand into the intercontinental capacity reactor sector, to my humiliation.

Jenkins’ face had been inscrutable up until this point. But I remember how his lips had curled upwards at this as if he was indulging in some pleasure at my embarrassment and, sensing my fear, he had pounced on this and pressed me. I had survived well enough in that interview with all the trained confidence of an Academy boy from Charter Hill but Arthur Jenkins had made a striking impression on me. I had cried in the backseat of my father’s Herrera Weiler as our family’s chauffeur had driven me home, where upon entering the penthouse on Jefferson Avenue I had locked myself in my bedroom and had masturbated violently through tears.

From across the other side of the booth I hear Harry Johnson exhale when Jenkins leaves the room. He chuckles, quietly and nervously.

“Guessing the board meeting didn’t go well.” Harry Johnson says to me.

“Jenkins can handle himself.”

“Against Abernathy though? That Osaka report was pretty damning. From what I hear, Hanako Arasaka herself is furious with how it went.” He whistles. “Jenkins is on borrowed time, I’m telling you.”

“Focus on your own career rather than Jenkins’.” I say coldly. “I saw that last email chain – you’re on borrowed time yourself.”

Harry Johnson does not try to speak to me again.

We work in silence. I finish my report. I’m two minutes ahead of schedule. I send the file to my assistant Carter Smith’s inbox. I step away from my desk and leave the booth, ignoring Harry Johnson as I pass, who ignores me too.

Carter Smith is sitting at his desk. He does not have his own booth. He is wearing an ill-fitting blue jacket over a cheap cotton shirt. His brown brogues are inappropriate for a professional environment and non-label. His dotted cotton tie is coming loose and his belt does not match his brogues. His hair lacks pomade. His brow is sweaty. He freezes when he sees me - which I find amusing - and more tiny beads collect on his too-shiny forehead like dew drops on weeds.

“Carter.” I say.

He stands up abruptly, awkwardly. Infuriatingly, he has a good two inches on me but I remind myself that Carter Smith and I are the same age and he is only a junior assistant and will never climb higher. He will never stay at the Tokyo Konpeki Plaza hotel, taste real sushi in his mouth, or wear silk Jinguji underwear like I do. Carter Smith did not rank in the ninety-fifth percentile in our interview cohort. And, I am pleased to observe, I am handsomer.

“Hi Vincent. I have those Petrochem reports you asked for.” Carter says, stumbling a little over his words as usual.

He clears his throat and smiles weakly. Perhaps because it has been so long since my own boyish stammering that I do not feel sympathetic towards Carter Smith, and I do not feel kind.

“They were supposed to be ready yesterday.”

Carter stiffens as I take a step towards him. “Whilst I’m here you can explain your dress code breach.” I say sharply, and gesture towards his ill-fitting blazer. “You’re a mess. Do you think this is appropriate to wear in the office environment?”

Carter’s too-big ears turn pink and he says nothing so I impatiently ask, “Well?”

He stares back at me helplessly with his dull brown eyes. “My other suit’s in the wash - I don’t have another. This is the smartest thing I own…” He says feebly, “I, um, I didn’t have any client meetings today.”

I know that he knows this is no excuse – Arasaka rules are very clear - but I’m starting to grow bored. My admonishment has lost its fun.

“You know what the rules are - see that this doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes sir. I’ll send you the reports now…”

My lips curl at this. Sir. I’m still young enough that this word feels odd but I can’t deny the satisfaction it gives me. I feel very grown-up all of a sudden, very important. I feel a step closer to Arthur Jenkins and this is very thrilling.

An unpleasant smell creeps up my nose. It’s Carter Smith’s cheap eau de toilette and it’s pungent enough to pull me from my fantasies. Carter looks at me, standing rigidly, and I realise he is waiting for me for me to speak. I remember the files I sent to his inbox and I point a finger towards his monitor. His big cow eyes follow obediently.

“I’ve sent you something – the report our agent at Biotechnica recovered this evening.  Log all of my points and cross reference the data with the Militech report from Tuesday, you know the one.” I’m saying all this with a firm, authoritative tone. “Drop whatever mundane shit you’re doing right now and prioritise this. Details are in the attachment.”

Carter nods and sits, sweaty forehead glistening from the glow of his screen. Shakily, he thanks me and then asks, “When do you want this by?”

“End of the day. Hand it to me personally before you leave tonight to buy a new suit. I suggest you get started. If this one’s late too, don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”

Carter’s face pales. His eyes strain and his mouth opens and closes and opens again and for a moment he looks as if he wants to say something, so I wait. But the moment passes and Carter says nothing.

I’m strangely disappointed. I wanted him to push back at me instead of shrinking away obediently like he always did. But Carter Smith was only a junior assistant, a Watson boy, a Kabuki charity case and the first in his family to join the megacorp. He would never stand up to a man groomed for success like me.

I start to turn away from Carter - back to my booth, back to Harry Johnson and his suffocating bleating - but familiar ringing swells in my head. I realise that Arthur Jenkins is calling me on holo.

I feel sick.

My heartrate spikes to one hundred and six beats per minute which is enough to be considered fast and I know this because of the biometric reading notification flashing in the top right corner of my visuals. I recall the neuromotor relaxation exercises advised to me by my life coach during our last session together where he had told me I needed to control my breathing and I breathe steadily in and out, in and out and I accept the call.

“Vincent here.” I say.

Jenkins’ display loads and I notice anxiously he’s still scowling – jaw tense, lips pressed tightly together.

“Did you not get my message?” He demands.

“I’m sorry; I’ve been away from my desk sorting out that Biotechnica report you wanted done-”

“Fuck Biotechnica. Come to my office now, I want to speak with you in private.”

His anger twists my stomach. I wonder if there have been any faults with my recent performance and I think back on my latest defensive operations - Tokyo, London, Seoul - I had been pleased with the results at the time but doubt begins to creep into my mind.

“Yes Sir.” I say.

Jenkins ends the call. My view refocuses on my immediate surroundings, where I see Carter Smith staring very hard at his screen. I ignore him and turn, embarrassed.

I march towards the antechamber that leads into Arthur Jenkins’ private office, straightening my silk suit jacket from Jinguji that I have paired with matching black pants and a red micro-twill shirt with a classic collar. On my way, I catch faint murmurings from some of the colleagues I pass, whose eyes I feel pointed towards the back of my head like knives. One muttering catches my particular attention.

“Don’t look now but that’s him - Jenkins’ boy.”

Jenkins’ boy.

I bristle and flush hard with indignation and something else and there’s a slight tightness in my pants which I do my best to ignore.

I step into the antechamber and maintain a still position facing forwards with my feet evenly spaced apart, as instructed to do so by a disembodied female voice. A blinding blue light hits me as the security scan hones in on my face and it’s very uncomfortable but I don’t blink. Perhaps it is the growing dread in the pit of my stomach, but as I stand there bathed in blue light I wonder what it would feel like for visitor authorisation to fail and to be gunned down by the turrets above the door. I wonder if I would die before my crumpled, bullet-ridden body hit the floor or if I would feel anything at all.

The camera completes its assessment of my face and the double set of doors in front of me slide open smoothly.

My black leather oxfords echo on the floor of Jenkins’ private office. The room is dimly lit but the vibrancy of Night City’s corporate plaza behind the glass back wall casts neon streaks across its length. I can see the mega towers of rival corporations - Militech, Kang Tao, Petrochem - giant concrete monoliths surrounding the plaza like gravestones, blocking out the sky. Two enormous projected koi fish - one orange, one blue - swim in a circle above a sea of gridlocked cars. If I squint I can just about make out the vague shapes of people on the ground, tiny enough that they don’t really look like people at all but more like a variety of little coloured bugs I could step on. Arthur Jenkins stands behind his desk arms folded, a dark silhouette against a blazing urban hellscape. He does not turn around as he speaks.

“Have a seat, Vincent.”

I do as I am told.  In my head I run through, over and over, my latest operations until my brain is a jumbled mess. There is no cognitive booster beside me to be thrust into my mouth and pumped.

Slowly, Arthur Jenkins turns around and inspects me. His face - inscrutable, coldly handsome - is agonisingly calm and after he sits opposite me he pulls from his desk an expensive looking bottle of Japanese whisky and two crystal glasses, and I’m surprised at this. I am offered one, and I summon the Arasaka employee in me and accept, although I dislike the taste of spirits.

“I was gifted this in Kyoto last month by my counterpart.” Jenkins tells me as he rotates the bottle in his hand and inspects it. It’s a thick, heavy glass filled with dark amber liquid that glides smoothly as it turns.

“The culinary scene there is unrivalled.” I say.

“I despise the Japanese,” Jenkins says casually, “But they make good whisky.”

He opens the bottle and pours with large, steady hands. Golden liquid spills from the mouth and into my glass. When I raise it to my lips I meet Jenkins’ eyes. Then I drink with perfect precision.

The whisky swirls around my mouth. It’s Yamazaki – drier and smokier than the American bourbons I order when I have to when I lunch with Brandon Tsang and Frank Nostra. I hold the whisky and chew on it like I should before swallowing and as it runs down my throat it burns but I don’t cough. Jenkins drinks from his own tumbler.

“You must have visited Japan quite often growing up. You’re an Academy graduate, yes?”

“My parents owned a third home in Tokyo.” I admit.

“They were both at Arasaka, correct? I remember from your interview. Your father was William Edwards.”

I flinch at the name. “Yes, that’s right.”

Jenkins smiles. “You know, I used to report to him when I first joined.” I look at him incredulously so he says, “It’s true – I was his assigned assistant. He was a …difficult man. I heard about his death in the Kang Tao affair. Funny how things work out.” He drains his glass. I sip mine, throat on fire, stomach squirming. 

“I suppose you want to find out how the board meeting this morning went.” Jenkins says. I nod. He lets out a dark laugh. “Abernathy bitch has screwed me over. Smeared me with the Osaka report in front of a load of Japanese execs. Now she’s been promoted to director of spec ops. The cunt.”

A weight lifts from my stomach and dissipates as I realise I’m not the focus of Jenkins’ ire. The biometric reading notification flashes and tells me my hormone levels have stabilised.

Jenkins has worked himself up now. “Should have known she’d take all the credit for that Jakarta ploy. It was my idea to dump all that synthetic oil into the ocean. And for what? Now she’s on the eightieth floor and I’m stuck in counter intel. Need to get back at her, teach her a thing or two; show her what you get when you fuck with me.” He pauses for a moment, looks at me, and seems to remember my presence. His eyes sweep over me approvingly.

“Nice suit.” He says.

“Thanks.” I say, pleased. “It’s Jinguji.”

Jenkins pours himself another drink and studies the glass in his hand. I admire the way he holds it - lazily, easily, conveying a deep sense of self-reliance and …inner conviction, I decide; he and the tumbler are one.

“You’re wondering why I called you here.” Jenkins says. He inspects me with cold blue eyes and swirls the whisky around his tumbler. I watch in silence as a drop of liquid spills over the top of the glass and runs down his hand - gold gleaming in the dark. When he speaks again his voice is hard and deliberate.

“Listen carefully; I’ll only say this once. I need people on my side, people I can rely on when the time comes. I’ve been monitoring you since you first interviewed with me, you know. There are going to be some major changes around here soon and I need people like you, Vincent. I like the way you operate; you and I work well together. It would be a shame if anything were to happen that would stop that.”

Behind the glass wall, a black and red Arasaka AV glides elegantly up to a landing pad above us. Jenkins’ eyes do not leave mine.

“Can I continue to count on you?” He asks softly. His fist is clenched tight around his glass. I know that there is only one acceptable answer here.

“Yes Sir.” I say.

He studies my face closely. I can see the initial suspicion - the gears turning in his head as he considers my answer, our history, my intentions. Then he relaxes, satisfied with my sincerity.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

He leans back into the chair and drinks smoothly. I watch his as his body spreads assertively – the broad cut of his shoulders pressing his black suit jacket firmly into the dark leather. My eyes trace the outline of Jenkins’ mouth. His lips are full and fleshy as he smiles.

“One more thing,” Jenkins says. “I’m promoting you to agent, effective immediately. You’ll take over Livani’s patch. Europe - Frankfurt. I assume you know why he won’t be doing it anymore.”

Agent.

I am an …agent?

I run the word over and over again in my head until it sounds funny and loses all meaning. An Arasaka counterintelligence agent at twenty-three years old - I might be the youngest agent in the entire Night City branch. The thought of this causes a very smug smile to flit across my face.

Jenkins raises his glass of Yamazaki. I match his toast and drink, downing my glass. The whisky burning through me is a lot stronger than I’m used to. The room feels very warm and a pink flush dusts my cheeks.

“You know, you remind me of myself when I was young...”

I don’t hear the rest of what Jenkins says. The city skyline behind him is a multi-coloured blur.

“Vincent.” He says sharply.

I look into his cold blue eyes.

“Come here.” He commands with a wave of his hand. His lips are curled into a smirk. The room sways gently. One of the giant projected koi fish - the orange one - swims leisurely past the glass back wall, illuminating the room in a soft sunset glow.

I walk unsteadily until I’m standing before him. I can smell him now - his hair, his breath, his skin.  Pepper, vanilla and spices - strong and musky. Jenkins looks me up and down. I feel his gaze linger between my thighs, on the outline in my pants.

“You’ve even styled your hair like me.” He says. Gently, he runs a hand through my carefully slicked locks and I shiver. “Cute.”

“I - I …” I say weakly.

Jenkins’ touch is very warm on my face and in my hair and I realise I have never been held like this before. A deeply repressed longing swells within me and it is so overpowering and my erection is so sore that I think, blissfully - I love him - and it seems to me as he pushes me firmly onto the floor and unzips and slips down his silk Jinguji pants to reveal his hard, pink penis, that he loves me too.

I suck his cock like my cognitive booster. My knees are hard on the ebony panelled floor. He fucks my mouth until I choke and when he pulls out his thick, pale penis glistens with my saliva. He strokes my hair and hushes me before pushing himself into my mouth again. His hips buck, he pants as he ruts. Then his thrusts grow sloppy, his breathing laboured, and it’s all over. He orgasms – eyes closed, mouth wide open – and hot cum shoots down my throat and onto my tongue and dribbles from my lips.

His penis is already going soft as he pulls away. I swallow obediently and smile at Jenkins but he says nothing; he’s not looking me. He’s watching the Night City skyline.

I catch my reflection in the glass. I see myself how Arthur Jenkins sees me: inexperienced, compliant, pliable. A startling innocence that I had never recognised in myself before is shown for the first time and I suddenly feel very young, very self-conscious. I’m an Academy boy playing pretend in an adult world and I’m alone. I’m afraid.

A koi fish - the blue one - swims slowly past. The light washes the office in a blue hue so it looks like water is flooding in and we will drown. It’s cold. I’m nauseous. I wipe Jenkin’s semen from my lips with my hand and stand.

My footsteps echo quietly back to the antechamber. As the double set of doors slide open, Jenkins calls my name.

I turn. He’s a black silhouette against a blazing neon sky and I feel very scared. His tone is threatening when he speaks.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

[myfireplacewentboom]

Of Articles and Agreements: Chapter 1

In which British journalist Darcey Li, columnist for The New York Opinion, writes a scathing article and draws the unwanted attention of Vought and the target of her criticism, America's greatest superhero himself: Homelander. Forced into a fake relationship with the hero to boost his image after the recent revelations regarding Stormfront, Darcey finds herself succumbing to the whims of the shady corporation, and to the affections of the man she thought she hated.

Chapter 1 

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

I scrutinised my manager’s face as his beady eyes worked down the freshly written article I’d just handed to him, gulping hot tea from my Waterstones flask. It was half-eight in the morning and cold at this time of year, the New York February chill being harsher than what I was used to in London. Supposedly, a blizzard was on the way. My scarf still wrapped tightly around my neck, I found myself longing for dull, English drizzle.

I wondered what he thought of it. Greg had an annoyingly adept poker face, and it was often difficult to gauge his thoughts before he spoke. He would hum here and there, pausing to re-read and re-assess. Each time he turned a page he would give his fingers a loud lick. I watched him with quiet self-assuredness.

It was a sledgehammer of an article. Probably the bluntest, dare I say meanest, piece I’d ever produced. I could only describe it as a complete character annihilation of America’s greatest superhero. With all the recent revelations, I had had plenty of ammunition.

It wasn’t that I hated Homelander, or any of the Seven. In fact, some years ago I was much like everyone else; wide-eyed and in awe. I would ogle daily at the news, captivated, consuming video after video of Homelander saving people from burning buildings, terrorists, and supervillains. It was uplifting and inspiring; addictive, even. I was, as others in Europe, desperately envious of the excitement and glimmer taking place on the other side of the Atlantic.

But I grew disillusioned and found myself absorbing superhero media not with adoration as I once had, but with cynicism and uncertainty. My mother had always said I had a nasty, suspicious mind. Maybe I just grew up. The absurdity of it all struck me out of the blue. I had been coming back one evening in my home town Beckenham, South London. I’d just finished a weekly Sainsbury’s shop – I remember struggling with the bags - and was walking back to my car, when on the way I passed by the local cinema. It was a fairly small, nondescript place, I’d walked past it dozens of times before. I remember they were showing the new film, Homelander: Brightest Day. The trailer was playing on loop on the screens inside and there were giant posters on either side of the door. It was here that the superhero’s flashing smile struck me in a way I can only describe as unnervingly uncanny. Perhaps it was the overwhelming ubiquity of the man’s perfect face plastered across the coffee cup in my hand, the posters on the wall, and on the crumpled pack of peas in my shopping bag. Disgust had bubbled in my throat like bile and I’d quickly turned away.

The news of A-Train’s tragic incident with the Queens girl and The Deep’s predatory nature made me even sicker. I realised these ‘heroes’ we worshipped were as flawed and imperfect as the rest of us, albeit with deeper pockets and massive marketing teams. Then, the bombshell unearthing of Stormfront’s racist past finally killed my love of superheroes once and for all. I was determined to let the world know who they really were.

Greg turned back to me, his face blank. My confidence wavered; was it too harsh? Maybe he’d ask me to tone it down, avoid alienating readers. But The New York Opinion was infamous for not pulling any punches.

“Gutsy, topical, and controversial.” Greg broke out into a toothy grin, slapping the article on his desk and stabbing at it with one fat finger, making me jump in my seat. He rose from the desk, coffee in hand, and smiled widely. “Everyone’s going to be reading this by lunch I can guarantee it, left and right-wingers alike. No one can ignore that title”. He slurped loudly and gestured through the glass behind me. I turned and saw Mike the intern stumbling towards us, juggling numerous coffees.

“Great job, Darcey.” Greg beamed at me again as he held open the office door. I smiled back, rising from the armchair.

“I had a lot of fun writing it.”

“Thanks, Greg, morning. Morning, Darcey. Wow, isn’t it cold today?” Mike said, bustling into the office. Downing the rest of his drink, Greg reached out to him and swapped a hazelnut latte for my Homelander article.

“Oh, what’s this?” Mike peered at the papers stuffed by his armpit, glasses slipping down his nose. “Thanks”. He said, as Greg repositioned them.

“It’s my newest article, about Homelander. That he’s a hoax and a fraud. That America needs to reject its dependency on superheroes.” I said, emphasising the last sentence and standing up a little taller.

I was proud of the work I’d produced and excited to get my article out to the public. I’d written pieces dismissing the country’s love of superheroes before, but this was my biggest one yet. Vought had finally fucked up so badly, the American people were bound to listen. The anticipation hung in the area around me, my excitement causing little shivers to course electrically through my body. Or, perhaps that was just the early February air.

“Wow you sure have it out for them!” Mike said, and laughed. “You’re, like, our personal version of the FBSA or something.”

I laughed with him, sipping from my flask. “It’s cultural differences. I just don’t get it. And someone needs to take them down a peg.”

Greg turned to the intern with new seriousness. “Mike, take that to the photocopiers ASAP. We want it printed and distributed before lunch. Anna’ll help you and show you how.” He held the door open for the boy.

“Right away!”

“And Darcey,” Greg said, “Email it to me and David when you get back to your desk please. We’ve gotta get it online too, our readership stats are gonna jump. That’s the thing about superheroes; love ‘em or hate ‘em, they sure do get people talking.”

He nodded at me then went back to sitting behind his desk, waving the mouse to reawaken the desktop. The screen flashed to life. I smiled gleefully before leaving the room; things were going to get interesting around here.

“Will do.”

…

The rest of the morning went by pleasantly, but agonisingly slowly. I spent the time proofreading some of my co-workers’ work, replying to emails, and brainstorming ideas for the next piece. I mulled over trying to arrange an interview with the disgraced Homelander himself, but knew Vought would never agree to that. No, the company preferred to orchestrate its own constructed narrative through its puppet news channel anchor, Cameron Coleman on VNN. It baffled me that he was still considered a trustworthy news source by many. Besides, for all my bravado through my pen (or, rather, my laptop), it would be entirely different going up against the man himself. The idea of interviewing Homelander in person made my knees weak. I thought of his sparkling, saccharine smile and wondered if it would appear as plastic in person as it did on screen.

By ten o’clock my article was published and up on the front page of The New York Opinion, both physical copy and online. I was absolutely buzzing; it was my first front page piece since I’d moved to the paper a year ago. I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with my career, that becoming a journalist and then moving to the states was the best thing I’d done for myself. Wanting to remain professional, however, and knowing I’d lose all focus on the rest of my work should I start reading the comments, I resisted the urge to look at my phone. It was agonising.

The time soon came when I couldn’t wait any longer; I was squirming in my seat. The minute my laptop showed half one, I bounced up from my desk, gathered my handbag, and made for the lift, mumbling about going to grab lunch. I pressed the button for the first floor and nervously smoothed my hair in the mirror. The lift doors opened with a chime and I walked briskly across the crowded foyer, my small heels clicking against the shiny marbled floor towards the revolving doors.

Though the morning fog had been replaced by welcome sun, there remained a distinct chill in the city and my breath was visible in the air. The sun glittered prettily on the frost on the tops of buildings and a cold wind howled through the streets. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and fished my leather gloves out of my handbag. The blizzard would surely hit soon.

I made my way down the bustling pavement with an anxious but optimistic spring in my step. All around me, the street swelled with the chorus of urban life; taxis honked, people chatted and shouted, and an endless march of footsteps beat the ground. I loved New York, loved the city, loved being in America. I had lived in London all my life and so was used to the rush of big cities, but the infectious energy of New York City coupled with my recent career success left me exhilarated.

There was a popular café I loved to frequent near the office which did amazing paninis. The owners were attentive without being overwhelming friendly, which suited me just fine. I took a table near the back and at long last brought my phone out from my coat pocket. With shaking hands, I went onto The New York Opinion site and poured over the webpage.

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

There was my article, front page. Next to it, a satirical cartoon of the man. They’d given him dollar signs for eyes. My hands shook harder.

Five thousand comments.

Five thousand comments! I gasped, abandoning my panini. This was the most I’d received on one of my articles, ever - and it’d only been up half a morning.

I clicked the icon and started scrolling, desperate to gauge public opinion. I’d be lying if I denied that part of me was hungry for validation. I loved being told my writing was good, that my arguments were well constructed, intelligent, and thorough. Hunched over the table with my eyes glued to the screen, I soaked up every commenter’s praise like a sponge, my heart swelling from their flattery. They thought I was good! They thought I was right.

And yet, for every person in agreement, there was somebody in disagreement. They say five positive experiences counterbalance one negative one. That was not the case here; the site displayed an alternative equilibrium. I’d wager around half of the comments posted were in opposition to the points I’d made in the article, and in opposition to me.

There was a healthy dollop of laconic insults; I took these on the chin, unbothered. More surprising were the sheer amount of people fiercely defending Homelander, calling him a national hero and an honest, god-fearing patriot. That it was disgusting I was trying to tear down this beloved figure and that my cynicism was everything wrong with modern day America.

Truthfully, I was taken aback. I was so sure the breaking news that Stormfront was a Nazi would have dragged her boyfriend’s ratings through the mud and destroyed his affable boy-scout image. That Homelander would never recover from such a nuclear media blow. Had I really read the room so wrong? It was clear from the comments he was still cemented in the hearts of many.

I didn’t like to admit that I preferred when my readers agreed with me. I knew that was immature, that my article was harsh, and that the most important thing was that I’d sparked a conversation. The New York Opinion didn’t care whether readers agreed with pieces or not, it was all a numbers game to them. My article had got people talking; all publicity is good publicity! For more publicity meant more readers. The bosses would be happy… But I was not. As I continued scrolling through the deluge of comments, a few managed to sneak under my skin. People had evidently researched my profile; there were quite a number of messages directed at me, telling me to go back to the UK and get my nose out of others’ business. A handful of comments attacked my Chinese surname. I turned off my phone in dismay; I had never felt so self-conscious. I sat there alone in the back of the café, face burning.

I knew that facing my share of public criticism was part and parcel of being a journalist. I knew that I should laugh, brush it off, and not let it chew me up inside. I thought of controversial journalists both back home and here in the states, and of some of my steely colleagues in the office, and wondered how they were able to shrug off such intense scrutiny. Until this afternoon, I had been so sure I could have done the same. A sinking feeling of disappointing self-awareness pooled in my chest; I should have been cool and aloof, not hot and flustered.

I walked back to the office downhearted and embarrassed, unable to shake off my uneasiness with all the negative attention. I was frustrated, first at the article, then at myself for letting it get to me so much. I was a journalist, and not an inexperienced one; I should be stronger than this by now. Why was I so affected by the words of strangers? Suddenly, the soaring skyscrapers surrounding me made me feel very small.

The office was abuzz with energy when I came back in. My co-workers congratulated me as I walked past. Greg waved at me from inside his office, giving me two thumbs up. I plastered on a smile in return, my movements stiff and robotic.

Back at my desk, I tried hard to focus on my work, hoping to block out any negative thoughts through sheer determination. I started proofreading my colleague Samantha’s article on the rise of the neo-Nazi group of Stormfront fans, imaginatively dubbed ‘Stormchasers’. After the success of my Homelander article, the bosses had evidently encouraged the writing of more opinion pieces on the Supes. Greg was right; love them or hate them, superheroes sure got people talking. I was sick of it already. I regretted writing the article.

“Darcey, you’re on the news!” Samantha said suddenly, turning her monitor round to face me. I looked up, bewildered, horrified.

Sure enough, a familiar face stared back at me from the screen. They’d used an old photo, from the depths of Facebook. My face was heavily done up, my lips rouged and pouting. It was from a few years ago, a hen-do in Shoreditch. I was outraged.

“What’s this on?” I demanded.

“VNN.” Samantha said. Sure enough, the camera zoomed out to Cameron Coleman sitting at his studio desk with a grave expression. Superimposed were pictures of me and my article. The air around me grew cold.

“Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, this young woman has dragged all of America into quite the storm this morning!” Cameron said, with his eyes direct at the camera. “Darcey Li, a columnist for The New York Opinion, originally from England, has written what I can only describe as an unfair attack on our nation’s greatest hero, and an attack on traditional American values.”

Anger blossomed inside of me; I hadn’t remotely criticised American values. My article focused solely on Homelander, his relationship with Stormfront, and the excessive use of marketing stunts to boost his popularity.

“Which brings me to question,” Cameron continued, “Where all this animosity towards our great superhero comes from? Why do we as a nation tolerate the unjust, unpatriotic slandering of our beloved public figures?” He paused, slowly shaking his head.

“I, for one, question Miss Li’s integrity and motivations for writing this ungrateful piece. It seems to this news anchor that Miss Li is an overly ambitious young journalist seeking to advance her career through the use of attention-grabbing headlines. It paints a sorry picture of the state of journalism today and reveals the lengths the younger generations will go to climb the career ladder. We could all do with rallying behind our great superheroes, the Seven, and Homelander in particular, to avoid letting this distasteful article divide us.

“But now, moving onto more positive news, let’s turn our attention over to the cast of the Vought+ reality series Red, White & Blue Justice, as we have a very special Friday treat; an exclusive interview with the show’s frontrunner, Blue Hawk. Let’s welcome him into the studio everybody – Blue Hawk!”

I turned away from the monitor, heart racing. Samantha closed the browser, lips pursed.

“Don’t let him get under your skin.” She said matter-of-factly.

“I can’t believe they used that picture of me.” I said quietly. Then, more panicked, “Nobody’s going to take me seriously now.”

“On the bright side, VNN practically did you a favour - addressing your article on air. Everyone’s going to read it now.” Samantha said, readjusting her monitor and turning back to her work. “The paper’s pulling in thousands of new readers. Greg and Alan are really pleased.”

I mumbled a response. Inside, I was scared and shaking. The walls of the office seemed to close in on me and I felt the stares of my colleagues on the back of my head. Cameron Coleman’s words echoed inside my mind like a broken record on repeat.

The end of the day came, and I excused myself and hurried out the door, throwing my coat around me like protective shielding. On the subway ride home, I lowered my face into my scarf and tried making myself as small as possible, anxious that no one should recognise me. A man in a business suit carrying a copy of The New York Opinion got on the train at the next stop and sat down opposite me, making me freeze in my seat. To my relief he remained engrossed in the paper and didn’t look up. But I remained tense and sat rigid as a statue until I had got off the train at Inwood. Outside the station, the cold evening air was biting and I shook horribly.

My apartment was only a few blocks away. I walked quickly in the dark, fingers curled around my keys. Inwood wasn’t a particularly dodgy area but the winter evenings were always inky black and I was especially on edge tonight. I feared I’d been recognised on the walk home or on the subway as the author behind the country’s most current divisive article and could have been followed home. I looked over my shoulder constantly and even more so when I crossed the street and reached the old building, fumbling with the key in my shaking hands. I gave the door a good pull before rushing inside and hastily shutting it behind me, breathing quickly. Whilst the building was still cold, it was a relief to get out of the freezing night air and the possibility of watching eyes.

I took the lift up to the seventh floor. My heels clicked loudly in the empty corridor. Once I’d unlocked my apartment, I turned the lights on and staggered inside, collapsing on the sofa and slipping off my shoes. Finally, I was home.

A wave of muddled emotion came over me, a mix of frustration, disappointment, and fear. I burst into tears and then was so ashamed that I’d done so that I quickly leapt up and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, smearing my mascara. I hated that all this nonsense bothered me so much, hated that I cried so easily. I should have been celebrating my success; I’d made my bosses at the paper happy, my colleagues were impressed, and I’d published my first ever front page piece. I should have been ecstatic. But the flood of negative comments and Cameron Coleman’s words hung over me like a raincloud. I was not used to all this attention and I was not used to being so disliked.

I wiped off my makeup and stepped into the shower, telling myself that this would all blow over soon. I was still a nobody; a young journalist from abroad. VNN would get bored and go back to plugging the latest shows on Vought+, and Cameron Coleman would stick to slagging off Hugh Campbell and the FBSA.

But I’d never been good at burying my true feelings. I stood there numbly, naked, shivering as the cold water ran down my back.

…

 It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do for you. My worries felt a thousand memories away, like a dream that had happened to someone else, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The morning sun streamed into my bedroom window and I awoke with a fresh perspective and a healthy attitude. Fuck Vought, fuck VNN, fuck Homelander.

I ate my porridge leaning on the rail of the tiny balcony of my apartment, wrapped in my thick dressing gown. The blizzard had arrived in New York overnight and snow lay heavy across the city. It was beautiful to look at, twinkling in the sunlight. I remembered the pure joy I’d felt when I’d first stepped out onto the balcony after securing the deed, elated that I’d found a place to rent with such a good view. It wasn’t perfect; the building was old and my apartment was very small. Pocket-sized, I liked to call it. But it was fairly affordable, well-located and offered additional bonuses such as this. I loved leaning on the railings looking out over the city, wondering if Homelander ever tired of the sight from the skies.

The 14th of February. A rush of happiness hit me as I realised it was Saturday and I didn’t have to face going into work. Whilst I’d been invigorated by a new sense of positivity, I didn’t want to come down from this high and face reality. No, the article and all the problems it had created could be avoided until Monday.

Foolishly of me, today was the day when I decided to venture upstate. Although I’d lived in New York for a year, I hadn’t properly explored outside the city. There was so much to do already, and I had been kept busy by work.  Today I wanted to get away, see a bit more of the state and leave behind the nastiness of yesterday. Although the blizzard had hit the city, the view from my balcony didn’t quite feel real, as if it were some Christmas postcard given to me by my grandma. The snow seemed to me a magical sight, rather than a hazard I needed to avoid. I was also desperate to keep hold of my newfound optimism and was determined to go.

I put a little makeup on after I dressed, wrapping up warm with a white jumper and red puffer jacket. I packed a small rucksack and mulled over what to bring, taking out a quiche from the fridge, cutting it, and putting it into a Tupperware. I filled up my flask with earl grey and then headed out, stopping by the door to put on my boots, scarf, and bobble hat. Then I took the lift down to the ground floor and made my way outside, locking the front door behind me. The morning winter air was piercingly cold and I shivered, teeth chattering. I almost turned back. But I was stubborn and turning back to the comfort of my apartment would have felt like failing. Luckily, my car was only a street away. I almost slipped on ice getting to it.

My car was a bit naff but it had a full tank of petrol and when I blasted the heating on it was so warm. I tapped in the directions to a town called Newburgh on the Sat Nav, doing a quick search on my phone and deciding it looked like a good place to start, and pulled out, slowly on account of the ice. The route took me alongside the Hudson River, through Yonkers and heading to the Governor Mario M Cuomo Bridge. I drove carefully, enjoying the upbeat pop music playing on the radio, my mind at ease. Outside, snowflakes began falling gently down, twirling in the breeze.

…

 Things took a turn for the worse when I neared the bridge. It all happened so quickly. By now, it was snowing heavily and the wind had drastically picked up. It shrieked like a banshee and shook the car. The bridge was very exposed and the wind howled down the Hudson River. To make matters worse, the roads hadn’t been gritted enough and I felt the tires slide dangerously beneath me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white with stress. I’d long since turned the radio off. Snow pelted against the windscreen as the wipers whipped back and forth, blocking my vision. I cursed my stupidity as I drove over the water, terrified. I should never have come; it had been a reckless, foolish decision. But there was nowhere to turn the car around and I was forced to keep going.

It happened half-way across the bridge. A violent blast of wind hit the car as it skidded over black ice. I felt the tires spin wildly out of control. My hands were frantic on the wheel.

Time seemed to slow. I watched, paralysed, petrified, as the car hurtled towards the barrier.

Absolute silence.

Then a gut-wrenching scream, the hiss and squeal of brakes, and the sickening crash of steel crumpling against concrete. The windshield imploded, shattering glass everywhere. My cheeks stung. A sharp stab of pain burst from my chest. A stink of petrol filled the air, followed by a nauseating chemical reek. The sound of frenzied coughing. The smell of fire. I couldn’t see for the blanket of grey smoke and the spots of darkness dancing in and out of my vision like an explosion of tiny stars.

There was a low creak, then a shrill grating sound. My face hit something hard. There was an awful rocking sensation, like on a ride at a theme park. The creaking grew louder as I felt my surroundings swing back and forth like a pendulum. Then, a screech of metal being ripped apart, and a sudden sense of weightlessness.

Dazed, I stared as the remains of the car fell into the Hudson River. It groaned horribly against the concrete, the front a mangled metal mess, before tipping and plunging into the dark water with a tremendous splash. The river greedily swallowed it up and it was gone as quickly as it had entered. It was a terrible, sobering sight. I watched all of this numbly, hovering above the bridge, convinced I was dead. I had died, I told myself, from either the collision or the smoke inhalation, and my body was still strapped in my seat in a car at the bottom of the Hudson.

But I found myself hovering closer to the bridge, then felt solid tarmac beneath my feet. I was not dead. My legs gave way; I swayed dizzily and the ground was swept from under me again.

People were shouting- male and female voices. An ambulance siren wailed in the distant. Material whipping in the wind- a flag? There was a throbbing in my head, and the sounds came out muffled. Then, a clear voice above all the rest:

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

The voice was male, the accent sharply American – rich and buttery. Oddly familiar, and close by. I searched for the owner, but could find none.

“Ma’am?” He asked again.

I realised with a start that the voice came from behind me and, for the first time, registered the feel of the hard muscles of his chest and the firmness of his grip as he carried me effortlessly, bridal-style. An insurmountable, desperate pang of dread washed over me. I knew that voice.

Turning my head round to face my hero, I took in his blonde hair, regal features, and striking blue eyes. They glinted in the winter sun, cold and empty as glacier caves. But his smile was wide, his teeth white and gleaming. My breath hitched in my throat.

Homelander.

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Thanks for reading <3 Feedback always welcome, always looking to improve my writing. Look out for more chapters to (hopefully) come soon. Putting the whole thing on Quotev as well. Will probably publish chapters every few weeks or so. Ta ta x