No one believes her after, but she swears to every deity out there that she went to high school with the guy whoās shooting the arrows. It was only for, like, a month and he was so angry (scared) so she didnāt really know him, butā
But she went to high school with the guy shooting the arrows.
Sheās not brave, okay? Sheās run from her fair share of muggers and held her thanks in her heart when another vigilante came to chase them away. Sheās carried her car keys in her fist like daggers, cut strangers with the look in her eyes, kicked out at corners before turning them just in case.
She lives in New York, she knows how to keep her head down, keep a look out for debris, and run. Sheās doing it too, dodging buses and cars and people as she scrambles away from the sound of alien technology and alien language. The panic response is strong, real, and sheās not ashamed of the way she screams as the street explodes under her feet.
Then she realizes that the guy who shoots the arrows went to her high school and the aliens donāt seem so alien. She went to high school with the guy shooting the arrows at the aliens and heās hurting them. The look on his face says that heās at the end of his line and sheā
She realizes, crouched behind a burning car, that she is too.
New York explodes every day. Sometimes the sun is blocked out by aircrafts from other countries, other worlds. Her work practiced drills in case Doom sends robot spidersĀ into the air ducts with nerve gas.Ā Again. Jeffrey down the hall slapped her ass on Thursday and, after, she wasnāt proud enough to turn down his offer to walk her to her car.Ā Again.Ā
Her eyes land on jagged, blue metal, the remnants of a mail box. The leg is just the right size for her to wrap her hand around it and sheās just far gone enough that she doesnāt care that itās wet from lying in the gutter.
She hears that stupid fucking alien sound from behind her and, for once, she doesnāt think. She doesnāt think about how her hair is down (easy to grab) or how her heels are too high (hard to run in).
She swings her arm around, a snarl ripping from the remains of her throat, and bitch slaps that alien motherfucker right in the theoretical face. The thing flails, gun arm going wild, and stumbles back. She follows it , heels snapping against the concrete and raises her metal club over her head. She brings it down on the back of the thingās neck and does it again even as it falls, stops screaming, and goes still.
āI, uh,ā a man says from behind her,Ā āthink itās dead.ā
The voice is wrong for the situationātoo calm, too dry, too amused. She turns, feeling alien blood dripping from her face, and leverages her weapon.
The guy who shoots the arrows takes a hasty step back.Ā āWhoa, whoa, whoa! Team human here. You need to get down to the subway, theyāre basically bunkersāā
She tracks his gesturing hand and glances to the nearest entrance. People are streaming in, directed by police and fire and good Samaritans. Sheās shocked that she doesnāt want to go over there. Sheād much rather stay here.
She blows hair out of her face and says,Ā āYou went to my high school.ā Another alien charges them, making some sort of clicking noise, and thereās an arrow sprouting from its throat between one blink and the next. It happens so fast that she canāt stop her lunge and swing in time. Her weapon connects with the side of the alienās head instead of itās chest with a sick thunk. It takes muscle to yank her club out of its skull, but she manages and the body falls back onto the asphalt.
They both stare at the dead alien for a long moment.
āRightā arrow guy says. He seems to have decided to let her do what she wants. He takes a deep breath and says,Ā āNo oneās going to believe I went to high school.āĀ
āBut you did,ā she says.
He starts jogging towards where the aliens are concentrated, arrow already in hand.Ā āYeah,ā he says over his shoulder,Ā ābut they wonāt believe it!ā
āIāā she starts, but heās too far away, fast as all hell.
She takes out her irritation on the next alien who makes that stupid scifi noise right next to her ear.
