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Menace #45: The Flower Shop

There were many flower shops in New Monmouth City, but none quite so dear to Courtney as Martha’s. Just off of South Street, Martha’s Flower Emporium stood relatively firmly as a soft, pastel pink exterior. The doors were made of firm plastic (Courtney would say they were made of glass), and the roof — once shiny and golden — now showed signs of wear and tear through holes and dark spots. Still, Courtney had nothing but fond memories of Martha's; it was her mother’s flower shop of choice, and so Courtney had spent many days sitting in the lobby, surrounded by more types of flowers than she could name, while her mother shopped. It was a place that rung with a sort of cheap nostalgia: she could not remember a single fun experience she had had in the building. Instead, she felt the hours of time that had passed, along with the simple warmth of being a kid, and this was enough to get her back through the doors of Martha’s Flower Emporium.

“Hey, Pink!” Max called to her immediately as she stepped in. She quickly checked herself for any pink on her clothing, having forgotten about the damned flower boy. Every time she’d walk in, he’d call her “pink,” ever since they were both little kids. She ignored him mostly, but, having been away for so long, she felt some fondness for the nosy boy who pestered her so insistently as a child. She was unsure she was wearing pink the first day they met, but every day since then that she’d been forced to come to the flower shop, she would intentionally not wear pink. Still, Max was undeterred. She noted that her sleeveless top (not her idea, trust her) was a soft shade of lavender atop a black skirt and shoes. She silently praised herself for not wearing pink instinctually before turning to the boy.

“Hi, Max, still tending to the flowers, I see,” Courtney said, intending to sting him in some way with the remark, but realizing that what she said could easily be misinterpreted as a pleasant greeting. He smiled and nodded in response. The lobby of the shop was the most magnificent part, Courtney believed, lined with rows of different flowers in similar pots with their seeds in front of them in small packets for scale. The flowers were arranged by color, not species; frequently Courtney would watch Martha go through the rows to pick out a perfect assortment to decorate a lawn or porch. She had always been impressed, and still was as she looked across the lobby now. Her eyes caught on the the roses, as they always did account her middle name, and she smiled as she turned her focus back to Max. “I was wondering if I might speak to Martha?”

“You might and you might not,” Max answered, hiding a smile. “She’s home sick this week, left me to run the place. Is it something I could help you with?” He grinned at her, and she hated that. The two were friends, sure, as much as anyone is friends with the children of their parents’ friends. They knew enough to ask about each other whenever they were forced to meet, and had laughed together once or twice amongst all the teasing, but that was about it. Courtney looked at Max intently; her focus was elsewhere, otherwise the sight would have bothered her more. Does he know? Courtney asked herself. She shrugged and figured that a try would not hurt.

“I’m looking for some special flowers, one’s generally reserved for more inclined guests?” She asked the same way her mother always had, and bit the inside of her cheek afterwards. She was unsure why.

“Oh, you’re here for magic stuff then?” Max replied, unfazed. Not much got to Max, Courtney knew, despite the occasional bruises she’d notice they shared on her occasional visit. “Sure, no problem. We can go to the back now, if you like. There doesn’t seem to be any other business going on.” Courtney nodded as she followed the boy — dressed in green overalls and a black shirt of all things — into the backroom. The backroom was off limits for kids, her mother told her. Nothing important was going on back there anyway, she insisted. The lobby was far more interesting, she assured. Boy, was Mom a liar! Courtney thought as she entered the room.

The first idea that ran through her head was that the room reminded her of a volcano. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the back corner where large red-and-orange roses grew along the wall, curved in a way that almost looked like the red was flowing, dripping down from flower to flower in vibrant, neon colors. These were supported and accented by a series of charcoal-gray  which made the colorful asters which made the vibrant shades of red and orange pop out more, almost as though they were back lit. Leading down from this explosion of ferocious color, she noticed deep, blue irises spurting from the ground, revealing a small path through the room. The blue, upon further inspection, was not one consistent shade throughout rather, a bright blue rim traced the top and edges. The overhead lights were off, Courtney realized, which meant that the flowers were actually glowing. Across the room she noticed so many more vibrant and unnatural shades: green daisies, pink freesias, black carnations, and so many more. The room looked marvelous. She felt like she was standing in a painting.

“What are you looking for, Pink?” Max asked her.

“I… I don’t know,” Courtney admitted. “I was hoping to learn more about magic, and I figured Ma’s friend Martha could help me work through some things — but I never imagined something like this existed. Magic flowers?”

“It’s an old technique,” Max told her, “but it’s not very hard. Most people who know about it call it ‘sewing,’” Max explained. “I think it sounds a bit too much like ‘sowing,’ especially when applied to agricultural situations, but, hey, I don’t get to pick.” He smiled and laughed at what he said.

“How is that different from any other magic?” Courtney asked as she reached out and brushed one of the irises with her hand. It felt unnaturally cold to the touch, and she quickly brought her hand back as she continued to walk through the garden.

“Well, most people just blend.” Courtney stopped to look at him.

“Blend?”

“You really don't know anything, do you?”

“I had a bad teacher,” Courtney defended, blushing furiously and slowly grabbing her left arm with her right. “I’m not dumb or anything.”

“No, of course not,” Max teased, but, seeing the look on his face, pulled back. “Well, most people who use magic tend to utilize magic that comes to them naturally — ever wonder how the magic is ‘naturally’ assigned? It’s based on something like a color grade; some people burn brightly one color,” he lazily gestured to the roses, magnificent against the wall, “but others have more unique, natural inclinations,” he pointed to the irises lining the walkway and the green daisies, which had intricate patterns dancing across their petals. “My family has maintained some of the greatest magical gardens in the world for hundreds of years based on a few simple tricks that let us see the color itself, apart from the magic.”

“Can you teach me?” Courtney asked. It was Max’s turn to look askance.

“I don’t think Ma would like that,” Max told her.

“You said it was simple,” she reminded him. “And our families are close, Max, it’s not a huge deal. I just need to know — it could be life or death.” She felt as though she was exaggerating slightly, but she didn’t care. She figured that would hook him. He seemed to be hiding something, though, as far as Courtney could tell. Something beyond the usual hiding they did.

“I guess I could… we don’t have to tell her, I guess,” Max justified. “You sure it’s life or death?” Courtney nodded. “Well, I guess I don’t have a choice then… plus, I guess it gives us an excuse to spend time together again,” Max said, smiling at her. “Excuse me?” She asked, eyeing the boy.

“It’s just nice to see you, Pink,” he said. “We dejected-magicians have gotta stick together, right?”

“Oh, good, for a second there I thought you were flirting,” she said, flatly. He ran a gloved hand through his messy, brown hair and smiled at her awkwardly.

“If I was?”

“Then I’d let you know I’m not interested," she said, (again) flatly. “Now, colors.”

“Colors, right,” his eyes clicked back into focus as he started talking. “It’s real simple, and once you see it, you won’t be able to unsee it. I just have to show you the stem of one of the flowers,” he took her over to the red, pulsing flowers. He plucked one from the wall. “A rose for the lady?”

“Not interested,” she repeated, (once more) flatly. “The stem?” She asked.

“Look,” he brought the stem close to her eyes. “What do you see?”

“A plain, old green stem,” she commented.

“Look closer.”

“Is that — I see some, er, rings? I guess, rings. Of bright red and some mustardy yellow color. Is that it?”

“You got it, Pink,” he congratulated, setting the rose back in place.

“So how is this supposed to help me?”

“When you see magic now, just look at the stem of it. The source of it, underneath the pizazz  You’ll probably see something similar. That’s the color. Once you see it, you can try playing around with it. Most people can blend without knowing the colors; blending is quick, easy. It’s basically a fifty-fifty color split. In contrast, when you sew, you're choosing a base color and developing it before intertwining it with another color. Sometimes it makes the magic stronger, sometimes something completely different happens. I have to close up shop soon, would you like a flower, on the house, and, maybe, a walk home?”

“No thanks,” Courtney said, offering a hug and teasingly planting a kiss on his cheek before leaving. As she walked out of the store she called back, “Thank you!” and then wiped her lips as she kept moving away from the store. Walking back down South Street in her heels and sleeveless shirt, having kissed Max on the cheek, she felt very much like her mother. She felt squirmy. Why do boys have to hit on me? The child in her thought to herself. You're beautiful, dear, her mother’s voice snuck into her head. Shut up, she thought at herself. Now he’s gonna keep flirting, Courtney realized. Great. She frowned as she continued down the street, wondering about sewing and blending and all of the weird magical terminology that she had learned. If I have to kiss another boy again, Courtney thought, the kiss staying with her and returning over and over again as something she’d seen her mother do a thousand times, I’ll just deem the whole project not worth it.

She rushed home to change into something more comfortable as the sun began to set.

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Thank you!

I’d just like to take a moment to say thank you to everyone following my blog. I know 43 is (relatively) not a lot -- especially considering that at least two of my followers are actually me -- but it really means the world to me. I know I’m not the best with communication (I think I may have once spoken to one or two of you), but please feel free to message me at any time if you have questions or comments or would just like to chat. If not, I hope you enjoy the stories, there are lots more to come! Thank you, again, so much. 

-- Travis 

[ascensionstories-blog]

Menace #9: The Spring Praestan

The Spring Praestan was once an ornately decorated building, an immaculate structure poised in opposition to the sky, casting a cool shadow onto the street below. The building, a privately constructed apartment complex intended to house the upper-ring of New Monmouth City, stood firmly in the North-most point of the city; it lay far from the quaint town square, in the once bustling collection of stores, hotels, and offices that stacked the streets. At the opening of The Spring Praestan, many people drew both hope and solace from the construction of the building: it was to gentrify the area with the thickest collection of buildings in the city, and, perhaps, draw attention to the high crime rates that plagued the streets. The building itself was constructed in an unorganized fashion. The bottom of the building stood in an almost Roman fashion, with eight columns lined across the base, stretching a maximum of fifty feet to the top of an arch that surrounded the front doors of the building. The front of the building, itself, consisted of a staggering amount of glass windows and two glass doors that lay directly in the center of the building, hidden from view by the center-most column. Inside the building was a large lobby-like entrance way, leading to a slew of elevators and stairwells. Just beyond that, in the furthest back portion of the first floor, lay the Praestan Moonbeam, a restaurant constructed and run inside the apartment complex. In this now-abandoned restaurant, Menace sat across from Eloise, wishing, more than anything, that there was still some semblance of food somewhere in his immediate surroundings.

“You nervous?” Eloise asked him, as she noticed he was fingering the goggles that hung around his neck. She had dressed casually for the meeting; her hair fell freely behind her shoulders, which were covered by a plain, white T-shirt with the name “Trickshot” written across it in black, bold letters that looked as though they attempted to pop forth, out from the shirt. Nate had laughed when he saw the shirt she had decided to wear; with villains and heroes being in the public eye, companies quickly decided to capitalize on them. Suddenly, at every Hot Topic Nate could buy a shirt representing practically any hero or villain that he’d ever heard of, including himself. With this shirt, she wore jean-shorts, and sandals. Eloise had told Nate that, during the summer, it was a sin to wear anything but sandals to cover your feet.

“A little.” Nate admitted. “What is she doing hanging out in places like this?” He asked. “And how did you two become friends?”

“All people have their own certain proclivities.” Eloise said, spinning a strand of her hair with her finger. “Maybe this is just her aesthetic. And all super-villains know each other, you know that.” Eloise nodded. “Just like all heroes know each other; when it’s us against the world, we gotta stick together.” She explained.

“That’s right, so what happened to you?” Nate turned to see a girl standing a few feet behind him in the abandoned restaurant. He recognized that she was taller than he was, if only by a few inches, and dressed entirely in black. She had straight hair that barely touched beneath her chin. The part in her hair was oriented slightly to the left, splitting so that it just covered the top of her left eye before falling off to the side. Freckles were scattered across her face, which gave an almost rustic look to her beauty, which clashed heavily with the heavy, black mascara she had chosen to wear. She looked, as far as Nate could tell, fit, if not too thin. She stomped forward as she walked, her combat boots slamming into the ground with each step. “Why did you leave?”

“Things change.”  Eloise told her, refusing to look directly at the girl. “I had to make a choice, Marie.”

“And you didn’t choose me.” She said. She turned her head to look at Menace, perhaps noticing him for the first time, or perhaps she had not cared to acknowledge him. “Heh. Hanging out with heroes now? How far you’ve fallen.” Nate refused to say a word. He could feel the tension of the scene playing out in front of him, and he felt as though he’d stumbled upon a moment he should not be a part of. “What do you have to say for yourself? The group is not happy with you, El. You know what happens to people who leave. I can’t keep defending you from them, especially if you’re going to hold company with this one.” She gestured to the Menace.

“Ever thought I don’t need your protection?” Eloise mumbled quietly to herself.

“What was that?” Marie asked, leaning in closer.

“Ever thought I don’t need your protection?” She repeated, throwing her face closer to Marie, so that they were only inches apart. “You’ve always been like this, you always do this. I’m not a child, I don’t need to be smothered, I can make my own choices.” The two glared at each other. “You try to hide it, but I can see, Mare. I can see. You’re exhausted. The fatigue shows. The hickeys on your neck? God, Mare, are you just letting them do whatever they want to you?” Nate hadn’t noticed the bruises, but, looking very closely, he could see small blotches of concealer that didn’t quite match her skin color. “I always used to think you were better than that, that we were better than that.” Eloise pulled her face away from Marie’s. “Then I realized, some time ago, that you weren’t. I didn’t want to be like you. So I left.”

“I’m done.” Marie said. “Done helping you. Done with you.” The girl stood upright and began to walk away as Eloise stared fiercely. Nate, remembering why he came, swiftly stood.

“Do you remember me, Marie?” He asked. Marie turned to look at him, and he looked into her eyes. Without Marie saying a word, he’d received his answer. He sat back in the booth across from Eloise as he heard the villain stomp back out the door. Eloise and Nate sat in silence for a moment. She was on the verge of tears. He was deep in his own mind, thinking about another world, about all the things Marie could have been. In another life, where things were even the slightest bit different, who knows what could have happened?

“You saw it too, right?” Eloise said slowly, her voice was a shattered windowpane, where, even though the cracks were apparent and glaring, the pane refused to fall. “In her eyes… She’s not there anymore.”

The Mutation was a very good hero. He lived and breathed the business, trained in his spare time, and used the rest to forge lasting relationships and ponder morality. He had been wanting to work with Menace for a very long time, as the two had bonded during the most recent CEF (Catastrophic-Event-Function), and had been close friends ever since. In addition, the Mutation was by no means stupid, which, he figured, meant that everyone else was for not realizing that the Menace was, by far, the most powerful hero alive since the passing of Ultraman. In fact, he was fairly certain that not even Nate himself knew the limits of his powers, but — and also theorized by the Mutation — perhaps Menace’s powers had no limits. In half of the stories Nate had told him, Nate had somehow, miraculously pulled off an incredible feat by accessing powers that he did not even know he had. At the very least, the Mutation was curious.

The main problem was that Nate was, arguably, very hard to work with. That is not to say that Menace was not an excellent hero, or that, when he showed up, he was as good an ally as anyone. No, the real trick in working with the Menace was to get him to show up. The Mutation was very offset by Nate’s tendency to be late or, sometimes, not show up at all. He had received texts from the Menace a few hours after starting his shift where he apologized for not showing up, then still failed to show up. So, Anthony’s shift having started an hour ago and the sun having firmly set, he decided that Nate was most likely not coming, and that he should just go about his business as normal.

Luckily for him, the night was cool, and the center of town square was sparsely populated. The Mutation sighed as he leaned back on his bench, wondering who or what might come along to ruin his peaceful evening. Just then, as if the universe had an overwhelming desire to appease him, a girl fell onto the bench next to him, forcing him to sit up straight, and remove his arms from the span of the bench, placing them back in his lap. The girl was not bad looking, with short, black hair and all black clothes. She wore too much eyeliner, the Mutation thought, and mixed with her light sprinkling of freckles she appeared to be some odd mix of vampire and farm-girl.

“You’re a hero, right?” She asked. She tilted her head down, and lifted her eyes so that Anthony was forced to look into her dazzling, emerald green eyes. “I need a hero.” She said, inching closer o the bench to Anthony.

“What do you need, ma’am?” The Mutation asked.

“Some mean people took my purse.” She said in a half-whiney voice.

“Do you know where these people are, ma’am?” Anthony asked, sighing. The worst part about being a hero, the Mutation always thought, is that, even though I know this is a trap, I still have to go. The girl nodded. “Of course you do.” The girl grabbed his hand, lifted him from the bench, and began walking him in the direction of the North end of town. The Mutation used his free hand to send a text to the Menace: Get your fucking ass here now, I’m about to get jumped. He attached his location to the text and prayed that Nate wasn’t a total scumbag.

Anthony began to analyze the situation, wondering what he could do, and when, to escape or win an ensuing fight. It kept throwing him off, however, that the girl pulling him smelt incredible; she smelt like a strawberry blended in a vanilla milkshake. It was an annoyingly distracting smell, as he could not ignore it, and it kept drawing his eyes to the girl leading him. “Where are we going?” He asked, but the girl just kept pulling him forward, until she came to a sudden stop. The Mutation looked around and noticed that he was across the street from the Spring Praestan. The moon lingered in the night sky that he could make out just above the top of the building. “Where are the muggers?”

“Inside.” The girl said.

“Yeah, fuck that.” The Mutation said. “I’m not that stupid.” He glanced down at his hand to notice that the ring he always wore across his finger had been lifted. He looked back up at the girl. “Seriously? Are we really doing this?” The girl lifted her foot into his groin and he howled as he collapsed onto his knees. He dropped his hand to the ground, onto the cement sidewalk and sighed. He felt his hand begin to mutate, condensing into the equivalent of a cement brick. He wiggled his now rock-like fingers as he stood up, still in a large bit of pain. The girl threw her fist at his face, but he brushed it aside and then slammed his cement-fist onto her head. She crumpled like a paper bag. Just then his phone buzzed, and he lifted it from his pocket. It was from Menace, it read: Sorry, something important came up. The Mutation laughed.

Nate was not lying, something important had come up. Just before he was to begin his shift with the Mutation, he received a text from Courtney. Apparently, there was something he needed to see immediately. He figured it would only take a moment, and so decided to swing by the cube in the Wharton State Forest, where she was staying. The cube, a large, wooden, natural structure amongst the trees of the forest served as the Menace’s base of operations and, frequently, the bedroom of the White Witch.

He arrived at the cube as his shift with the Mutation was supposed to begin, but he felt a text would be an unnecessary inconvenience, as he would be only a moment. He climbed the ladder into the cube, where he was met with a tackle-hug from Courtney, forcing him onto his back.

“Everything okay?” He asked, and she let go of him, standing, and walked to the Northwest corner of the cube.

“I was kinda scared.” The White Witch told him. “I took a mid-afternoon nap after my meditations, and when I woke up, there was this, just lying on me.” She handed him a crisply folded, white piece of paper. He opened it, reading the words written in neat calligraphy:

Who are you now, Menace?

[ascensionstories-blog]

Villainous concept art for the Gentleman! By Nick Ebert

[ascensionstories-blog]

Menace #2: The Count’s Pleasures

“Hey, I’m back!” Nate called walking through the front door of his house, onto the carpet draped over the hard-wood floor. It was almost seven in the morning on a Saturday, meaning that no one in his house was awake, which, coincidentally, was just the way he liked it. He unstrapped his boots, leaving them on the carpet, and walked through the foyer into the living room: a blue-carpeted room with a couch against the north wall, a small table just in front of it, and a television atop a cabinet on the other side of the room. A small staircase in the corner of the room led up into the second story of his house, and he stripped off his shirt and threw it on the first step. Now in just an undershirt and dress-pants, he fell onto the couch and flipped on the television. He looked at the TV just long enough to register that it was some sort of news channel, but that was all he could figure before he fell asleep on the couch.

He woke up three hours later, his mother towering over him with a firmly set scowl. She was still in her pajamas — fuzzy blue pajamas covered with drawings of ducks — which completely contrasted her stature at the moment. Her feet were planted and her back was perfectly strait, her arms crossed. Now, Nate had faced many threats to the world in his three years as a hero, including erupting volcanoes, invading aliens, an army of zombies, and many more, yet he still considered the woman before him a larger threat than all of the others combined.

“Where have you been?” She puffed, almost fuming from every orifice.

“I had to take the late shift on hero duty last night, covering for a friend.” He lied. He was at the cube the entire night, as he had been every night this week. Courtney’s parents were having fights again, which meant not only that she wanted to be far away, but that her parents couldn’t care less where she was anyway.

“I checked the online hero catalogue and it said you were off-duty until today!” She yelled down into his face. “Are you doing something I should know about? Are you seeing someone? Is it drugs?”

“Mom!” Nate stopped her. “Chill, okay? The people who run the website don’t account for shift switches, especially ones so last minute. Now, I’m back on shift at noon, and I’d like to get a few hours of rest in.” He said, yawning, and his mother seemed to buy it. Mrs. Coplin was a busy woman. Her children knew she was a busy woman. Her husband knew she was a busy woman. Her profession was her drive, her lifeblood. Of course she cared about her kids, but as long as they had three square meals a day, were healthy, and didn’t complain, they might as well have not existed. She hadn’t noticed her son had been missing from his bed for the last four nights. She hadn’t been up sick worrying. She would not have even noticed he was gone had she not walked past his open bedroom doorway to get to the bathroom when she had woken up in the night. Even then, she figured everything was fine, and went back to bed until morning. Thus, Nate got away with what he needed to, as often as he needed to, and his mother, intentionally or not, gave him the space to do so. “This shift is gonna be a bitch.” He moaned, covering his eyes with his gloved palms before drifting back to sleep.

If the shift could be personified, it would certainly have been a woman, and, of all subcategories and typings that spanned the entirety of the women sex, this specific shift was, without doubt, a bitch. Nate normally did not mind hero duty. In fact, it was the favorite part of his day during the school year; but, as spring turned to summer and the days went from roaring lions to lazy dogs, Nate began to find hero work a bit tedious. The summer sun beat down on him harder than any villain could, considering he was in practically all black layers. His clothes would stick to him, his goggles would fog up, and he smelled terrible. He normally liked to stick to the night shift during the summer, as most heroes did. If villains realized that no hero wants to be on duty during a hot summer day, Nate thought, crime would skyrocket. Luckily enough, villains seemed to be conquered by the heat as well, and so the majority of Nate’s shift was occupied with patrol duty.

Th sun was insufferable. Nate found himself dozing as he walked the streets, searching for villains or criminals or air conditioning. He had been operating for the past few days on a couple hours of sleep each night, and he knew that it was about to catch up with him. His wanderings took him to the town square, a square of brick surrounding a small grass plot, with benches on every side, each one dedicated to some donor or hero. A small collection of shops surrounded the square, all of them quaint, as if they had not been renovated since the conception of the nation. A man dressed in white and pink stood at the nearest corner of the square, selling ice-cream from a small booth. Nate, figuring he hadn’t much else to do, purchased a cone and took a seat on the recently renamed Ultraman Memorial Bench.

Now, this was the first summer that Nate could work full-time as a hero, and thus the first time he had an all day shift. He was on shift until eight, when another hero would take over. There were not that many heroes in New Monmouth City, even less since Ultraman had died, who had taken the three or four shifts-worth of the workload. Maybe the Gentleman was right, Nate thought, maybe we have had it too easy. He thought this as he enjoyed an ice-cream cone while sitting on a bench in the town square; a few of the more senior heroes had informed him that any expenses made during your shift were reimbursed by the state, and, while officially heroes have to speak out against abuses in the system, Nate figured that an ice-cream cone on a hot summer’s day was not unreasonable as a necessary expense. As he enjoyed his slight abuse of the system, his mind could not help but wander to another that the senior heroes often spoke about.

There was a large mansion just off of Newman Street, an ornately decorated palace hidden on some backroad in the middle of nowhere. It was an entirely isolated building, nothing spanning for miles on either side, and shrouded in one of the sparse forests that decorated the state. It’s isolation and elegant nature lent itself to some mystery, and so, soon after its establishment, a small group of heroes went to investigate it. As the story goes, the heroes returned with wide grins and empty wallets, and suddenly, whenever a summer day shift was too tedious, a hero would venture there to loosen some of the strain. Nate hadn’t been told much, but from what he had learned he knew to go there with his hero identification pinned to his shirt (a gesture otherwise considered rather tactless), and to write of the expense as a “massage” on his records. His ice-cream cone was almost finished and there was no crime to be seen, Nate figured he’d do some investigating of his own, more out of boredom than curiosity.

He had expected the building to be run down, disgusting, or, at the very least, antiquated, so when Nate arrived at a giant ornately decorated (and surprisingly colorful) palace hidden on the backroads off of Newman Street, he was dumbfounded. Giant flashlight-looking objects were planted on either side of the front entrance, pointed upwards towards the sky, perhaps to make guests feel rather special as they entered the services. The front door was colored in a bright orange hue, which almost blended with the light brown archway that stood around it, but, for the most part, simply created a disorienting effect. The majority of the building seemed to be crafted of silver stone, which surrounded the archway of the door. The mansion was constructed vertically to a sharp point that brushed the top of the tree-line, with castle-like turrets planted on each end. From the front, Nate could not imagine how far back the palace ran, or how far down one might go once inside. He secured his hero ID on his shirt, walked slowly to the front door —attempting not to trip on any twigs, cigarettes, or garbage on the ground — and opened the front door.

The inside was just as miraculous as the outside; to begin with, there was no artificial light, only torches that lined the foyer, which consisted of a small front desk with the attendant picking at his fingernails, two staircases — one on either side — and a hallway in between them, leading beyond Nate’s line of sight. He was intrigued and entranced by the artistry of the building, turning his head straight up to see an ornate, diamond-encrusted, black chandelier, lit entirely with candles. The stairs were lined with velvet carpet, but looked to be of black stone underneath, the railings of gold. The walls held many small paintings, mostly of women in decorative clothing, some of just the costumes themselves, and one large oil painting of a man, with his name encrusted in gold plating underneath. The writing below the picture informed him that this was Count Drake from Transylvania, which gave Nate pause, trying to remember if Transylvania was actually a country, or rather a figment of Bram Stoker’s imagination. In the end, he decided it didn’t quite matter. The man in the painting was dashingly handsome, but in a modern way. His hair seemed loose and untamed, and somehow the artist captured the brightness in his dazzling blue eyes. He was wearing traditional garments, but Nate figured that must have been a formality.

“Can I help you?” The attendant at the front desk, who, Nate figured, must have finished picking his fingernails, asked. He did not look like a pleasant man; for one thing, he had no neck. His chin faded into his shirt, as if his Adam’s apple were simply a sack of fat. In addition, his beard solely covered his neck, and no other parts of his body, and, on top of that, looked greasy and wiled. He was wearing a valet vest over a white button up shirt, and chalk around his eyes, but Nate couldn’t tell if that was required by his employer, or simply his own ascetic (as this man struck Nate as a self proclaimed “child of the night”). His hair was slicked back so that the bottom of his hair grazed his shoulder, and the man smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks.

“Yes,” Nate put on his best hero voice, “I am here doing some investigating as a hero on patrol.” Something seemed to click in the child-of-the-night’s brain, and he made a loud, understanding, “O” sound.

“I see, you must be here for your, er, ‘massage.’” The man nodded. “Normally we get them a lot older here, but I suppose the audience could do with some fresh young blood. It’s a small fee of some fifty dollars to get in. Or, rather, for you ‘massage.’” Nate handed him the money. “Go on in,” the man checked his ID, “Menace. Hope you enjoy the show”

Nate followed the black-stone hallway for quite a distance, he figured. The torchlight was hardly enough to lead his way, and, in addition, after the conversation with the attendant, he was not feeling particularly comfortable. The hallway eventually opened up into a giant tavern-like room, with a stage pressing against the back wall. Men, mostly elderly men, sat around the stage in tables, with varying amounts of alcohol in front of each of them. The bar hugged the wall, and the bartender, a young, blonde woman with hair to her waist, seemed perfectly at home in dealing with the drunken slurs of the older men. The room was murkily lit by torchlight, except for the stage, where a spotlight shone on both the band — which consisted of an old (and possibly blind) saxophone player, a talented young drummer, a man with a towering bass guitar, and a trumpeter who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else — and the woman dancing. The woman was undeniably beautiful, with red hair flowing down past her neck, and she was dressed in an ornate feathered jacket, and was dancing elegantly to the music. Her movements were slow and calculated, and the woman was smiling with a wide grin. With the cool air, the nice music, and the dancing, Nate could understand why many heroes came here during longer shifts. Then, suddenly, the jacket was off, and Nate nearly choked on the air he was breathing: the woman was naked save for two small tassels across her breasts and thin, practically see through underwear. Nonetheless, the woman continued her dance as though nothing had changed, still with the same grin. Nate looked around at the older men, wondering if anyone had a problem with what was going on, but, aside from some aggressive whooping, they seemed to have not taken notice of the development, or at least not have a problem with it.

Nate looked around a little more worriedly, as he realized he’d stumbled into a situation he’d rather not be in, and, in his panicked fervor, he accidentally made direct eye contact with  a man across the room, who smiled, and waved him over. Nate uncomfortable took a step forward towards him, wondering whether or not he should commit to the walk, but eventually succumbed to the pressure and continued his walk. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that the man who waved him over was, in fact, Count Drake, who’s painting hung over the wall in the foyer.

“Welcome, welcome!” The man said in a heavy accent, making his w’s sound like v’s. “I trust you are liking my establishment?” The man’s accent was fake, Nate could tell, but more curious than that was that the accent did not seem to be from any particular country. It sounded almost like a blend of a heavy Russian accent and a light French accent. Perhaps, Nate joked, this is a Transylvanian accent. Suddenly, he realized that he had made the same joke before. He recognized the voice. It was The Count, a villain who operated solely in the night time, stealing, harassing, and abusing women. Nate stared up at the stage at the near-naked woman who was still dancing, and racked his brain trying desperately to think if her face was that of one of the missing women.

“Yes, I am.” Nate awkwardly lied, wondering why the Count had not simply attacked him yet, nor showed any sign of knowing him. Everything about the man seemed vivacious; the Count normally appeared dull, faded even, like a man from the dead. Nate noticed the medallion that hung around his neck. A small golden circle, imprinted with what looked like the head of a bat whose jaw was wide open to clasp onto whatever was immediately in front of it.

“Well,” the Count continued, “please come to me with any problems you might have. I am always happy to serve heroes here in this establishment.” Nate thanked him, abruptly leaving the conversation and the establishment.

“What do you want, Nate?” The Mutation asked impatiently.

“I need your help.” Nate said, calling from just outside the Burlesque House of Count Drake. “I found the Count, where he is during the day, what he does. We can nab him now, we can get him.”

“How did you find him? Is he attacking you?”

“Never mind how I found him, and no he’s not attacking. He didn’t even seem to recognize me.” Nate said, realizing now how silly his story sounded.

“Alright man, listen.” The Mutation started. “I’m not on duty until eight tonight, so if you want to wait until then, I’m game. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

“Thanks, what a hero.” Nate said, pissed. He hung up his phone and slid it into his pocket, staring up now at the sky as the top of the sun just grazed over the the trees. It was a beautiful sight; the sky was painted a dull orange just around the sun, but the rest of the sky was a faded, dark blue. He wondered why the Count didn’t seem to recognize him, and was far more composed than Nate had ever seen him. He went over in his head everything he knew from having to read Bram Stoker’s Dracula in the ninth grade, and he concluded that it must have something to do with the time of day. Dracula can’t use his powers during the day, Nate remembered, he only operates at night, fleeing from the castle to wreak havoc. Nate yawned, and said aloud to himself, “Well, I guess here is as good a place as any to wait for him.” Nate sighed as he rested up against the silver walls of the Burlesque House. He allowed his eyes to shut for a brief moment, and drifted off to sleep.

Something large burst out the front door of the establishment, and the sound of the doors slamming against the wall jolted Nate out of his slumber. A creature ran from the building, out towards the tree-line. Before Nate even knew what was happening, he called out, “Stop!” and then, realizing “freeze” sounded more professional, called out “Freeze!” The creature had stopped the first time, and turned to look at whomever called to it. Nate saw the large, blue eyes of the creature staring back at him and recognized two truths: it was the Count, and he was about to die.

The Count stood to his full height, and now, against the night, stood as an entirely black six foot six monster. Wings had sprouted from his back, black and leathery, and the man had grown fanged in the brief period since Nate had seen him inside the mansion. His hands were grotesquely large with sharp fingernails, his feet had grown out from his leather shoes, destroying them. His entire body seemed to be cloaked in leathery fur.

“Okay.” Nate said, as it was all he could think to say, as he activated his powers. His senses went into overdrive, and suddenly he could smell the beast too, an awful, repulsive smell that was unbecoming of a predator, as it would surely drive all its prey away. He strapped his goggles around his eyes, and squared himself; he could not explain why he did this, he knew that if the beast charged he could not stop it. The beast charged, and Nate dove forward, barrel rolling under the creature as it slammed against the silver-painted bricks behind him. He turned now, to face the creature as it made efforts to stand again, though it was dazed. Nate noticed the same gold medallion hanging from his chest. Menace ran towards the beast now, thinking to take advantage of its confusion, and brought his fist hard against the Count’s head. He fell back a step against the wall, roaring in pain, straight into Nate’s face, the odor making him gag and step back.

The Count reached to his full hight and slammed into Nate, dragging his claws against the Menace’s chest. He yelped in pain trying to throw the beast off of him, but the Count persisted, clawing down to his stomach, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. Nate leaped backwards, but the Count, anticipating this, flew forward into him as he landed, knocking him to the ground. Before Nate could stand, the beast landed atop him, slamming himself onto his pelvis, so that Nate could not stand.  “Menace.” The Count said in a low growl, affected by his heavy Transylvanian accent.

“Count.” Menace responded as politely as he could, as the Count was effectively squeezing the air out of him. Nate had arranged his powers into stages, so that his body would have time to prepare for the stress his powers induced. In the first stage, he was given acute senses, a sped-up metabolism to augment the healing process, and strength to match a body-builder. In the second stage, his powers increased exponentially, and so on. In a minute or so, Nate could move into the next stage of his powers, and so he made a desperate grasp at stalling. “How are you today?” He said, trying not show that he was in pain.

“Hungry.” The Count responded, and he slightly lifted himself from the seated position. Nate took the moment to grasp for air, and failed to realize that the Count was moving closer. By the time he had, it was too late, and the creature’s fangs pierced his neck. He howled in pain as the creature began to suck; Nate could feel the blood leaving his body, he could feel himself growing weak.

“Get off me.” Nate moaned. The Count continued to suck. Nate felt a snap inside himself. The colors of the night became more vivid above his eyes, he felt his strength return in a surge, and he could acutely feel the fangs of the Count lodged in his neck. “Get off me!” He shouted again throwing the Count off of him, onto the ground in front of him. He slowly stood, still dizzy from the blood loss, and fell atop the count. The Count made a clawing swat at him, and scraped across Nate’s arm. The Menace lifted himself into a sitting position atop the Count, hoisted his fist in the air and slammed it into the face of the beast, shattering it’s jaw, and spurting blood across the road. Nate let out a sigh, and stood up, off the beast. He pulled out his phone to call the Mutation.

“Please come pick me up.” He said, then fell onto the road, collapsing into sleep.

[ascensionstories-blog]

Menace’s insignia, worn with one eye on each side of his chest, separated by buttons running down the middle. 

[ascensionstories-blog]

Menace #1: The Death of Ultraman

“Look… I don’t really know why I’m up here. There are hundreds of people who could probably have explained how great he was better than I can. Most people out there have a story about the amazing Ultraman: how he saved their life, saved their friends, family. I do not.” Nate paused. He looked out, across the field cluttered with mourners dressed in black, holding similarly colored umbrellas to protect themselves from the rain. The funeral was planned for a rainy day, hoping to dissuade strangers from showing up, but Ultraman’s presence, even in death, was large enough to draw a sizable crowd.

The rows of chairs set up housed close friends and family of Johnathan Stacks, the only people who knew Ultraman by that name. A few superheroes littered the crowd, wearing their costumes, save the masks: a sign of respect for fallen heroes. As such, Nate’s trademark goggles hung around his neck as he spoke. His costume was more-or-less suited for a funeral, consisting of a black button down shirt with his insignia, two silver eyes, one on either side of the buttons, and a silver belt holding up a pair of black dress pants. His black boots were adorned with mud, and the fingerless gloves he wore were drenched as he often gesticulated as he spoke, reaching outside of the awning to do so. Maybe, he thought, Ultraman chose me to deliver his eulogy because of my costume coloration.

He stood on a stage a few feet from the first row of chairs, next to the erected statue of Ultraman and the coffin that stood in front of it. The statue’s presence was meant to be comforting, standing as a symbol of peace so that all might feel protected. Instead, it reeked of “Ozymandias;” it may as well have read: “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” The pouring rain drenched the statue, making the cement look dark and ominous. Nate could see news articles being written about the event in the near future, ones that would claim that even gods were crying, but he knew they weren’t. “I did know him, however briefly.” Nate continued. “He once told me that nothing good comes from sunshine. Storms create sparks.” A boom of thunder exploded in the distance, as if to emphasize his words. “He meant that calamity is necessary to create. He would, I think, look upon his own death as a positive thing. He’d say that his death was paramount for the next generation to succeed.” He waited for someone to call out against him, to contest what he had said, to attempt to obliterate the silver-lining he had constructed. No one did.

“I think — I know — his death will be remembered as a tragedy for all. People will always remember where they were the day Ultraman died. But for people who knew him, for people who knew Jonathan Stacks, they knew he was so much more than the colorful costume with the “U” insignia. He was a father, a husband, and a friend. I want to steer clear of many cliches here in this eulogy, we already know them, and that they all pertain to him. So, I’ll just say this: do not be discouraged by his death, do not see this tragedy as the end of the world. It’s just a calamity, a storm. Even in death, from death, he pushes us forward, he creates sparks. I don’t believe he can ever stop being a hero.”

Nate stepped down from the podium, allowing the conducting priest to continue the service. He walked off the stage, into the rain, and sat in the seat next to The Mutation, a hero he’d met recently through working with Ultraman. He’d yet to see him without a mask on, and wouldn’t have recognized him, save the insignia of a hooded man he wore as a patch on the shoulder of his brown, hooded jacket. Nate looked over to Ultraman’s wife, who was bravely holding back tears, and his daughter, who had come into womanhood recently herself. The rain collided hard against his skin. He tilted his head up to get a glimpse of the dark, rainy sky above him, hoping that this storm might produce a few sparks.

After the funeral there was a small reception, one that Nate felt awkward attending, having only known the man for a month before his untimely death. He looked around, noting the faces of his wife, children, and siblings; he recognized no other faces. The reception was held in a large ballroom, which was odd seeing as how the number in attendance hardly brushed the underside of fifty. The floor at the center of the room was constructed of topaz-colored tiles, the surrounding floor was covered with a black carpet. Nate wondered at how many sweet sixteens had been held in this ballroom, how many times adults had collapsed onto the floor in fits of passion. Tables had been set up around the room, the classic white plastic tables, with folding chairs at their sides. Food was promised to be serve shortly, yet no one was sitting and Nate felt he couldn’t dare to be the first, as he knew he, in all likelihood, should have refused the invitation in the first place.

“Excuse me, are you Nate Coplin?” A man, seemingly from nowhere (though probably just from the mass of people gathered in the center of the room), asked as he approached. The man was fairly well built, with a face that immediately reminded Nate of that of a jackal: he had sharp features and a regal look about his jawline, and slightly pointed ears jutting from either side of his head. He was wearing a black suit over a white shirt with a black tie, with matching pants and loafers. Nate could see the veins in his neck, one of which looked discolored, almost green against the man’s skin. He blinked his eyes, assuming he was just seeing things, or that the man was simply ill. Nate then silently cursed himself for being so guarded; he often lamented how, in this age of superheroes and villains, anyone could be a threat. “You are, aren’t you?” The man asked again.

“What?” Nate blinked out of his focused trance, looking the man in the eye. “Oh, yes, of course, yes, that’s me, I’m he.”

“You’re Menace, right?” The man asked, neglecting to lower his voice so that onlookers started to turn towards them. “I’m a huge fan.” The man gave an honest smile, and so Nate shrugged off the impertinence of shouting a hero’s identity in public, figuring that no threats would be at Ultraman’s funeral.

“Haha,” Nate forced a laugh, “yes that’s me.” He reached out and took the man’s hand shaking it twice firmly then pulling his hand back to his side. “What can I do you for? An autograph? Signed photo?” The publicity was Nate’s least favorite part of the hero gig. He felt that anonymity would help more than anything, so that he might act discretely instead of painting a target on his face. Nevertheless, the Hero Registration Act required all heroes to have their own insignia and stock photo on the official government website, so that all the common people new exactly who their heroes were and could find them should they need them.

“Oh!” The man seemed to realize that Nate was uncomfortable and began to apologize profusely. “I never do this sort of thing.” The man laughed a little at himself, then threw his hand into his pocket. “I wouldn’t have even come up to you like this, but a man outside asked me to give you something.” The man pulled a small white block of paper out of his pocket, no bigger than a Post-It note and handed it to Nate.

Nate flipped open the folded paper while asking, “The man who gave this to you, what did he look like?” He did not get an immediate answer, which didn’t bother him, as he was preoccupied with the paper. The note was written in almost perfect calligraphy, so it took Nate a few seconds to decipher it accurately. It read: Do you really think that you are safe anywhere? Nate paused, and bit his lip. He folded the note and was putting it in his pocket as he repeated his question: “Who gave you this?” He looked back and saw that the man had armed himself with a table knife, and was staring down at his hand in befuddled confusion.

“The man was wearing a top hat and an odd mask,” the man began, slowly moving the knife upwards; Nate put up a guard, anticipating a strike, but the knife just kept slowly rising past his waist, rising above his chest. “Honestly, I just wanted to get out of there so I took the letter and promised I’d give it to you.” The man was moving his arms awkwardly, as though he were not in control of his body. “I don’t know what’s going on.” The man said, his confusion turning to horror as he came under the realization that he could not stop lifting the knife, and that, aside from his arm and head, the rest of his body stood frozen in place. The knife now rest. pressing up against his neck. Nate was about to swat the knife from his hand, when someone grabbed Nate from behind and threw him backwards, onto one of the tables. He fell with a loud bang, and the table’s legs gave out, allowing him to fall another short distance.

“Fuck!” He shouted, more out of annoyance that he’d gotten got than in pain, but the pain in his back was still easily noticeable. He stood up slowly on the fallen table, seeing that the person who grabbed him also looked confused, as though she did not know why she had done it. “Alright, you’ve made your point,” he groaned, the wind having been knocked out of him, “you can come out now.” His eyes darted across the room looking for the man’s top hat or mask, but everyone was dressed so fancily that he could not discern one person’s black coat from another’s black pants. He grabbed his goggles from around his neck, lifted the strap to the middle of his head, and snapped the goggles into place. “Fine. Don't come out.” Nate said, resigned now to using his powers, however annoying the exertion might be. He felt a tiny little snap inside of him — like the sound of cracking knuckles — and everything came into focus.

He felt his power surge through him, the dull ache from the fall slowly began to fade, and he, noticing his horrible posture, made efforts to stand up straight. He could feel the wetness of his black shirt, causing it to stick to his shoulders and arms, and similarly, his gloves stuck to the palms of his hands. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up, and squared his body, digging his heels into the ground. He could see the colors of the room more distinctly now. The topaz of the floor screamed at his eyes, now immensely contrasting the black carpet that was surrounding it. The sight would have been disorienting, if not for his goggles. The shapes of the people, most of whom had gathered around, were now crisp and distinct. The slightest difference in hue was enough to tell one from the other. And there, amidst the faces in the crowed, one white mask, painted with a toothy grin and mischievous black eyes, presented itself.

Nate leapt towards the masked man, landing a few feat from him, next to the man wielding the knife. Some people backed away in confusion or fear, the masked man firmly held his ground. “What are you doing here?” Nate made efforts to square himself again, in case either the controlled man or the masked man were to suddenly attack. “What do you want?”

“Now, now.” The masked man said, stepping forward, sure to touch the shoulders of those he walked past. “Haven’t I told you to address people by name or not address them at all? You are being quite rude.” The man paused now, only a few feet between them. “I must say I do appreciate your adoption of the title I’ve given you, my little menace.”

“It seemed fitting. Why control all these people just to talk to me? Your letters not enough?” Nate eyed the controlled man next to him, nervously waiting to see if the knife was for him or the controlled man himself. The controlled man had tears running down his cheek and he was hyperventilating, which was understandable. “This doesn’t seem like a gentlemanly thing to do, sir.” He said sir in a patronizing manner, but the masked man did not seem to care, rather, he smiled underneath his mask at the boy’s use of respectful language.

“Ah, but you forgot, dear Menace, that I am the Gentleman.” The Gentleman nodded, again trying to force his own title upon the world of super-villainy. “Everything I do embodies the spirit of education, poise, grace, and sophistication.” The masked man hoisted up his cane, twirled it twice, then clicked it back down. Nate half-jokingly anticipated a tap-dance number, but decided it would not be dignified to ask. “In addition, you have yet to respond to any letter I send you.”

“You never attach a return address.” Nate replied.

“But of course, you know where to find me.” The Gentleman argued. “Nonetheless, you are unbecomingly rude.”

“But controlling people, thats not rude?” Nate was tired of the Gentleman’s scolding, his routine was very drab, and the conversations were tiring. This time, however, there was something different about the masked man. Nate knew that he never would have used his controlled minions to threaten suicide to hold a conversation; there was something more going on.

“I prefer the term ‘educating.’” The Gentleman returned.

“Look, we could converse all day. Why are you here? What do you want? And would you please let go of the hostage? We both know you aren’t going to kill him.” The controlled man’s arm began to shake erratically, the knife falling to the floor.

“Very well then, Menace.” He repeated, his voice muffled slightly by the mask, but not muffled enough to block out the annoying shrill voice he put on when disrespected. “I know that my time here is almost up anyway. If I’m not mistaken, it’s only three more minutes until you can go into stage two of your powers, and I would not like to be around for that. So I’ll leave you with this: I came here to warn you.” The Gentleman paused, only for dramatic effect. “The villains are rising now. Ultraman is gone. Your eulogy was touching, but it goes both ways. The storm for us was the past twenty years under his reign, and we have sparked. We are strong. You are weak. So be prepared, Menace, for the horrors to come. You will fail more times than you can imagine. Or, good sir, my offer to join me still stands. In any event, my time is up so I shall take my leave. Farewell, at least until you may not fare well anymore.” With that, the gentleman slowly sauntered away, as the surrounding mourners parted for him. The man who had held the knife to his throat turned slowly towards Nate.

“Menace, is this true? What are we going to do? How will we survive?” He cried at Nate, who was standing stoic in the center of the room. Nate knew that often villains made empty threats, and even more often they did this in public so that the people would be terrified. Nate, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that this time was different.

That night, the Menace slept in a peculiar spot. Somewhere in the middle of the Wharton State forest, there was an anomaly. Just under the leafy treetops, the wood had twisted and bent forming a natural, wooden cube, completely separate from the world beneath it. The animals veered from it, no birds would nest there, and it seemed entirely untouched by the surrounding world. The cube had a small opening on the bottom, that could not be noticed unless explicitly looked for, and a small hole in the top allowing in light. It smelled like the forest around it, but also musky, as though even for a forest that had stood for hundreds of years, it was ancient.

Nate was lying in the center of the wooden cube when a rush of air knocked him against the side of the west wall. Dazed, yet not annoyed, he looked up to see the White Witch staring down at him. She was fairly short, barely five feet off the ground, and was wearing, as her name suggests, all white clothing. She wore a hooded-sweatshirt three sizes too large, that fell down below her kneecaps (which she insisted looked like a cloak), with a small white skirt just peeking out under it, and white ballet shoes. She held a white wand, which seemed to be of wood twirled together, with the wood extending, separating, and reconnecting at the front end to form a prism. Her black hair hung around her neck, and she smiled at Nate.

“You know, the black hair kind of defeats the purpose of wearing all white.” He smiled and laughed, and she glared at him; her black hair was a touchy subject for her. “So, what brings you here?”

“Do you think it’s true? What the Gentleman said?” She sad down, crosslegged, across from him.

“And what if it is?” Nate said. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.” He leaned back against the wood. “But, yes, I do think that what he said was accurate.”

“What are we gonna do?” She said, trying to adopt his calm and cool manner, but failing as her voice squeaked when she spoke.

“Well, you’re going to do nothing, kid.” Nate responded, almost in an accusatory manner. “You don’t get to register as a hero for another year.” He reminded her.

“Oh, come on, you registered when you were fourteen.” She complained. “I know, I know, you were a ‘special case,’” she was sure to emphasize the word special, “but why can’t I be one too?”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so eager to join up, more than ever joining up is like a death wish.”

“I wanna help people.”

“Sure you do. You sleeping here tonight?” The question caught her off-guard, as she was ready to keep arguing. She blushed, embarrassed, and inched backwards a small amount.

“Yeah.” She said slowly. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Do you want me to stay here with you?” He asked. She nodded. “At the base of the tree like usual?” She nodded again. “Okay.” He turned an opened a side compartment of the cube, and pulled out a blanket and a pillow and tossed them to her. “You’re gonna be a great hero someday, y’know, with your powers and all.”

“Thanks, Nate.” She yawned and fell onto the pillow, pulling the blanket over her. “You will too.”

Nate slid down the opening in the cube, to the base of the tree, where he leaned against the wooden trunk. The sounds of the forest were very much awake in the night, with bugs and fireflies flying around; the area felt very separate from the world, as though even the storm of the day hadn’t been quite able to reach it. He looked down and realized he was still in costume, and laughed at himself for not bringing a change of clothes, and then wished he had a more comfortable costume, like the White Witch. “Goodnight, Courtney.” He called up to her, but she was already sound asleep. The things that kid goes through, Nate thought, looking up at the cube.

And then he was alone, under the tree. The night air was cool against his skin, and the grass felt nice against his fingers. He took a breath of the cold air in, and silently enjoyed the fact that this place was unknown to all the villains, all of everyone, except him and a few close friends. He looked around, but there were no problems to be found. The night was calm. He sighed, thinking it might be the last calm night he ever had.