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Jul 9, 2012

Traitor

“Bang. You get a Secret Service bullet to the temple.” I say, holding my fingers to the kid’s ear removing him from a shoulder lock. He’s sweaty and kind of big for his age, but he can’t be much older than I was when I joined up.

Explosion. Arrow to the heart. Laser to the torso. Psychic alien mind melt. Stab to the chest. Fall from a cliff.

Each recruit has died today. And tomorrow they’ll die some more.

The alarm blares. It’s the loudest way to call a meeting, but Red Eye and Rush love it. Phantom Eye used to have a swank corporate job. He’s the master of the Power Point presentation. By the end of the last meeting, even I was among the unanimous voting “aye”, and now we’re stuck with a howl as whiney as a car alarm and loud enough to make our few new recruits jumpy.

“You’ll pick up here tomorrow with The Synapse. Give him hell,” I say, and toss a towel toward bullet-to-the-temple. The six next to him start packing up, but he doesn’t move.

“That’s not how it happens,” he grimaces. He’s been tested. A lot of them have. Since the Machine was invented, there’s been a boom on both sides of the fence. That’s what happens when people are allowed to find out how they bite it in advance. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a fiery explosion or after a slow dance with Lady Cancer (not affiliated with the Syndicate of Diabolical Activity). Some want to go out a hero. Some just want to go out. The latter is usually how we get our new recruits.

“Listen. The cards are too vague. They’ve tripped up thousands before,” I start, and I haven’t got much time to mince words. “I don’t care how it’s supposed to happen. We’re a team. Your fuck-up in one area can ruin the whole operation and cost the life of one of your new friends here. You need contingency plans for every scenario. Next time I want to see some versatility. From all of you.”

I scan the group with a meaningful look before I turn to go, but it’s a little too late. Two of the three girls and one of the boys are already looking past me. “You’re killing me, Schroeder,” I think loudly. He caught that last bit, I can feel it. He’s already next to me, clapping me hard on the shoulder.

“Killing you? Softly, maybe. It’s not like I asked anyone to give you hell today. Some of these kids are real powerhouses! If you want me knocked off, Stray, come at me yourself,” He says, flashing a smile at the recruits and winking beneath a domino mask as we walk off. They eat it up.

“That’s another thing. On Tuesday you’ll learn how to block psychic opponents from accessing your thoughts. It’s important,” I say over my shoulder.

He’d been standing by the hallway entrance, peeking in since Grodd knows when. The teen recruits love him, with his well-tailored green suit pants and Wingtips and pop culture quips. Schroeder Synapse and his winning smile are only things that put us ahead of other villainous organizations in terms of teen appeal. We don’t have the uniforms, the muscle, the shiny cars or the Doom’s Day device that backs up groups like Every Villain in League or Malevolence: The Experience. We have a few handfuls of misplaced eccentrics who really love robbing petty cash drawers and playing gloried pranks in tight outfits. Our headlines involve laser sharks at the beach, kitten bombs, and the notorious nation-wide laxative crisis of ‘09.

When the Machine of Death was invented, it was almost a weight off of some of our shoulders. All the trouble in our worlds was wrapped up in a few letters in Times New Roman font on a tiny slip of paper. A gift wrapped neatly, straight from the mechanical god with a name more menacing than any of our own. Why not try to give some of that trouble back?

***

“You could have gone on ahead,” I say, shoving him gently as the elevator hit the basement floor.

“And miss the show? You almost brought a tear to my eye back there. Sounded just like your old man, Nadia,” he laughed. “I thought you were going to launch into something on the strength of the human spirit and bringing justice to a corrupt world. Did you arch him this week? Does he recognize you yet?,” he asked, grinning wider and wider.

I elbowed him as we reached the round table, or really, the rectangle table. The rectable. Had it been a round table, our group wouldn’t nearly look so sparse. The Second Hand had made it early as usual, so busy playing around with her cell phone that the liberty rolls in her hair bounced to the rhythm of her keystrokes. Phantasmagoric had been napping across from her, fading in and out until Schroeder yanked out two chairs near him telepathically. He snorted.

“Did I sleep through the meeting or are the Bobbsey twins on time today?” Phanta asked no one in particular, causing Rush to peek up from whatever he was working on near the boss’ seat. On a good day, any two of us were “the Bobbsey twins”, which made things a little odd for Red Eye and Rush, whose relationship went a little beyond brotherly love.

“Oh, it’s Schrodinger and his cat,” Rush announced, smiling toward the storage door as Red Eye arrived holding what looked like a giant world map stolen from a school.

“What is that?,” I asked.

“A world map,” Rush responded, unfurling it. “We’re using the blank side with the projector I’m fixing up.”

“Have you seen Shadow Girl or Sinister Burn?” Red Eye grunted, evening out the map on some hooks on the wall.

“They were on the third floor last I checked, listening to some iPod The Burn ganked off a hipster downtown,” Schroeder hesitated. “I wouldn’t bother them.”

“Oh fuck my life, Synapse,” Red said, letting the map tilt, his good eye going white with heat. “Why the hell didn’t you stop them? The last thing we need is an unwanted little miracle from those two idiots.”

“Relax,” Schroeder sat up straight in his chair. “Burn just got his death slip. That’s it. He’s a little shook up.”

The room went silent. Second Hand put her phone down. “Jiminy Cricket,” she murmured, “he didn’t even mention it. Do you know what he got? I can go back and tell him not t--”

“He didn’t say, Hand. Look, he’s just bummed. We were all bummed the day we got ours.”

“Well, who told him to do it?” Phanta said a little too loudly, pinching one end of his graying mustache with thumb and forefinger. “All he’s doin’ is givin’ himself a headache. I’ve never gone near that hunk o’ tin and I sleep fine at night.”

“It’s not that simple,” interjects Rush, wiping some sweat from his brow. “And it’s too late anyway. We can’t do anything about it.” He flicks the projector on. Second Hand opens her mouth to speak.

“We can’t do anything about it,” he repeats slowly, with emphasis. “Not now, at least.”

With the room quiet again, we could hear the elevator. We tensed. Those leaning back in their seats sat up. Duke Dastardly’s heels clicked coldly against the floor as he made his entrance. I wouldn’t say he’s a man who needs to be fashionably late, but he likes to play the part. To be fair, it keeps things exciting.

He turned the corner, shoulders back, cape trailing him. Schroeder adjusts his vest. I press the area around my eyes, smoothing out the mask. Phanta makes his haggard face a blank canvas. Second Hand’s phone is nowhere to be found. In her gloved hand she’s got a time piece and her expression is severe. Rush zoomed into a seat while I was blinking. His eyes are on Red Eye’s as Duke Dastardly makes his way to the head of the table, who is holding the projector’s wired clicker like it’s the trigger to a self-destruct button. (And who know, it might be.)

“Where is Shadow Girl and her insufferable cohort?” he demands, in an accent no one can really place. It was decided about a year ago that his accent was either lifted from years of movies with American stars pretending to be European or a clever ploy that kept his identity a secret.

“I’ll get them,” I volunteer, breaking my fifteen minute silence. I don’t wait for an answer. I hit the stairs instead of the elevator to make it look like I’m aiming for speed. Really, it’s just that waiting for the elevator back up sort of ruins the exit. And he won’t get to business until all of us are there. I round the corner onto the third floor and nearly trip over Burn’s leg. His pricey jeans and so-tacky-they’re-untacky sneakers are all I can see for a good second until I catch my balance on a banister. One of Shadow Girl’s dark projections nearly throttles me.

“Stray, god damn it, either wear shoes that make noise or learn not to to surprise people with powers,” she lectured, making one of her shadows release me. The first shadow was patting Burn on the shoulder. The second was now picking up a tiny powdered doughnut from the cheap corner store pack on the floor and trying put it into Burn’s pursed lips. He was a powder-covered mess staring into space on the staircase, like an Urban Outfitters ad brought to life. His vintage tee, a stark contrast to Shadow Girl’s pretty by-the-book costume, was wet with tears. He had one ear bud hooked to his ear, an old R.E.M. song at maximum volume. Shadow Girl is glaring at me. This isn’t the time to bust his chops or turn one of his daily “sick burns” on him.

“Hey uh...so I heard you took a trip to the Machine. Welcome to the club, Burny...” I trailed off. “It’s not...so bad.” He was stony. For a while it seemed he didn’t hear me and I was about to make my way downstairs again, when he passed a thin card my way, holding it out to no one in particular. I took it. “SELF-COMBUSTION” it shouted.

I forced a chuckle. “This isn’t so bad, Burn! You could go out at a ripe old age, knowing your powers! Shadow’s got you all worked up over nothing!”

She smiles and assumes the voice of a kindergarten teacher. “Yeah, I tried to tell him! It’s nothing! It’s like getting ‘natural causes’ for a guy like you!”

He gave us both a hateful look.

“Well, not exactly, but you know...At least you didn’t get ‘killed by bears’ like some people,” I replied. Met with silence, I pointed to myself. “This chick!”

“Liar,” he finally stated.

“Scout’s honor,” I reply.

“C’mon, Stray. I always knew you were unbearable, but this is inPAWsible,” he said, sounding satisfied.

“Sinister burn!” Shadow Girl grinned, her dark twins offering Burn “mad props”.

“Let’s go,” I say, handing him the card. “If we’re not downstairs soon, Duke Dastardly will find a way to mount flamethrowers on bears and end us both. He lives for a challenge.”

***

The meeting doesn’t go well, not for the few of us who would find it far more convenient to walk straight up to a precinct and turn ourselves in. Duke isn’t satisfied with retail stores and banks. We’re not making a name for ourselves and we’re not getting the big money. He’s not wrong. The Syndicate of Diabolical Activity hasn’t exactly struck terror into the hearts of men. The market’s oversaturated with costumed crusaders.

“We need more than petty pranks! We need to show hero and villain alike what they’re up against! The world will quake in fear when it hears that The Syndicate of Diabolical Activity is near, faster and smarter than their golden gods!,” he shouted, as Red Eye clicked over to a slide of The Global Defenders striking a pose in front of the United Nations. The American flag was positioned carefully behind Mr. Amazing’s winning smile. On his left was The Gentleman Wednesday decked in all black and brandishing a hilariously thick mustache. The Mighty Madam stands taller than both of them, frozen in a stare that’s both intimidating and solemn. Both White Fox and Fae are still members in this picture. They hadn’t quit yet. Or died. It’s hard to keep track of which Defenders are still around, especially the women, but by the looks of it, this photo was taken in the 90s. It’s definitely not the current line-up.

The next slide is the same image as the first, vandalized. Everyone’s got cartoonish “x” eyes and a mustache except The Gentleman Wednesday.

“Who’s the little boy next to The Gent?,” Schroeder asked, hand to mouth, barely covering his laughter. I kicked him in the shin beneath the rectable. Hard. Red Eye shrugged and skipped to the next slide.

The plan was simple, in theory: Get past security in the Defenders’ first headquarters, which has been converted into a museum, hack the area of the old database that holds intel on their enemies, lord the information over some old villains for a profit.

The database even has a name and I cringe at its memory. The Gent calls it The Rolodex of Crime.

I’m tense as Duke Dastardly goes over the details. It’s possible, in theory. Phantasmagoric can become invisible on command. Rush can speed past anything. Schroeder can plant thoughts. Shadow Girl can trail anyone she wants with her shadow clones. Red Eye and I do well with computers. The Sinister Burn can start a fire as a distraction. If it all goes wrong, which it will, Second Hand can turn back the clock for us. She can’t pause it, but she can go back and forth.

“What exactly makes you think their old computer even works? It’s probably a shell,” Red Eye said.

“If it’s a shell we cut our losses,” the Duke replied. “We have Hand do her thing. How long can they put us away for tampering with a fake computer anyway?”

“A while” was probably the answer.

***

By the time we called the meeting to a close I was on edge. Why couldn’t we just find a way to weaponize another animal or steal the Creped Crusader’s inventory?

Schroeder usually finds us free drinks and food at this hour, either by flirting with the wait staff or moving things around in their minds like furniture. Today I’ve opted out. He is their cousin, boyfriend, son, or brother. Every day he is someone new to a stranger. His abilities are a small conciliatory gift from the powers that be, I think, for what he lost as a kid. Before the Machine of Death, there was just Death, as scary and unpredictable as it is today. Looming over our shoulders, dividing people and pulling them together where they didn’t usually belong.

If not for Death I wouldn’t have met Schroeder. Or left him.

I headed to the training room instead of the bars with him. Constant maintenance and vigilance. Inebriation leads to sloppy work. The mantras run through my mind like automated messages as I hit the punching bag. They’re comfortable and haunting, like ghost costumes made of old blankets. Like the crisp little card that Burn got.

These are the things The Gentleman Wednesday taught me before I submitted to the Machine’s needle, along with everything I needed to know about the old Global Defenders. I am the second Kid Friday, and the first female sidekick of a member, though no one would have ever guessed besides Schroeder. I am number two in a line of like twenty at this point, if the hero gossip rags are anything to go by.

The Gentleman Wednesday was my hero. When he took me in I cut my hair as short as the original Friday’s. With the mask on, there wasn’t much of a difference. One hyperactive costumed kid out in the middle of the night is about as troublesome as another, I guess, and I relished it. What was gender worth in comparison to every adventure and gadget I’ve ever had? I had paid the price long before The Gent even knew who I was. My parents, like Schroeder’s, were gone. What did I care if some punks thought a little boy was punching them in the face? I saved the day. I had a new family.

The Machine was invented the year I turned fifteen. The device looked like a very sterile gumball machine and became about as common as one overnight. My friends had gotten their death predictions earlier than they’d gotten their ears pierced. The Gent forbade it, as well as about half the super hero community. The Defenders had not even considered it, some going so far as to call a threat to society at large.

They weren’t wrong. It wasn’t a masked criminal or politician the people feared now. Those who live their lives looking over their shoulder for CAR, STAIRCASE, COLD, NEEDLE, VIRUS, ORGAN FAILURE, or any clever variation thereof started looking for their cause of death head on. Fear brought out the extremes in people. While some spent all their time and money hoarding up all the life they had left, others got busy spending it.

And the Machine was more popular than ever.

Two years later, 43% of the European League of Crisis Stoppers was taken out by an explosion directly within their headquarters, down in the research lab. A few of their families, thirsty for justice and vengeance, had their bodies tested by the Machine of Death posthumously. There was no ploy against them or any of their members this time around. “RESEARCH LAB EXPLOSION” each card said. When push came to shove and all of the deceased were tested, the results were all the same. A preventable accident.

Within six months, there was a Machine of Death at every headquarter, including the Defenders’ new H.Q. downtown. The test was now mandatory for new members and teens signing up for the Junior Defenders, of which I’d been slated to lead after years under The Gent’s wing.

“Whatever the Machine says, it doesn’t affect your performance, am I clear?,” The Gent said early the morning of the ceremony for the newly selected Junior Defenders. I’d been up starching my new uniform and cape for hours. The collar couldn’t have been more stiff if it was hit with a beam of petrification.

“Clear as crystal,” I said, beaming at my own reflection in the mirror. My own league.

“Citizens first,” he instructed, waiting for my repeat. My own Fridaymobile.

“Citizens first,” I repeated after a pause, admiring my ponytail and feeling like a complete lady with my subtle, yet kissable Dr. Pepper lip balm on. Yes, I wasn’t just the Girl Friday today. I was the Woman Friday.

“Remember that you’re a leader, cielo. There is no room for doubt, mumbling, or selfishness,” he added, well-aware that I was only half there.

“I’ll be just like you, Gent,” I promised. “Terrifying.”

“Atta girl,” he replied, as our maid entered the room with a long brown case. He took it and held it out for me to open.

Inside was a Spadroon with an engraved hilt, the fanciest sword I’d ever seen, nestled comfortably with a new sheath.

“Leave it at the Defenders’ Tower unless you’re fighting something that definitely doesn’t have a soul like robots,” he said as I took it out to strike some extreme poses. “I don’t want my name in the paper, associated with a stab happy fool. Remember--”

“Aliens have souls. Cyborgs have souls,” I cut him off, finishing the thought. You’d be surprised how many times that comes up.

There are a lot of former sidekicks who regret donning the mask. Who, exposed to the underbelly of society, got more than a little shaken up. Life is hard. The rich and white don’t usually learn that too well. We’re privileged, most heroes. We’ve got gadgets and costumes and free time. The sidekicks who stick are usually the ones who can stomach what some people experience every day.

Memories like these are a double-edged sword. In front of a teeming crowd of heroes in Induction Hall, I removed a glove and pricked my finger beneath the Machines needle, like three had done before me, all smiling. Mr. Amazing nodded with approval. As the card dropped down, a sinking feeling reached my gut. I reached for it, fumbled, and picked it up.

“TRAITOR,” it accused. Seven letters. It was as though I had said the worst swear word in a room full of grandmothers.

I should have destroyed the machine right there in front of the crowd. I should have shown them how easily a mortal could destroy their god. Instead, I ran. I left town with Schroeder, who escaped foster care the year before. It was decided unanimously that I was too much of a threat to others. The heroes that had lined up their boys to meet the polite little Girl Friday from down the league now side-eyed me like a pariah.

The Gentleman Friday didn’t speak to me for three months and there was no sign that he would. He holed up in his study and went on patrol by himself.

I left a note and the sword with the maid and packed my bags.

He was right. The Machine didn’t change my performance. It changed the whole fucking play.

***

Two nights after Duke Dastardly’s slide show I’m still sore from my time in the training room. It maybe doesn’t help that I’m in a cramped van held invisible by whatever it is that keeps Phanta working. He’s straining in a way that’s less than pleasant to look at. Shadow Girl (or at least part of her) and Rush have gone ahead and still aren’t back.

There’s noise on the two-way and Red Eye responds. “You all right out there?,” he asks.

“I’m past security, but there are two guards. Have Schroeder take them and the cameras out so you computer nerds can get in,” Rush whispers.

“Wait, I can’t control electricity,” Schroeder responds.

“Seriously?,” Red Eye asks. “He can’t control electricity,” he murmurs into the two-way.

“Really?,” says Rush. “I thought that was one of his, you know, mental things.”

I take the radio away from Red. “There’s a security room in the museum. For security guards. There are buttons corresponding to each camera. They should be labeled. Turn them off.”

There’s radio silence for ten minutes. When we get confirmation from Rush, Schroeder sneaks out. He’s cloaked by Phanta until he’s within eye’s sight of the guards. It takes almost nothing for him to convince them that a nap sounds much better than tasing him. I get out of the van on his signal, followed by Red Eye. I look like a burglar and feel like one until we’re in.

There’s something about the splendor of a museum. Even Red Eye’s paused next to me, soaking in the grandeur of it all. The Global Defenders are literally larger than life here. I’ve seen dinosaur displays smaller than these statues. My boots make a satisfying sound on the marble floor. Schroeder’s claps me hard on the shoulder, gleeful. I sneaked him in once when we were kids, before this place got the tourist treatment.

The activity center to our left was once a training room. The Star Room that maps the courses some of the most famous intergalactic heroes have traveled and marks the planets they called home was once the observatory. The Mighty Madam’s Feats of Strength hall was another training room. The Cafeteria was once a cafeteria.

The museum aspect of the place really has made it more interesting. Security’s also been downgraded a little. Or so I thought.

Schroeder gives the velvet rope an affectionate rub and hops over it to court a life-size display of White Fox before I can stop him. An alarm not unlike our own back at the lair starts blaring and a laser grid bounces off the bronze of the statues and everything that surrounds them.

“Stock still, both of you, now!,” whispers Red Eye, his hands raised in the air is if waiting for gunfire, his face giving Phanta’s back at the van a run for its money.

Rush is gone and in seconds the alarm stops and all of the lights, including the few that were on in the displays and left around for security go off.

“What the hell did you do?,” I asked.

“I unplugged it,” he said.

“Unplugged what?,” Red replies, lowering his arms.

“The entire museum. Everything I could get my hands on,” he admits, taking a small flashlight off of his utility belt.

I’m rubbing my temple. “The database should be on the computer downstairs, right? Let’s just do this so we can get out of here.”

Part of this mission is already theoretically ruined. That alarm, however brief, must have tipped off someone. Or the sudden loss of power. Downstairs there are three different kinds of museums and an art exhibit featuring work inspired by The Global Defenders. There is no computer. Schroeder checks a floor map.

“It’s in the Museum of Solitude,” he says, and before I can ask what the hell that is we’re off toward what used to be Mr. Amazing’s glass green house, now decked up with pensive looking memorabilia and a “seat of contemplation” that I don’t remember ever existing. In the corner was the mammoth computer, the size of a pipe organ, surrounded by huge screens.

“This is it,” I think, heading toward computer’s familiar buttons. “I’m as much of a TRAITOR as the card says I am.” It’s not a display. It’s a real working computer.

It’s a real computer whose buttons have been stripped and replaced, simplified into big jelly-like keys.

Red’s radio goes off. It’s Second Hand. “Um, guys, Phanta couldn’t hold it. I’d get out of there soon if I was you,” she says nervously.

Correction: half of our mission has failed. When we round everyone up tonight, Second Hand can do her time thing. For now I try the new keys, hoping the computer hasn’t been upgrades so thoroughly that I’m unfamiliar with the technology. There’s a cheerful little noise and all the screens light up at once, displaying pixelated versions of the entire Defenders team. I freeze. Red Eye is behind me

“They’re games,” I murmur slamming down on the keys.

“What?,” he asks.

“They’re motherfucking children’s games! Educational games! This thing is a toy,” I shout.

This mission is a complete bust. “The Mighty Madam’s Math Mystery” flashes its title screen. It can’t get worse.

“Let’s just move,” says Schroeder. The lights go on and there’s a crash heard, glass falling from the ceiling. Mr. Amazing himself flies down, his hair frosted with grey.

“I knew the Syndicate of Diabolical Activity was nosing around this wholesome establishment! Here to ruin this museum for all the children, you fiends? Here to destroy their innocence with your lewd pranks?,” he booms.

“No--,” Red starts, as The Yellow Light, Maestro Machismo, and The Gentleman Wednesday and his new sidekick barreled through the roof, causing a hail of new glass. He finishes his sentence by drawing a gun and heating up his eye instead.

“We dealt with your friends already,” The Yellow Light declares. “Give up.”

“Is this really necessary?,” I shout, but it’s too late. Red Eye singes Mr. Amazing’s perfectly sculpted chest as Rush speeds towards the titan throwing everything he’s got at him. Schroeder manipulates The Yellow Light into choking himself with his own themed projection of yellow light matter. The Gent is actually too busy scolding him to give me any mind and it’s Friday III or IV that comes at me, fists flying. Maestro fades away and I’m reminded that Phanta couldn’t keep the van invisible for more than 20 minutes.

This Friday is 13 at most, but nearly as tall as I am. He’s blond and white and his fancy updated uniform looks ridiculous. I’m insulted. I twist his arm behind his back, unsheathe the sword at his side and hold it up to his neck. I couldn’t be trusted to fight aliens with this thing, but the brat gets to take it everywhere. “Everyone stop,” I say. Then repeat.

“Jesus Christ, Gent, I have your sidekick here and I’m gonna off him. You’d better hope he didn’t draw ‘TEST A BITCH’S PATIENCE FOR TOO LONG’ from The Machine,” I shout.

“Let the boy go and surrender, harpy. I’ve no time for your games!,” he says, distracted long enough to let his Yellow friend continue choking.

“You seriously don’t recognize her?,” Schroeder pauses, and The Yellow Light sucks in all the air he can.

“I recognize her as a vandal, perhaps!” he says, with a laugh. “And now a coward who threatens children!”

The kid snickers irreverently at his mentor’s words. “You tell her, boss,” he says. Mr. Amazing is charging up his eye lasers himself, ready to give Red some of what he’s dished out. He can’t catch Rush, but even stock still as Rush attacks him, the speedster is taking some damage. Mr. Amazing can take bullets. He can take almost anything. I nick the kid’s skin. “I’m not kidding,” I bluff. Mr. Amazing stops. It occurs to me that they’re waiting for Maestro to get me from behind. He hasn’t. I dig a little deeper. I break skin.

Schroeder goes back to force choking Yellow. “He seriously doesn’t recognize you?,” he shoots back at me. “She is literally wearing the same mask she used to in another color. You have got to be kidding me,” he says to The Gent.

I ignore him and address the rest of the room. “Listen, we’ve got two of your weaker pals. I say you maybe let us go. I mean, we really haven’t broken anything.”

“You guys made that hole,” Red Eye points out, a gun semi-trained on The Gent and an eye on Mr. Amazing, who actually looks like he’s bruising.

Something’s wrong. Something other than this entire scene. The Gent’s not casting a shadow. I toss the kid to the ground and aim the sword just beyond The Gent’s head, rushing him. It doesn’t hit him. It clatters against the glass wall. My imagination. The other Friday scrambles to retrieve it.

“Nadia, what the hell?,” yells Schroeder, stopping The Gent from laying one right into my face.

“Friday?,” he whispers. I face him and so does Jr. The air moves strangely behind him. I can’t read the look on his face. I had been waiting for this moment, and now that it’s here nothing really looks like I want it to. Not even my face. I look so angry. I am so angry.

No one moves. They have to bring me in now. My card is enough to put me away for a long time, but it’s the Gent’s call. I gesture toward Jr.’s scabbard and he hands me the sword by its hilt. It’s mine. He knows it. The kid’s not so terrible.

The Gent slowly reaches out a hand to cup my face, but I draw back in one fluid motion and thrust the sword again. My first real kill. Traitor.

“Jesus Chri--,” I can hear Red start, but the Maestro’s screams cut him off. He’s visible and I’ve got him deep in the shoulder. Not quite my first kill. He struggles, but I’ve got him on the ground. Everyone in the room turns on us and he’s flailing. His left hand swings his dagger back and forth like a mad snake. He gets me twice in the leg and once on my lower stomach as I raise the Spadroon to finish him. He intended those wounds for The Gentleman Friday. I hear a sickening pop in his skull and he goes limp. Schroeder’s eyes are glowing in a way I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t need to read my mind to know what’s happened. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and this is his first kill, as a hero. He looks so sad. Mr. Amazing and Rush are shouting about an antidote that doesn’t exist, but it’s muffled.

I stand and hold the sword out for the next Friday, which he takes. There’s a lot I want to say. There’s a lot I want to hear. I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life, I realize. My vision tunnels and it feels like I’m looking at the sky through a telescope. When I turn to Schroeder, his eyes are normal again. So green and wet, like grass. He’s sobbing. I want to say “you’re killing me, Schroeder,” but I’m not sure how much of it comes out.

#more old drafts #short story #superheroes #Traitor

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