by R. M. Walker
“Dammit,” I cursed under my breath.
Cats. My weakness.
I squinted as I looked up and sure enough there was a little back cat pawing at the window of the upper floor. I ducked my head low, darting around the perimeter of the crowd, sticking to the shadows below the trees in the park across the street. I edged my way around the crowd, far enough away that I could sneak into the back alley without being noticed.
With the smoke funneling out of the building, I couldn’t quite see how far up I’d need to estimate. I’d have to just make a go for it and climb. I leaped, my legs’ super strength transporting my light feminine body up to the second floor. My fingertips caught along the window and I pulled myself up easily, clawing my fingers into the brick to make handholds where needed. I coughed into my shoulder, squinting up. A few more feet and I could shatter the third story window with little effort.
I heaved myself up, punched the glass in, and dragged myself over the ledge, trying to be mindful of the shards. The smoke was a dense void of black inside the townhouse. I touched a finger lightly to my mask, cycling through one of the many setting menus. A field shot through the eye holes, protecting my eyes from the smoke.
I swatted at the smoke, feeling my way around the townhouse blindly, path hemmed in by the flames. “Mr. Mittens!” I choked. “Mr. Mittens, are you in here?”
“Meow!” he howled faintly against the roar of the flames.
“That’s good, I’m following the sound of your voice, okay? Talk to me.”
“Meeeoowwww. Meooww!”
I followed the sound to a closed door and jerked out a foot. The door went clear through the frame, sending a stream of air in with it before it smashed into the ground several feet away.
“Whoops,” I muttered. Knowing your own strength was a whole other thing for people like me.
Mr. Mittens was on the far side of the bedroom, perched on the window ledge and pawing desperately at the glass. The tongues of flame had snaked in from another entrance, and there was now a wall of fire between us.
“Yes, it’s pretty hot in here,” I called to Mr. Mittens, “but stay calm. I’m coming.”
Should’ve taken your own advice earlier, I thought, sighing as I tossed aside the furniture between myself and the fire, clearing the area as I began to gather speed. “Okay, okay Elle. You’ve got this.”
My legs carried me in a tight circle, strength morphing into speed. The speed created a vortex of air that was definitely going to fan these flames up to epic proportions the second I stopped moving. But I didn’t. Instead, I inched my circle through the red wall of flames like Moses parting that damn sea until I’d cleared it.
Now was my chance. I dove at Mr. Mittens, taking him into my arms as we spiraled through the glass window into the crowd. I heard a few shouts, and then I landed on the concrete below, rolling off of the force and landing on my feet. I looked back over my shoulder to see where the concrete pavement had sunk three inches from my landing.
Another pothole by yours truly.
“Your nine lives are still intact, Mr. Mittens,” I said, going in to scratch his head as the crowds gathered around us. He bit my hand and I dropped him like a hot potato.
“Yeah, well fuck you too,” I grumbled, watching the damn thing tear through the legs of onlookers.
The wail of the firetruck swelled and as I made to escape back into the park, something strange happened. The sound of the firetruck cut off, replaced by the sound of a slow clap. I looked around to see that everything had frozen, and I suddenly had the distinct feeling of having completed a level in a video game. The street and its people, the park and its trees, all swirled away.
“Elle McCloskey. Three minutes and seven seconds. You’re a true hero.”
I blinked a few times, trying to ground myself. I was in a room. The room was dim. As my eyes adjusted from the light of the flames, I saw that it was a grungy, concrete-filled office space with a single flickering fluorescent light above. Monochrome, dilapidated furniture lined the walls – several scraped up wooden desks, a few computers, a small television. I frowned, spinning around slowly.
The owner of the voice cleared her throat. “Over here.”
I turned to see a tall woman with a long face and a parakeet-looking pixie cut dyed six shades of peacock wiggling her fingers at me.
“Who are you, and what the hell just happened?” I asked, squinting at her.
“Easy, we hacked your mask.”
“You…”
“Yeah,” she nodded, “we hacked your mask. Even the older Ludovanti masks– there’s all sorts of digital schtuff in that baby, and we hacked it right up.”
I peeled the thing off my face, distrusting it now. “A what-mask?”
“Ludovanti. He was a designer, with the power of tech that was, like, way beyond his time. He died ages ago. His work is legendary– you can’t find those anywhere anymore.”
I stared down at the simple black mask that I’d never thought much of. This and the masquerade mask had been family heirlooms for generations. My dad had always told me that when I was older, I’d need them.
“But… why?” I asked, looking back up at the lanky woman, and realizing there was someone else in the room, tapping away at one of the computers. “Why would you want to hack me?”
“We had to make sure you passed the test, and it’s pretty unethical to put a cat in a house that we’re actually going to set on fire, amirite?”
She tossed a glance to the other person, who turned slowly in the spinny chair, staring up at me with her head resting in her hand. This second woman was a round-faced Asian in a button up with the sides of her head buzzed. She stood abruptly, two full heads shorter than the first woman, and stuck out her hand.
“Hey, I’m Gaydar. Part-time rapper, full-time feminist. Now tell me your deepest secret.”
Before I realized what was happening, I heard myself saying, “I once sent a guy to the ER when I orgasmed, and now I’m terrified of being on top.”
“Wow,” Gaydar nodded. “Okay, so that’s what we’re working with. Good to know.”
“You weren’t supposed to just ask!” Parakeet lady hissed. “That’s rude, Dari!”
“You wanted to know, right?” Dari hissed back. “You haven’t even introduced yourself! You’re rude!” Dari cleared her throat, turning to me as I tried to recover from spilling my most embarrassing secret. “I’m sorry, Elle McCloskey. You can call me Dari. I have the power of suggestion. This dufus is DesiRay and–”
“I have X-ray vision,” DesiRay said proudly. “I go by Des.”
“I like what you did there. With your name.”
“Thanks,” she said, folding one arm over the other. “What’s your super name?”
“I don’t have one,” I said. “Why am I here?” I was starting to feel uncomfortable with all the dim lighting and unconsentual secret-spilling. “And where is here, exactly?”
“This is the HQ of the Broad Squad, a team of lady superheroes aimed at fighting the injustices of gender inequality.”
I looked around again to make sure I was in the right place. A small neon sign in the shape of the Venus symbol hung canted on its hook, the arrow pointing southwest.
“We’ve been watching you,” Des said. “On Youtube, though. The Internet. Like everyone else.”
“Your MO is typically little dogs stuck underneath cars,” Dari added.
“You… know that?” I asked, feeling embarrassed.
“Oh yes, Elle. We know everything about you.” Des slapped a file down on the table.
“Well, um.” I searched for the right words. “That’s terrifying and highly invasive.”
“Oh, the government has your whole life on file, and we just hacked them, too. Heyoooo!” Des held her hand up for a high five and Dari smacked it. “What, did you think that you just paid some ancestry site to analyze your spit and they didn’t sell that shit off to the government? No, girl.” Des gave me a disapproving look. “T
he government knows about you. Once they find out about us, they never stop watching. Never.”
She picked up the folder and flipped it open, pacing dramatically. “Super strength. Manifested when you were eight years old. All good and dandy until things started going a little haywire at puberty. A little too much stress here, a little too intense of an outside stimulus there– BOOM, walls fall down, pelvises are crushed, et cetera, et cetera. This all started around the same time that your dad– also a human of super strength– remarried. Your dad was a closeted super, right? Which is how he managed to marry someone with such a strong Anti-Superhero leaning. Bet your step-mom didn’t show her true colors till he died. So cliché. Still sad to read though.”
I nodded. After my father’s death, my stepmother had wanted me to be good at normal human things, not up for the world’s strongest linebacker. It didn’t sit well with her that I could run faster than boys and lift more than boys. My place was to make a husband happy one day and be of inoffensive use to society until then. And so she forced me to cook and clean. She let my step-sisters go wild for the sole purpose of putting me on clean-up duty. I could never be sure if it was meant to tone down my strength or punish me for it, but I’d always suspected it’d been a bit of both.
My father had understood what a burden it was to be different. To offend people by not naturally conforming. He told me my strength was a gift. But strength of character, Elle. Not just the kind of strength people can see.
I kinda thought that if he’d still been alive though, he would’ve hoped I’d used my power for something a little more significant than cats and small dogs.
“What do you want from me?” I sighed. “If you haven’t already put it together, I don’t want to be a superhero. You know I only–” I waved a hand a bit helplessly “–save animals and stuff, so I’m not particularly sure what I’m qualified to do for you.”
“Dude,” Dari said. “Sticking to mundane rescue ops is smart. Less controversial, way better Yelp reviews.”
“People review us... on Yelp?”
Gaydar nodded.
“You have three qualities we’re looking for, Elle,” Des interrupted loudly. “One: you’re a woman. Two: you’re a super. And three: you know this guy.” She flipped through the papers, landing on a photo of Etienne E. Coque. “The Arc de la Patrie? It’s a device to make men hate women.”
“The Arc de la Patrie is– it’s a monument celebrating the roots of this city,” I recited, defaulting to the words I’d heard in the news and in meetings over and over.
Des clicked a remote and the small television in the corner flashed on. Coque was hurrying down the front steps on his way out of the masquerade. Reporters clamored around him, propping microphones in his face.
“How did you know that’d be on TV?” I asked.
“Do you always bring along your super suit when you go to masquerade balls?” she countered.
“Only on Saturdays,” I grumbled, turning my attention back to the TV.
“Mr. Coque, the grand opening of the Arc de la Patrie is in three days. How would you like to respond to protesters?”
“The Arc de la Patrie is what this city needs,” Coque said, in a French accent nearly as thick as his brows. “It is a homage to our traditions and roles and will further the efforts of the like-mindedness that has made this city great. We encourage everyone to come to its grand opening whether in support or not.”
“Translation, Elle: we encourage everyone to be brainwashed whether you want to be or not.” Des inclined her head at me meaningfully.
I watched Coque stomp out of frame, trying to understand how a project I’d been working on for the better part of two years could be capable of such a thing. It couldn’t be true.
“Elle,” Dari said urgently, “the Arc isn’t just a building. It’s a machine. The walls operate as a frame for an invisible field. As soon as men pass through the Arc, they will hate their mothers, sisters, and daughters. We all know that’s a problematic way to start the conversation on how men should relate to women– but, okay–” Dari was talking with her hands now, emphatic “–creating fissures in men’s relationships with the women in their lives is just the beginning of mass chaos. Imagine a Metroshire where men are alienated from our personhood! Incapable of love. Incapable of partnership. Incapable of respect. The bonds between men and women as a species are totally severed. We are looking at something that’s going to destroy humanity.”
“Okay, now hold on a minute,” I said. “This is all just a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“Of course it’s ridiculous!” Des threw her hands up. “Everything about inequality is ridiculous!”
“That’s not– That’s not what I meant. I just don’t see how this can be real. How you can expect me to risk my job on information that sounds that crazy?”
“We live in a world where you can smash a car with your fist, and you want to use that card right now?”
I shrugged. “I’m sorry, Des.”
Her look of irritation melted away into something rawer: defeat. It tugged at my heartstrings. “Let me think about it, okay? I just need to wrap my brain around this whole thing– the existence of super leagues, and evil billionaires who actually want to destroy society. It’s just a lot, okay? Let me sleep on it.”
Des nodded, not making eye contact with me, and Dari, looking equally despondent with her gaze averted and lips pinched together, lead me to the door.
Chapter Three
It was hard to look inconspicuous darting around a fancy building in straight up spandex, but I tried.
I ran up the steps of the venue at double speed, hoping none of the people I could hear meandering to the exit from the were about to walk out on me in ninja mode. When I got to the top of the steps, I saw that my masquerade mask was gone. I leaned over the balcony and dug around in the bushes. “Shit,” I muttered. Why’d I been so careless to leave a family heirloom right here on a public stoop?
I quickly changed back into my ball gown behind a tree and hailed a cab. As we drove through midtown and past the large arched silhouette of the Arc de la Patrie, I sighed softly, trying not to give in to the lousiness I felt. I glanced down at my watch, feeling like six days had gone by instead of a few hours. It was well past bedtime, and with a lost mask, high stakes, and no sex, tonight was turning out to be a real bummer.
* * *
My wrists were tied to the bedposts. Under normal circumstances, I would have panicked. But also under normal circumstances, my panic would’ve been as short-lived as the restraints.
I sensed that this was not real life. I was sure I was having one of my lucid dreams again, the ones where I sexed freely and broke nothing. In this particular moment, I didn’t mind feeling weak. Normal.
I twisted my wrists, testing the boundaries of my movement. Whoever had tied me up hadn’t given me much leeway. I didn’t hate it.
“You like being tied up, don’t you?” he said.
My eyes found the man, leaning against the wall of what I thought might, in dream-logic, constitute my bedroom, his arms folded. He was still masked the way I remembered him, but those blue eyes shone even brighter in the dream than they had at the masquerade. He was watching me as I writhed subtly against my restraints, his eyes trained on the spot where my legs were opened wide to expose me. I gazed down at my body to see I was still wearing a pair of thin lace panties. How unfortunate.
He moved into the light and my eyes roamed over him, zeroing in on the bulge in his pants. Something just below my stomach lurched, desperate for his touch. I swallowed thickly, the lust careening through me.
“Get over here before I wake up,” I rasped. “But first, take off your clothes.”
His lips quirked in a smile and he reached large hands up to his tie. I watched him untie it slowly, feeling every second that his body wasn’t on mine. He undressed at sloth speed, knowing every second was a tease. His white shirt fell off his shoulders, his happy trail peeked up over the
edge of his pants where they sat low on his hips. I wanted to scream.
“Hurry up,” I gasped.
“So impatient,” he taunted me. “You’ll wait there until I’m ready to touch you.”
I don’t know what it was about the commanding way he spoke, but it lit my body up. The denial, the stunning male body that was just out of reach – the knowing, that he could make me wait as long as he wanted and do whatever he chose to when he was ready.
My pussy was slick with my want. Impatience raged through me. I pulled against my restraints as I reached a free toe out to graze him, but I couldn’t quite reach.
“You want me?” he asked, the smile now as full-blown as the erection that sprung forward as his pants dropped.
“Understatement,” I managed, taking in his size. He was long and thick, his cock slightly curved in a way that I knew would hit that powerful well inside me if he flipped me over and entered.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, eyes trained on the crotch of my panties. He reached out, sweeping a finger along the soaked fabric. His touch rolled over my clit, and my hips pressed up into him. “I wonder why that is.”
“You just want me to stroke your ego,” I whispered. “I will, but you’re gonna have to stroke me back.” I took my chance, swinging my ankles around his neck in a headlock and drawing him down to me so that he couldn’t use his distance to tease me anymore.
“Deal,” he said, moving toward me readily. He cupped me between the thighs, the fabric playing border control to his fingers. His touch tickled along the hem of my underwear.
“The work party was already taboo, but I guess my subconscious didn’t get enough,” I said softly, thoughts hard pressed to find structure as his touch distracted me.
“Your subconscious didn’t get enough of me, Elle. And now it wants you to surrender control.”
“Is that bad?” I wondered aloud to the masked stranger in my bed. My lust had so thoroughly hooked itself into the idea of having him that if he didn’t take me soon, I was pretty sure my new superpower was going to be spontaneous combustion.