Hopefuls (Book 1): The Private Life of Jane Maxwell

by Jenn Gott

  “Where are we going?” Jane asked as she trailed behind him like a puppy on a leash. Her Converse caught on the sidewalk, and she tripped against his back.

  She was in no mood for mysteries and surprises today: the latest issue of Hopefuls was out, but the reviews were getting buried beneath the news of her firing. Maybe Jane should have been pleased by that—let those bastards at QZero burn, let the beginning of their most epic story arc get swept away and ignored under the onslaught of a headline that would flare and then die out like a flashbang—but her heart ached over it just the same. This was her story, and it was getting ignored by a mess of her own creation.

  Cal didn’t answer her question. He hailed a taxi at the corner of State Street and Bellwood Boulevard, ushering Jane inside as if she was Us Weekly’s favorite popstar of the month and the paparazzi were hot on her tail. Jane fell into the cab, her elbow clonking against the opposite door as she scooted over to make room. Cal leaned forward, whispering directions to the cab driver, and when he sat back, he wouldn’t look at Jane. His attention kept flying to the passing rooftops, the deepening shadows of every alley. Jane saw their little cab as if from outside, the yellow of the roof drawn as the only splash of color in an otherwise dark panel of black and gray and off-white cars packed thickly around them. You’d see Cal’s alert face through the window next, though Jane would have added a smattering of raindrops on the glass to throw just enough shadow on his perfect cheekbones.

  For the first time, Jane wondered what she was even doing here. There were so many things that she should be taking care of right now. All afternoon, she’d poured over spreadsheets of her finances, trying to figure out how to make things work until she could get a new job lined up. Or maybe she should try her hand at freelancing again? Though that idea left a sick knot in her stomach—the uncertainty of her next paycheck, the demands of fussy clients. She’d done it before, and been so happy to shed that life when she landed her job at QZero. Maybe she could try Kickstarter or Patreon, but honestly she had no idea where to even start with those. Plus, her greatest ideas didn’t belong to her anymore, legally. Jane frowned, adjusting her glasses as she stared absently out the window of the cab.

  They stopped in the heart of midtown. Tall buildings crowded thick around them, like Jane was a mouse standing underneath the trees of an ancient forest. She stood in the dying sunlight, reflected yellow-orange off the building in front of her, and pushed up the already rolled sleeves of her shirt. Jane had been wearing the same style for so long that it had gone out of fashion and come back around again: plain jeans, slightly baggy through the legs, a camisole or graphic tee with an open plaid shirt layered like a jacket over it. In the world of artists, she blended in fine, but here in the financial distinct, the difference was as strong as good scotch.

  Cal came around, taking her by the elbow. “This way.” He led her through a sea of monochromatic suits, sharp lines and sharper glares. Everything here was reflective: the buildings, the black sports cars, the leather handbags, the phones and smartwatches winking at them from every direction.

  They entered a high-rise that Jane had never been to before. It turned out to be a hotel, the lobby full of lawyers and execubots, of brokers and investors. Jane groaned inwardly. Cal’s favorite place to pick up women was a hotel bar—why bother with the local flavor, he liked to say, when you could have the continental breakfast?—and now it all made sense to her. The mystery, the secrecy; Jane would never have agreed to come with him, not if he had told her the truth.

  Jane stopped walking, but Cal’s grip on her arm jerked her forward. “Cal,” Jane said. She kept trying to backstep, to get him to slow down. “Cal, come on. I’m not in the mood for this.”

  Cal stopped, but only because they’d reached the elevators. He raised an eyebrow at her. “ ‘This’?”

  “Yeah,” Jane said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I mean, I know you guys think you’re being helpful, and everyone keeps telling me that I need to get back out there and meet new people, but it’s just . . . I’m not . . .” She paused, taking a shuddered breath. God, this really wasn’t the day for their meddling. “I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

  Cal was just looking at her, his face steady. Jane couldn’t meet his eyes. She kept looking, instead, at his sunglasses, folded up and hooked on the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Her own reflection gazed back at her, distorted like a fun-house mirror. Why did everyone insist that she had to move on? It had only been a year. And a half.

  Cal’s hand slid from where he’d been holding her elbow, up to a comforting grip on her shoulder. He gave her a light squeeze. “Hey, Main Jane. I promise you, that’s not what this is about.”

  Jane made herself nod. “Okay,” she said, the most that she could get through her closed-up throat. She was hugging herself without meaning to. A suit came to stand beside them, and a flare of self-consciousness burned through Jane. Her face was warm, probably a little blotchy. She turned away from the suit as the elevator doors clunked softly open.

  People shuffled out, people shuffled in. Cal had released his hold on her, but he still kept her close as they settled in. He pressed the button for the top floor, and Jane raised her eyebrows at this, but said nothing.

  At the twenty-third floor, the last of the other passengers got off. A blond woman in a flawlessly tight white dress, her killer stilettos clicking in the marble hallway. She cast a curious glance backward at them—at Jane, really, because Cal had at least finally nailed his cool-guy aesthetic. He gave the blond a wicked grin as the doors slid shut. He could have been a secret agent on Casual Friday, or a superhero in his alter-ego garb.

  At that thought, Jane’s stomach gave a lurch that had nothing to do with the elevator setting off once more. She didn’t have long to dwell in discomfort, however, because almost as soon as the doors had closed, Cal moved over to stand in front of the floor buttons. He pulled out his phone, swiping it awake. The elevator panel had a screen showing their current location, inching up one floor at a time. Cal laid his phone across it, similar to how he’d tapped his number into Jane’s phone earlier.

  “What are you doing?” Jane asked, but Cal only shook his head. He had some kind of app open, a keypad that he hurriedly typed a long string of numbers into. After a moment, his screen turned green, and the elevator chimed twice as if they were preparing to arrive at their floor.

  Only they hadn’t. Instead, the elevator lurched as it sped up. Jane stepped to the side, steadying herself against the wall. Cal was tucking his phone into his jacket, and pulling his sunglasses out. He slid them into place as the elevator finally came to a halt.

  The doors opened.

  Dying daylight poured in. Jane threw her hand across her face, temporarily blinded by the setting sun. Cal guided her forward, the wind whipping her ponytail and the trailing ends of her shirt.

  They were on the roof, and they were not alone. When Jane lowered her hand, the Heroes of Hope were waiting for her.

  “Okay, guys, this really isn’t funny.”

  They were standing in a loose semicircle, each of them looking at Jane with surprise and a twist of distaste. Technically, it wasn’t even the entire team: just Tony and Marie and Devin. And Cal, obviously, still standing tall beside her. But the three of them had donned actual costumes, matching the designs that they’d dreamed up when they were fifteen, when they were all picking which superpowers they’d have gotten in the accident, what their names were, and arguing over stats for the RPG. Jane had changed some of it, when she’d adapted them for QZero, but much of the original essence of the characters remained.

  She turned to Cal. “Please tell me that this is some kind of joke. I would hate to think that you guys decided to get all nostalgic and start LARPing.”

  “Oh my god,” Marie/Granite Girl said. “The only joke here is on us. What happened to you?”

  She was motioning at Jane as if there was something obvious for Jane to notice—but when
Jane looked down, it was just her, just normal. Marie, on the other hand, was fully decked out in Granite Girl’s original costume, army pants and a black tank top, thick combat boots stomping against the gravel. A classic black mask obscured all but her scowl. Marie’s supertoned arms flexed, far more defined than Jane remembered from the last time they’d talked.

  “Cal,” Marie said, incredulous, “this is never going to work.”

  “We’ll have to make it work.” Cal cut across the roof, reaching behind an air duct and retrieving a black utility bag. From the depths of it, he pulled out a handful of bulky wrist cuffs, and tossed them in turn to Devin and Tony and Marie—dressed as Windforce, Rip-Shift, and Granite Girl. Jane watched in silence as they strapped the cuffs on. The devices covered nearly half a forearm, thick black straps lashing them in place. Screens along the top came to life, and rows of white LEDs ran loops around their wrists like light-up bracelets over the cuff.

  “Oh, no,” Jane said, as Cal approached her next. A cuff was in his outstretched hand, already glowing in the rapid descent of dusk. “No, this has gone far enough. You know, you all picked a really terrible day for a prank.”

  Cal frowned. “This is no prank, Jane, I assure you. I realize now that things are . . . different for you here, but you have to believe me when I say that we need you. The city needs you.”

  “I’m not listening to this.” Jane turned, ready to storm back into the elevator, when a sharp whistle cut the air. She froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She had never heard the sound before, not for real, though she had imagined it a hundred thousand times. In the comics, she’d always written it as a long SKREEEEEE, tiny letters at a slant, the color of the text nearly identical to that of the background to indicate that it was just on the edge of hearing.

  The Shadow Raptors.

  “Look out!”

  She was knocked down before she realized what was happening. The tar of the roof bit into Jane’s hands and cheek, the heavy pressure of Cal’s body as he huddled protectively over her. Her glasses were knocked askew, and as Cal leaped to his feet, Jane scrambled to get them back in place. She rolled onto her back, just in time to see the perfect shot, a frame that she’d end an issue on.

  A Shadow Raptor, caught in midair as it careened toward her. Time seemed to freeze, hanging this image for study. It looked exactly as she’d always pictured them. Half man and half monster, the raptor had body-builder muscles covered in deep green scales. Its legs and head were dinosaur, a mouth full of flashing needles—with feet tipped by talons sharp enough to cut through steel. In its human hands were a pair of obsidian daggers, currently pointed right for Jane’s heart. Its tail whipped out behind it, heavy as a tree trunk, ready to strike down anything that might try to sneak up on the beast.

  Jane didn’t even have time to scream. She gasped in a huge lungful of air, but in the instant that she would have released it in a shriek of terror, a fierce gust of wind tore across the rooftop. A whirl of vibrant blue and white careened into the Shadow Raptor’s side, sending the beast flying toward the edge of the building. The wind cut away as fast as it had sprung up, the flaps of Devin’s wingsuit dropping to his side. He turned to Jane, his face completely obscured by a spandex mask. A gloved hand extended in Jane’s direction, but Jane could only boggle.

  It wasn’t possible. Devin didn’t really control the wind, using it to thrust himself forward at high speeds, or lift himself as he glided over the city. That was Windforce, and Windforce did not exist, no matter how much Devin may have wished it so when they were teenagers.

  There was no time to sort it out. More Shadow Raptors were pouring onto the roof all around them, scaling the sides of the building like it was nothing.

  “Go!” Devin, or rather Windforce, shouted, and Jane didn’t question him. She scrambled onto shaky legs, her Converse slipping gracelessly over loose tar.

  Only there was nowhere for her to run. All around her, Shadow Raptors spread like vicious dogs, snarling and lunging at the Heroes of Hope. Granite Girl was battling against two of them, her mottled gray arms ripping whole limbs from their bodies, her followup punches quite literally rock solid. Rip-Shift sliced his hand through the air, first in front of him and then to the side, and twinned shimmering lines split the surface of the world; the glimmering lines reflected in his sunglasses as he leaped through one, the Shadow Raptor fast on his heels, and then they both tumbled out of the other. His long black coat, everything leather like something out of The Matrix, flicked behind him as he teetered on the edge of the rooftop, watching the Shadow Raptor fall. Windforce was back in the thick of things already, lifting the Shadow Raptors and slamming them into the roof with deadly force.

  All Jane could do was stand and stare. The fight had a surreal edge to it, as if she was inside one of her own drawings. Everywhere she looked was a panel of her comics: knives flashing in the dying light; the rippling of the world as Rip-Shift parted gaps between two points; blood spurting in an elegant arc as Granite Girl ripped a fistful of scales from a Shadow Raptor’s back. A darkened rooftop, the glow of the city switching on behind them. It was terrifying, obviously it was terrifying, and yet it was also so completely impossible that it did not feel as if Jane could be hurt by it.

  Until a thousand points of pain flared in her shoulder. Jane cried out, turning in time to see that a Shadow Raptor had grazed her with the edge of its kick. Its claws had sliced through both shirt and flesh, and Jane clamped her hand across the wound, blood pouring freely through her fingers. She started screaming.

  The Shadow Raptor turned its head at the sound. Narrow nostrils flared as it huffed in twice, catching the scent of her blood. Its teeth were dripping with red, and it clearly wanted to lunge forward and make her its next meal, but then Granite Girl was right on top of it, riding it like a horse. She snapped its neck with a sickening twist.

  “Jane!”

  Jane whirled. Cal was racing toward her. A cut ran artfully down his temple—just enough to show the readers that this fight was serious, without posing any actual danger to the hero. He ducked beneath a Shadow Raptor as it flew out of one of the rips Rip-Shift had torn in the world.

  “Here,” Cal said. He thrust the cuff back into her hands. He was already wearing one himself, and he had his phone out again, an app with a single large, green button flashing through the night. “Put this on, quickly. There’s no time.”

  What else could Jane do? She hastily slapped the device on her wrist, wincing as she raised her arm to show Cal that it was in place. A fast glance around the rooftop showed more Shadow Raptors clawing their way over the lip of the building. The Heroes of Hope regrouped around Jane, breathing fast, their arms raised defensively at the encroaching circle of Shadow Raptors.

  “I’m sorry,” Cal said, throwing a heavy look in Jane’s direction. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “Like—?”

  “Just go!” Granite Girl shouted, and Cal pressed the button on his app.

  The world around them wavered. Vertigo pressed in thick and fast, drawing bile up Jane’s throat. Light flickered in and out, reducing her vision to an extremely low frame-rate movie. The Shadow Raptors were still closing in, closer and closer, and Jane wanted to scream but had no breath. The roof beneath her feet disappeared, and for one heart-stopping moment Jane was in free-fall—then they tumbled forward, the whole group of them, landing on an identical rooftop.

  Not quite identical: the Shadow Raptors were gone. The sky was darker, a thick layer of clouds pressing down across them and shrouding the building in smog. Jane coughed, the taste of metal laying heavily on her tongue.

  “Don’t breathe it in,” Marie said, her mouth already covered by a handkerchief that muffled her words.

  But it was too late: Jane’s lungs burned, her eyes stinging against the smog. Her head spun, and she collapsed onto her knees, even as Marie and the others were crowding fast around her.

  “Told you this one was an idiot,” Ja
ne heard Marie saying, as blackness narrowed her vision down, knocking her out cold.

  * * *

  Clair’s voice came to Jane in her dreams.

  Of course it would. In dreams, anything is possible. People can fly, or breathe fire. Rooms can rearrange themselves while you’re in them. Time can pass slowly or quickly. Accidents can be avoided.

  The dead can be alive.

  In her dream, they’re outside behind Jane’s parents’ house. Jane grew up in the last house on the street, the last house in town. Beyond the tiny square of lawn that Jane’s father tended to every Saturday, a wide expanse of nothing stretched into infinity. Weeds swayed beneath the deep blue sky, an ocean of wildflowers and untamed rabbits. But if you followed this one path, worn down by so many pairs of feet tramping through it over and over again, eventually the ground would slope down, and you’d find yourself at a river tumbling serenely through like a snake in the grass. The river was shaded by the boughs of a giant oak tree, so big that you could see the top of it all the way from Jane’s bedroom window, and from the tree there hung a tire swing.

  Jane’s head was full of memories of that tire swing. Sometimes it seemed as if everything that was ever worth happening, had happened there.

  Which is why she hadn’t been there in a year and a half, although she returned now. Her dream spun time back and played it forward again, different from how it had really gone. Like unraveling a sweater to correct a mistake. Jane stood in the tire swing, her toes hooked on the rough rubber lip, her fingers stiff from holding the rope for so long. Clair was opposite her, their collective bodyweights canceling out the tilt, more or less. They huddled around the rope, clinging on tight as Jane would dip her body, sending the swing veering off in one direction or another. Clair squealed the way she had when she was eleven, the summer after she’d fallen off of it and broken her wrist, the summer she’d been so afraid to get back up again.