Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  The duffel bag was heavy but manageable, and it had seemed better policy to take too much than too little. I’d cast one last glance around my ransacked room; then I’d left, pulling the door shut behind me with a firm, and very final-sounding, bang. However, upon quitting the building, I’d had no clear plan in mind and no immediate desire to depart.

  So here I sat.

  I tugged off my mask. My flushed, sweaty skin had made it tight and uncomfortable. Besides, it wasn’t as if I needed to disguise my identity any longer. A quick check on the main social media sites via my phone had shown me all I needed to know on that score. Along with a lot of things I wished I hadn’t seen.

  Greenbird’s True Identity Revealed!

  Killer Kisses—Kane Teague Murdered by Superhero Boyfriend in Jealous Rage!

  Super Slaughter—Greenbird Turns on Celebrity Lover!

  Oswell’s Atrocities—Leading Psychiatrist Declares Killer Criminally Insane!

  Many of my previous supporters had turned against me; although, I’d gained a new cluster of fans who found my sudden alleged killing spree “cool.” Most of those people believed I was making a stand against the government and the media. They didn’t have a fucking clue.

  I wondered if I should call someone—my mother, Ellen, even Phúc Lành—but I couldn’t pull any of them into this mess. The press and the police—doubtless in that order—would find them in due course. No need to make things worse for them. In any case, the only person with whom I really wanted to talk was Kane, and that was no longer possible. He’d never speak to me again. He’d never speak again.

  Fuck! How had it come to this? How had my life gone down the plughole in the space of a few short hours?

  Tears formed, but I blinked them away. Was I actually going to sit here and cry? I wasn’t that weak little schoolboy anymore. I had strength now. Brushing aside all hurt and loss, I reached instead for that spark of anger. It was rage that I needed. Rage was power. And it was all-consuming. It would burn away the rest. It would bring purpose and clarity.

  I clenched my fists as ire simmered in the pit of my stomach. I gave it free rein, letting it bubble and flare. Laurence’s desire to destroy me was bad enough, but his attempt to pin Kane’s death on me was even worse. I had loved Kane with every fiber of my being. I would not be remembered as his killer. Not when he should have been my husband one day.

  As the sirens drew closer, I hopped down from the broken van. I could judge the approaching vehicles’ direction. Time to slow their pursuit. I moved the abandoned news vans to form a blockade, adding a few of the local residents’ vehicles for good measure. Then I set the lot ablaze.

  The fire I’d feared all those nights ago, when it first appeared, now seemed an extension of my arm, an old friend. There was no pain when I called it into my palms, only pleasant warmth. It was comforting and empowering. For who could touch me? I could stop bullets and throw fireballs. I could fly and control anything, from plastic to metal to wood. Hell, I could move people, too, so long as they didn’t come at me naked, which seemed highly unlikely. No one could stop me. Let them send as many police and soldiers as they liked; I wouldn’t rest until I had Laurence Bartholomew in my hands. Given the foul lies he’d spewed, I knew taking him to the police would be an utter waste of time. I would handle the matter myself, from start to finish. I would do what needed to be done.

  The screech of tires announced the arrival of several vehicles on the other side of my barricade. Car doors opened and closed; then voices rang out. The crackling flames obscured their words at first. Until one of their number got his hands on a megaphone.

  “Oswell Outterridge! This is the police! Come out with your hands up!”

  I gave a throaty chuckle. The fools! Did they honestly think I’d simply surrender and let them arrest me for a crime I didn’t commit?

  I picked up my bags and trudged toward my car. However, I changed my mind before I opened the driver’s door. If movies and TV shows offered any indication, by now the police would be on their radios, calling for backup and road blocks, maybe even a rocket launcher. They knew my name; therefore, they’d know my license plate number. Besides, why drive when I could fly?

  Both my guitar case and my duffel had long shoulder straps which I slung over my head, settling the bags against my back. I gave myself a second to get used to the weight distribution. Then I rose. The height no longer bothered me; knowing that I was in complete control and wouldn’t fall eliminated my former fears on that score. Now I felt only power and delight as I took to the skies.

  I heard a shout from below and looked down to see a policeman leveling his sidearm at me. A fireball, aimed at one of the police cars, put a stop to that. By the time they recovered, I soared too high to provide a suitable target, and I watched with glee as they gave up and returned to their remaining vehicles. Round one to me. Now for round two.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE LIGHT in the motel room flickered, going out for a few seconds before sputtering back to life. It was annoying, and giving me a headache, but at least I wasn’t epileptic, and my phone’s backlight allowed me to continue reading during the bulb’s intermittent downtime. This motel wasn’t the Ritz—not by any stretch of the imagination. However, I’d stayed in worse—Mrs. Pearse’s Guesthouse came to mind—and it was a compromise I’d had to make since I could no longer reside in my own home or crash at Kane’s.

  I’d quit the Greater London area at the earliest opportunity, feeling the burn of too many CCTV cameras, and headed out to the M25. Uncertain about trusting big-name chain motels and roadside inns, where there were likely to be a lot of people, I’d veered off the beaten track and found this place. Before gaining my powers, I’d have given it a wide berth and kept on down the road, fearful of its psycho-killer vibe. (I’d seen that movie enough times to be wary of such things.) In my present situation, though, it was perfect. There were few passing vehicles, so less chance of being spotted and recognized. There was no sign, either, of any security cameras, through which the authorities might track me. And when I’d rung the bell at the desk, the wizened proprietor hadn’t so much as blinked at my hoodie-and-dark-glasses ensemble, accepting my cash payment without question.

  When it came to filling out the registration form, I’d not hesitated. I’d signed myself John Simpson (in an excessively loopy hand) and kept my gloves on to avoid leaving prints. I wore them even now. My sweater’s hood stayed up, too, to limit the chance of stray hairs. Fingerprints and DNA samples—I knew my crime shows. It was pointless in a way, seeing as how everyone with any kind of media access now knew my name. Then again, I lacked a secret superhero base, so the longer I could remain here undetected, the better. It didn’t need to be forever—I had no plans to be on the run for the rest of my life—I just needed enough time to find Laurence and bring things to a head. For that endeavor, being low on contacts and high-tech gizmos to point me in the right direction, I relied on the ultimate information source: the Internet.

  I had spent the last three hours surfing the Net. My data bill was going to be astronomical, but I’d deal with that later. The fact of the matter was, nothing took place in the world today without someone posting about it. I’d started with the official news reports, where I learned that Laurence had spoken with officers at the Met following the “incident,” giving a statement and “aiding them with their inquiries.” They’d held him on no charges, so he was walking around free somewhere, while I lurked in the middle of nowhere, hunted for a crime I hadn’t committed. Although that irked me, I realized it was also a blessing. It would be far easier to get to him on the street than if he were locked in a police cell. Meanwhile, the hunt for me had intensified and was now a countrywide operation. Luckily, nothing I read on any of the sites suggested they had the slightest idea of my present location, so I judged myself secure in the motel for the time being. My fan club had closed amid a flurry of troll activity and controversy. Nonetheless, popular opinion hadn’t turned entirely against m
e, with several groups declaring my innocence springing up across the various social media platforms.

  My reputation wasn’t my primary concern at present, however. What I needed was to pinpoint a location on Laurence. There was nothing definite so far, but I had set up a series of keyword alerts and was monitoring his public profiles. The moment anyone posted anything that might be of use, I would know about it.

  I cast a glance at my missed call list—three from Ellen, six from my mother, and fifty-four from unknown numbers. After a moment’s prevarication, I ignored them all, plugged in my phone to charge, and snatched up the television remote, mildly surprised when the ancient, boulder-like set came on at the first push of the button. I flicked through the channels as I worried at my thumbnail, which I’d bitten down to the quick. The evening’s viewing was the usual assortment of garbage—mainly reality shows. I scrolled faster, scanning the program content at a single glance. Then something caught my eye. I failed to release the Channel Up button in time, but I swiftly worked my way back through the stations until I found it again.

  Brad, the guy who, with his posse, had tried to beat me up on the studio’s backlot, stood before the cameras, relating how I’d viciously assaulted him, nay, nearly killed him. He conveniently left out the bit about how he’d struck the first blow, ganging up on me three to one. The footage cut back to the reporter, who made a few comments before directing another question. This time when they changed cameras, I sat up sharply. For a second, I thought I’d seen….

  I waited, eyes glued to the screen, but the segment ended and the report jumped to a vigil taking place outside the high-rise where Kane died. Thousands of his fans had gathered, holding candles and framed photos of him, tears streaming down their faces as they swayed to a sad pop song. A huge collection of flowers and soft toys littered the pavement around them. The scene transfixed me, and my resolve waivered. But not for long. I stamped down on my reservations. Prevarication was for the weak. I was strong, and I would act.

  Muting the television, I yanked my phone free from the charger cord. After checking the name of the current television channel, I proceeded to the station’s website and reviewed their online offerings. The interview was there, so I clicked Play, enlarging the video as much as possible on the small screen. This time there was no doubt in my mind. For a brief moment, reflected in the window behind Brad, I saw Laurence. The arsehole continued to mastermind affairs behind the scenes. How could no one see this conspiracy but me? The date stamp on the video was several hours ago, so the chances that Laurence would still be at the television studio were slim. As such, it wasn’t worth immediate pursuit; however, I did have a potential new lead on his whereabouts.

  I turned to social media and checked Brad’s profiles. Earlier in the day, he’d posted several links to his interview, each accompanied by a cocky sentence or two, but nothing since—nothing of any immediate use. Even so, it was promising. With a few clicks, I followed his pages and added some new keywords to my alerts. Then I settled down to wait.

  I must have nodded off because my phone’s beep startled me. The overhead light had given up the ghost entirely and the room was dark. I made a physical fumble for the phone first, before I remembered there was an easier way and flew it into my hand. A glance at the notifications revealed a new alert. I opened the link and grinned. Bingo!

  Brad had posted a selfie, and there, in the background of the picture, stood Laurence once again. I checked the info and saw that the post was only eighteen minutes old. The idiot had even tagged the location: a city university campus. Apparently there was a party going on, yet no one had thought to invite me. That was the story of my life. But this time would be different. Some serious party-crashing was in order.

  WHEN I arrived on campus, I had to accept that my mission wouldn’t be as straightforward as I’d assumed. There were a lot of buildings spread out over the grounds. Which one played host to Brad and Laurence? I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes until faint music reached my ears. Following it led me to a multilevel concrete complex in the center of the campus, and I halted beside an adjacent building to assess the scene.

  A guy in a puffer jacket stood by the building’s main entrance. As I watched, he checked a newcomer’s invitation and waved them through. I had no invite. Taking out one man posed no difficulty, but if further guests arrived and found him missing or incapacitated, they might raise the alarm and foil my plans before I located Laurence. It wasn’t worth the risk; I needed to find another way.

  It didn’t take me long to spot an opportunity. Beside the doorman was a desk, upon which rested several piles of leaflets. I crept closer, keeping to the side of the building, partially concealed by the shadows. Once I gained a position only a few meters from the door, I reached out for the leaflets with my mind and set them flying in all directions, as if swept away by a sudden gust. Predictably, the man chased them down, and while he had his back turned, I dashed forward and slipped through the door.

  The poster affixed to said door, and another on the wall within, informed me that this was an alumni reunion bash. I progressed warily down the corridor but soon relaxed when it became clear there was no additional security. Doubtless a regular night watchman or two patrolled the grounds, but the doorman was the party’s sole particular guard, and my ingress continued unimpeded. From there, it was an easy feat to find the auditorium; all I had to do was follow the ever-louder music and voices.

  I stepped, unchallenged, into the midst of the revelers. With my face plastered across every news channel, some reaction to my arrival may have seemed likely, but I had taken precautions before leaving the motel. I’d closely trimmed my wild mop of hair and thinned my eyebrows. From amongst the possessions I’d flung into my duffel bag, I’d dug out an old pair of glasses from my pre-laser surgery days, which completely altered my appearance, at least from a casual view. Looking through them now hurt my eyes, but if I wore them low on my nose, I could peer over the top of the frames. Finally, I’d exchanged my customary jeans and a T-shirt for the suit Kane had bought me. It was a tad crumpled from my uncouth packing, but that wasn’t too obvious in this low lighting. Underneath, I still wore my costume, for ease of flight.

  Few people glanced my way. Most were in groups, dancing, discoursing, or drinking. Several appeared to have been at the latter activity for quite a while already, judging by their swaying walks and unfocused gazes. No one questioned my presence; I was just another face in the crowd. Who remembered every fellow student from their university days, anyway? The vast majority of the people here were probably only pretending to remember each other, to avoid social embarrassment.

  I made a methodical search of the room, my irritation rising when I failed to spot my quarry. Had this been a mistake? Was this not the right place? Or had I taken too long getting ready? Surely they wouldn’t leave a party so soon? I was close to screaming my frustration when, at last, I spied Brad. He emerged from a side door and headed straight for the drinks table. I followed. While he ordered a beer, I hovered at his shoulder.

  “Make it two. On me.” I tossed my last twenty onto the table.

  “Thanks, pal.” Brad twisted and fixed me with a goofy grin. He was three sheets to the wind, and there was no indication that he recognized me.

  I returned the smile. “Mind if we pull up a chair and have a chat? I think it would be a good idea for the two of us to catch up.”

  “Sure.”

  We took our drinks and meandered to the rear of the room, where we settled against the edge of the stage. The DJ’s speakers pounded an awful dance song into our ears, but Brad showed no discomfort, so I did my best to ignore the racket. Despite standing side by side, we had to yell to hear one another.

  “So, what did you study here, mate?”

  “Nothing.”

  He frowned at me. I could have sworn that I saw the cogs turning—or at least attempting to turn—in his feeble, alcohol-soaked brain.

  “I’m here to meet a friend,” I
said. “Laurence Bartholomew. Do you know him?”

  Brad’s grinned returned. “Sure do. Me and Laurence have worked together on loads of films. I’m an actor, you know.” I assumed his dramatic pause was to give me a moment to process and react to this awe-inspiring statement. When I failed to respond, he continued. “We both went here. Graduated the same… year. Different… courses.” He slurred his words toward the end, but they remained comprehensible as long as I concentrated.

  “I see.” Best to keep it simple. “Do you know where Laurence is now?”

  “In the stupid lab. It’s better that way.” He pouted. “He’s a real party pooper.”

  Brad certainly had that right. “Can you show me the way to the lab? Laurence is expecting me.”

  I offered my most innocent smile, but something must have finally clicked in Brad’s mind because his brow creased once more and he swayed backward, squinting at me.

  “Hey, do I know you?”

  The time for polite deceptions and free drinks had passed. This lowlife would tell me where to find Laurence, or he would quickly come to regret it.

  “In a manner of speaking. Only a few hours ago, on national television no less, you falsely accused me of attacking you.”

  The light bulb went on behind Brad’s eyes. He gasped and started to turn. However, he was inebriated, and I was faster.

  I caught a fistful of his hideous, garish shirt and swung him back toward me. The disco drowned out his first cry, and I clamped my hand over his mouth to prevent another.

  “Listen to me, Brad. You aren’t my priority right now, and you should be truly thankful for that. It’s Laurence I want. Just Laurence. Tell me where to find him and you can walk away. Pick a fight or cause any trouble and my priorities may change. Nod if you understand.”