Superheroes in Prose: The 1-4 Collection

by Paris, Sevan

  “What?!”

  He looks at the twine. “It’s Magickal, like the ring. Allows me to hold two hundred times my usual carrying weight. Way cool, huh?”

  “Get me the hell down?!” I say, far more concerned about the four story fall than the workings of a Magickal twine.

  “Why would I do that after I went through so much trouble to get you the hell up? And anyway, this is what you want. I’m helping you deal with your anxiety issues.”

  “I thought you were supposed to help with my powers!”

  “It’s your refusal to deal with your issues—of which I believe there are many—that keeps you from accessing your powers.”

  “Get. Me. Down,” I say with a forced calmness.

  “Or what? You gonna threaten me to death?” A flick of his wrist sends me into a nauseating spin. “You can’t do anything unless you use your powers”—I only see his face about every third word—“which you can’t do because you’re too afraid.”

  I do the only thing I can think of to rid myself of this situation and him: I scream.

  It’s not a particularly impressive scream. It’s plenty loud enough sure, but the high pitch would make it difficult for anyone to believe it came from a throat containing an Adam’s apple.

  “Are you finished?” Casa asks after my wailing has a ten second pause. He nudges me against the edge of the rooftop, stopping the spin. He holds up a tennis shoe. “These shoes are lined with Camex, the same stuff the Fabulous Five uses in their costumes. Normally, they just suppress the sound of the wearer’s footsteps, but radiate it with a gamma beam and only the people within a twenty-foot bubble can hear anything within said bubble. Scream if it’ll make you feel better. Nobody’s going to hear you.”

  He releases the tension on the line. I scream until he presses on the Magick twine with his thumb, cinching me to a stop three feet lower.

  “Killing me isn’t gonna get my powers back! My situation is different than other Supers!“

  Casa leans over the edge of the roof, locking eyes with me. “Of course it’s different! Everybody’s different on some level! But our reactions to an ignored stress are the same! Our bodies take it out on us until we acknowledge and respond to it in some way. You can either do that now, later, or never. I’ve only known you for about an hour, but I can tell you—you’re definitely the never type. Now … fly or something.” Casa releases the tension again. My drop stops after another foot, but my screaming and swaying keep going.

  “You can fly can’t you? If not, there’s going to be serious egg on my face when you hit the ground.” He lets me fall two feet. “And probably blood too.”

  “Stop! I’m telling you, my powers are gone!”

  “And I’m telling you, you’re not even trying! Remember the ring? Your powers aren’t gone. You want them to be gone, like a woman experiencing pseudocyesis wants to be pregnant!”

  “Pseudo-what?”

  “Oh you freshman. False labor! A condition where a woman who wants to be pregnant experiences all of the symptoms without an actual pregnancy! Up to and including giving birth to an air bubble that’s been gestating in her tummy for nine months!”

  “What do you have a degree in psychology or something?”

  He gives me a smirk.

  “Of course you do,” I say under my breath. “Look, that’s nothing like—”

  “You’ve stepped off Campbell’s common path, found it terrifying, and now you’re trying to get back in line with the rest of the crowd! You don’t want to be a hero, so your mind isn’t letting you access your powers!”

  “If I had my powers, don’t you think I’d be using them right now?”

  “You haven’t been forced to—not yet! You don’t think you’re in danger! You don’t think I’m serious, that I’m not going to drop you! What you don’t know is how seriously psychotic I am!”

  “Wait!”—I point at him—“You would really do this?! You would really kill me?!”

  “Don’t worry,” he smirks, “a little water clears me of this deed.”

  He lets go of the line … completely.

  I plummet, like a hundred and forty-pound rock ... that screams.

  This is it … because of this guy’s douchery, I’m either going to die right here or M—assuming that ring was telling the truth and he’s still in me—will save us.

  I pass the third floor window …

  It amazes me how calm my face looks in its reflection (guess I’m not screaming anymore). Why do I look so calm? Casa doesn’t understand my powers, but is he kind of right? I stopped talking to M not because of anything he did, but because I don’t want to be a hero anymore? Because it’s cost me too much already? Because I see it costing me even more in the future? Does that make me selfish?

  Does that make me like M?

  M …

  I have to deal with him and we have to reach an understanding and I can’t live otherwise and my problems with Liberty aren’t the real issue here.

  I pass the second story window …

  I have to take control of M and there’s only one way to do it which has to begin with me not calling on him now because he has to want to work together which he doesn’t want to do but he does want to live.

  I start to pass the first floor window …

  Has M given up—is this the end—will I ever see Reagan again—will mom be okay—was Liberty just bluffing or has he already tried to track me and her down—I want my life back and I want to expose Liberty for the piece of crap that he is and I want to find Reagan and make things right and I want to show Rocket Girl how to put a freaking milk leaf on a cappuccino.

  I stop at a gentle hover inches before dying on the UTP lawn.

  My skin has changed into black space and glowing white stars—M has powered us up.

  M controls all of our powers except for movement. Before he can change us back, I take flight and hover above the roof of Shunter Hall. Casa shields his eyes from the sun and looks up at me.

  I point my finger at the line around my ankles and M breaks it with a Grav Blast.

  Casa grins. “Cool.”

  “Stay here, Casa! We’re not finished!”

  I turn, face the clouds, and fly at my top speed. “And neither are we, M.”

  Don’t think you’ve won the day just like that, Gabe. I changed us to keep me from dying. Saving you was a consequence—not an intention.

  I soar above downtown Prose. A few people point at me. “Your … intentions don’t mean jack. You know what I care about? People.”

  Here we go with this old ditty … let me know when you’ve decided to start ignoring me again.

  “No, you wanted to talk, now’s your chance! Let’s talk!”

  That’s the problem. All you want to do is talk. I, on the other hand, want to have a conversation. An action in which both parties give and take equally in vocal communication.

  “Fine! I can do that!” I exit the tops of the clouds covering Prose with a white streak in my wake. “I think I’m about to become a freaking fantastic conversationalist!”

  … Okay, well … then good. Let’s do that then.

  “So, what did you want to say? You must have had plenty of time to think about it since you haven’t been talking for days!”

  Don’t you dare turn this around, Gabe. You gave me the silent treatment for weeks prior. Why should I have continued further attempts at communication? The very definition of insanity is to repeat the same action and expect a different result. I can assure you—even though my circumstances are insane—I am not.

  “I’m sorry, so is the problem that I’m talking too much or too little?”

  M sighs. Right now, the problem is that you have been, and currently are, behaving like an infant. Perhaps you should fly us to the local Wal-Mart so that we can purchase a bottle and bib.

  I hover above the clouds. “An infant? AN INFANT? ISN’T THAT THE POT CALLING THE KETTLE BLACK?”

  What is with the anthropomorphized cookware? I
s it another one of those human clichés? Your kind would have such a deeper understanding of existence and your place within it if it didn’t merely attempt to do so by parroting—

  “You laid a Rancor sized whopper in my lap in the coffee shop with Reagan.” I point in front of me, even though I’m miles away from another person. “I can’t believe that you never told me you were responsible for Supers on Earth … and I can’t believe that you would wait until a moment like that to let me know!”

  What was the importance in your knowing, Gabe? Hm? Exactly what would you have done with that information?

  “That’s not the point. Our existence depends upon mutual acceptance of our situation? Remember that, M? Those were your words. You expect me to just be hunky dory with all of that stuff?”

  Very well, now that you know, what would you like me to say to make you ‘hunky dorky’?

  “Dory!”

  Same thing.

  “I want to know—“

  Why I hid it from you? Surely even you’re not that stupid, Gabe! Look at your reaction! You’ve been all but catatonic these past few weeks. You’ve ignored me, you didn’t take any sort of interest in finding out where Reagan went, you didn’t even want to do that Superheroing thing you’re so foolishly fond of, and—ugnh—don’t even get me started on your grooming habits.

  “What’s the matter, M? Are you upset that my body is still mine to groom?”

  And there it is …

  “If it hadn’t have been for Villainous’ temporal gun, you would still be in control, wouldn’t you? I tried to take my body back when you freaked Reagan out, but you wouldn’t let me. And you weren’t ever going to let me.”

  And how did it feel while I was in control, Gabe? Like you were forced to sit in a chair, with your eyes pealed open, forced to watch a life that you have no control over? Like you would be forced to communicate, live, and ultimately die with the one being that you hated most? Like the totality of his foolish desires passionately opposed everything you believed? Letting me take over your body was the dumbest thing in the laundry list of dumb things that defines your life, Gabe. The only thing that should surprise you is that I didn’t try it sooner.

  “But you’ve been trying, haven’t you? That’s why I’ve been having all the freak-out sessions. You’re trying to take my body back.”

  You can’t even handle your regular life. I don’t know what makes you think you can handle this power.

  “The very fact that I can handle the ridiculous situation you put me in day after day proves that I can handle whatever—“

  I—DID NOT—PUT YOU IN THIS SITUATION! A burning pain pierces my eyes and sears into my skull.

  The Council forced this situation upon both of us! They’re the ones that tried to kill me! They’re the ones I’ve worked so hard to hide from! They’re the ones that wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out the existence of your entire planet if they thought it remotely possible I lived here!

  M’s last statement brings me back from the foggy pain of his yelling: “ … are you serious?”

  Yes, I’m serious. But before you start assigning some sort of senseless selflessness in me that simply does not exist, I don’t hide from them for your planet’s sake, I hide from them for my sake.

  Mentioning The Council shifts me back to the reason they sentenced M in the first place. “That doesn’t make any sense: They punished you to protect people.”

  By killing me, they’ll believe they are helping more people than they’re killing.

  “ … Christ, M … what all have you done?”

  M sighs. We no longer have that ‘mutual acceptance of our situation’ that you so fondly mentioned … and I suspect we never will at this point. I will not live as your prisoner. I will not stop attempting to take over your body, which means—unless I succeed—your symptoms will grow increasingly worse. Eventually leading to a death by stroke or heart attack. That means I’ll die too, but I’ve made peace with that possibility. Better a death by trying to really live than being forced to live through you.

  “You know—if it happens and you take over—you know I’ll come back. If you can do it, I can too.”

  Sweet, innocent, foolish little Gabriel. What if I simply leave you nothing worth coming back too?

  And that does it. I fly up.

  And up.

  And up some more.

  Gabe …what are you doing?

  “M, you’re like the dumbest smart person I know. Have you not been paying attention to the last eight months? Have you not seen me risk life and limb to save people—people I don’t even know? You threaten my friends, my family, and you think I won’t risk it all to save them too?” We leave Earth’s atmosphere.

  Space isn’t going to harm us, Gabe. You know that.

  I pass the moon on my left—and head right towards the sun.

  .... You’re bluffing.

  I fly faster.

  This old shtick? You’re threatening me with our lives again? Well, I’m not going to bite, Gabe. Do you hear me? I’m not going to. I would rather die than help another human being. And it’s not because of them …

  I clench my fists tighter—the sun grows from the size of a dime to the size of a quarter.

  … it’s because of you. You just rush head first into any situation, without thinking of the consequences to us. Your dealings with Liberty are proof enough of that. You’re a far greater threat to people you know that I am. You haven’t even been at this for a year, and your mother and Reagan have already had their lives severely jeopardized by your actions. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, you aren’t any good at being a Superhero?

  The sun grows to the size of a softball …

  Of course you didn’t. Because this isn’t really about the people you help, is it? No this is about you. You need to play hero to give your life meaning. Everything else—your job, your school, your relationships—they’re all one big collective joke missing a punch line. Do you know what the punch line will be, Gabe? Do you?

  I pass Venus on my right …

  Your death. Because not even it will have meaning. People will gather around your casket—and by people, I mean two or three—and they will attempt to come up with some sort of clever and touching eulogy. But what they will say will really be the most noncommittal, the most horrifyingly generic statements that anybody with half a brain could Google. Your life will then become defined, not by what you did, but by what you didn’t do. You will have been judged in every way that matters in their shallow little lives—money, love, respect, a career—and be found wanting.

  The sun is a Volkswagen …

  And it’s because of your selfishness. You always think of you: you, you, you, you. How can I help this person? How can I help that person? How can I play the hero?

  The sun is a house …

  How can I bed this female or that one? That’s why I know you’re bluffing—you’re not going to kill yourself. You have too much to live for—too much to be selfish for. I have your number, Gabe Garrison, and guess what—you’re just like me.

  The sun is a sun ...

  You want what you want, and you’re willing to kill others—you’re willing to kill ME—to get it.

  I straighten and spread my arms, letting the momentum of my flight carry me in. This is it. My skin burns like a cold shower on a sun burn. The ball of yellow and orange flame is all I can see and I welcome it. My force field flares from deflecting the massive amount of radiation. It only flares that much when I’m taking a lot of damage, which is a monster drain on my power level. I’m tired, a sign that my power is fading. It won’t be long.

  It’s odd. I thought there would be more pain. I thought I might have a chance to tell Mom about this Galaxy stuff sometime. I thought I might be able to talk to Reagan again. I thought I might get a chance to tell Casa to shove it (heh-heh, shove it where the sun don’t shine). I thought I could turn M around, somehow make him into a better person. But there is no person in th
ere.

  God, now this hurts …

  At least I was able to save lives. At least I’ll keep M from hurting anyone. At least there will be other heroes like Rocket Girl to take my place.

  At least I got the chance to prove I could do the right thing … at least—

  Very well, Gabe—you win.

  I raise my head, wondering when I lowered it.

  Let’s make a deal, M’s says with a slight hint of a strain. I don’t think it’s from pain. Get us out of this blasted corona so that I can think.

  I rocket out of the star, pulling flames away from it in my wake. I don’t stop until my flaring force field stops flaring and my tingly skin stops tingling. “I’m listening.”

  This is my proposal. And please note that if you refuse this more than generous offer, you may as well fly us back into that star because it’s the best you are going to get.

  “And what is that exactly?”

  I will no longer attempt to take over your body. I will help you and your planet, in whatever capacity you deem necessary, up to and including this “transitionary” phase … if it is to happen and happen as soon as that Casa believes. I only have two conditions.

  “The first?”

  You consider what I have to say.

  “About what?”

  Anything I feel is worth considering. My current state of being is so contemptible, so without meaning, it’s barely worth living. But a life with no input, no influence, isn’t worth living period.

  “Fair enough. And the second?”

  Freedom. I want freedom from your planet, freedom from your Super problem, and—most importantly—I want freedom from you. After this transition takes place, you are to utilize every resource within your disposal to assist me in becoming fully independent. I don’t want to ride around, from human to human, for the rest of my existence. It would be like a prison sentence lasting an eternity—each jail cell having the possibility of being marginally better or worse than the last. Agree to these two things, and I will help you.