Superheroes in Prose Volume Six: I, Pink

by Sevan Paris

  Cold, heavy tears plip-plop onto my bare legs.

  Rock takes a moment, looking out the window. “When you told her to put up a force field, she hesitated. When the robots attacked us, she hesitated. I had to save her twice. And Thinkor’s right.” He looks back at me. “She’s not here because she wants to help people. She’s here because her Mom pissed her off and she has something to prove.”

  I sniff. “…. Rock?”

  “And as for the validation thing … that may be some left over daddy issues she can’t ever resolve.”

  “Rock!” My chair flips against the wall behind me, before I realize I’m even standing. Everyone looks at me: the trembling, crying red faced me in this silly school girl outfit.

  “Give us the room,” Liberty says.

  Their chairs creak and the others walk towards the door. Rock stops, and then looks at me with slumped shoulders. “It’s nothing personal, Daisy. I just, you not ready, y’know?”

  I pour every ounce of pain that I have into his eyes.

  Without another word, Rock turns and the door slides shut behind him.

  Liberty stands and walks to the windows overlooking Prose.

  “There is no point in even asking you how you feel, is there?” I say, looking at the white star on the back of his cape.

  Silence.

  I take a deep, shaky breath. “Why all that talk about fear and overcoming it in the Icarus? Cause I made with the overcome, but everybody seems to think that I never should have had any in the first place. And going up against a Sayer on the first time out? I mean that’s …”

  “Big, bad, and ugly. And, even though it’s not the exact same thing, it’s the same sort of thing we face all the time. That which can kill you. That which can make you afraid. You need to be here for the right reasons in order to fight that fear. Otherwise, putting you on this team places people in great risk. I won’t allow that.”

  “But … I can do this. You’re booting me because of a few opinions.”

  “This isn’t about the few. It’s about the many. The people on this team have sacrificed a great deal to be here. And they don’t do it for glory, they don’t do it to prove something, and—most importantly—they don’t do it because they’re simply out of options. They do it because it needs to be done, both for the sake of the country and the world. And they do it because nobody else can.”

  “Can I even … can I even apply for the reserves?”

  Liberty turns to the door. “I don’t have the patience for hand-holding. Either you’ve got it or you don’t. Pack your bags and be out of here in two hours.” The star on the back of Liberty’s red cape is the last thing I see before the door slides shut.

  ***

  The prisoner containment doors of HEROES Tower rise open.

  I take two very small steps inside, just enough for it to lower behind me. I swear, it has to be the loudest automatic door we have in the entire building.

  Or rather, they have.

  After Liberty and the others acted like total A-holes, I went up to my room to pack. Where I received the most ironically bestest voicemail ever:

  “Hi, this message is for Daisy Dale, AKA Bubble Trouble. My name is Glory Chase, and I’m calling on behalf of Cover Chick Cosmetics. We just received an update from the HEROES PR Consultant. And we regret to inform you that, due to the nature of our needs, we no longer wish to proceed with contract negotiations. We’ve just sent a gift basket, with our new fall color line, to your home address. Um, please accept it along with our heartfelt thanks for your time.”

  Jerks. All of them are big dumb jerks.

  Isn’t my fault that I’m here, about to do something stupid. I can deal with Rock being a backstabbing jerky jerk. I can deal with Liberty kicking me off the team. I can deal with Mom blaming me for Dad’s death. I can even deal with Cover Chick dumping me because I’m not on HEROES anymore. But the killer combo of everything was all too killer. And Liberty only gave me two hours. Two freaking hours! If I had more time, to make with the denial and whatever, I might be able to talk myself out of this. So really, it’s his fault that I—

  What the hell am I doing?

  Something screeches from the pitch black. Prisoner Containment has three cells, all on the far side. In one of them, the Bands of Whatever are doing whatever they do to someone like him. And either they’re sucking all of the light away or he is. With this Magick stuff, either one is possible. Anything is possible …

  “Are you going to stand there until the Apocalypse, child?” A deep, grating voice says from the dark. There’s no way it’s coming from the throat of anything remotely human, Super or otherwise. I think back to Mystick’s words, for the first time really thinking about what she meant: “ … he is ‘all that’ and significantly more.”

  I take another step, determined not to be intimidated by this … whatever.

  “My, my … such a timid thing. Tell me: Why are you here, timid thing?”

  I turn to leave, but stop. “I want …” I swallow hard and turn back around. “I want your help, Macabre.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You are coming to me for help?” Macabre says, followed by an awful, inhuman laugh and a wet, slithering noise. “How have things come to be so completely beyond hope or reason?”

  I squint into the darkness covering that other side of the room. I can’t tell which cell he's in. “That’s … none of your business.”

  “By all means then, do tell me my business.”

  The words come out in such a rush, like it’s not even me speaking: “I want you to … to make all of these—I have problems that I want to get rid of. Fear. Caring about what others think. And I want to be strong,” I throw in (briefly wondering where it came from but decide ‘whatever’). “Stronger than any of the HEROES or maybe even stronger. Can you do that?”

  There is a brief moment of silence, followed by the sound of something heavy and wet moving across the floor. “Of course. With the right words, Magick makes—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the hit single. What can you do, exactly?”

  “ …. I do not know.”

  “Uh, repeat?”

  More screeching, followed by a heavy Darth Vader-ish breath. “Part of the reason why I have … excelled where many of my peers have failed is because I take risks …risks that require the unexpected to be expected.”

  “So you don’t really know if you can take this stuff—this way that I feel and get rid of it? Or make me stronger?”

  “I know that I can separate it from you. But to completely obliterate something from all of existence is beyond my capabilities. At least for the time being. And to grant so much power requires sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice? You mean like a chicken or a goat or something?”

  Another screech. “Nothing so quaint. You must be prepared to experience a substantial change. And then a separation from what you are.”

  “What—what does that mean?”

  “Again, I do not know. The Magicks can interpret our wishes any number of ways. If you’re worried, I suppose I could simply make you my Ward.”

  “Ward? You mean like Dick Grayson?”

  “You would serve as a vessel to receive my Magick, should anything happen to me. It would then fall upon you to find my replacement. Someone to carry on my work.”

  “Yeah, no that sounds like full on bad guy territory. I just want—”

  “I’m well aware of what you want. But if you desire predictability, you’re not going to have it.” From the middle cell, something black and glistening slithers partially into the light, and then winds back. “At least, not from me.”

  “So … let me get this straight: to give me what I’m asking, I have to sacrifice something, but you don’t know what. And you know you can give me something kind of like what I want, but you don’t know what the outcome will be.”

  “Correct.”

  “That means I could look like you? I mean, sure, I don’t know what that wou
ld be exactly”—I gesture into the blackness—“but it sounds terrible.”

  “I will attempt to give you some limited form of control over your appearance as well.”

  This is so stupid. I can’t believe I’m even listening to the diva part of my brain, pushing me to do this. “…. How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know I’m not going to end up a frog or something?”

  “Surely, in the time you’ve spent with Mystick, you’ve learned of the explicable importance Sayers must place in our own words. They must be precise. They must be true. Otherwise, our ability to use them is weakened. I give you my word that I will try to separate you from these unwanted emotions and grant you this power that you seek. But I also give you my word that I do not know what will happen. Not precisely at any rate.”

  “So you—you would be doing all of this … why? Because you care?”

  “The freedom to experiment will be reward enough.”

  “Yeah, I bet. You mean like you experimented on the researchers?”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking.” More wet sliding. “A complex spell, such as the one you’re asking me to perform, requires the subject’s complete participation. Otherwise, there would be no true sacrifice. I doubt that I would find another person with desires as … exact as yours. That makes whatever you become a unique work of art. And since any artist wishes for nothing more than to perfect his chosen medium, you will serve as a substantial means to an end.”

  “In other words, if something goes wrong, you can learn from it and maybe use it to tweak another spell.”

  There is a shaking sound, like the tail of a huge rattle snake. “Waste not.”

  What are you doing, Daisy? I look at the sealed door behind me. I back up and turn, and head to …

  Where?

  Where am I going to go?

  “There is nowhere to go,” I whisper. Mom’s out. Even if she does let me come back, she’s going to rub this in my face. Forever. Just like she did with Dad. And what am I supposed to do for a living? How am I supposed to go from literally being hero to zero?

  “Well?” Macabre says.

  I take a deep, steady breath. (I don’t want to do this.) I need to do this. (I can’t do this.) I have to do this. (Who cares what HEROES thinks?) It’s the only way HEROES will accept me. (I could lose everything.) What’s left to lose? “Magick me already.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to come far closer than that, timid thing. Neither me nor my Magicks can leave the close proximity of the bands that Mystick trapped me within.”

  I swallow. “Closer?”

  There is another sound, like something heavy sliding towards me. “That fear you feel, fermenting inside your soul? You are but seconds away of being freed of it forever. Hero.”

  Freedom …

  I step into the darkness. And I see Macabre.

  And scream.

  NOW …

  I’m back in the classroom, surrounded by armed students, a bleeding Casa, and a paralyzed Gabe. My chest heaves, looking for breaths that I don’t take anymore.

  Thinkor walks up the aisle, towards me. “How would you describe Macabre when you saw him?”

  “Evil,” I whisper slowly, like I’m just realizing the true meaning of the word for the first time.”

  Casa’s pale and clammy skin tells me he’s still seeing all of my memories. Which means everyone else in the room is too. Including Gabe.

  Gabe …

  I’m so ashamed: I hope that you don’t see what comes next. And if you do, I hope that you don’t remember it. That you don’t remember me. Or at the very least, I hope I no longer care if you remember me.

  Casa raises his hand, just slightly enough to grab my attention. His eyes meet mine and then dart back to his handwriting on the white board.

  “And then what happened?” Thinkor says, bringing me back.

  “I don’t have to answer you,” I say in a voice so low, not even I can really hear it.

  Thinkor laughs, as if I’m the one that’s acting weird in this pile of drama. “Do you now realize a hand when you see one? I’m reaching out to you now, Daisy, trying to help you see—help you face—the past. And you’re slapping me away.”

  “You call this help?” I say. “This-this humiliation? Pummeling me with all this touchy-feely crap that I worked so hard—gave up so much—to get rid of?”

  “You act like this was forced on you!” Thinkor says, making me flinch at his words. “Like you had no say in the matter!”

  I feel myself shift, just for a moment, letting my guard down. The thirteen year old girl disappears, replaced with the twenty-three year old woman.

  “There she was. The person I’ve been waiting for. Not the thing you hide behind.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “In time, in time. But first, you have to answer a few things for me. Our minds were together years ago, so I’ve been aware of everything that you told me up to this point. What I’m really fascinated in, is what comes next: Why didn’t you go to HEROES immediately after Macabre changed you? Why did you wait?”

  “I … it took a while. To piece everything together. It was painful. And confusing. Like being born but …”

  “But backwards?” Thinkor says. “You have to learn how not to touch. How not to breathe.”

  “How do you—”

  “And what about your appearance? Macabre said you would have limited control, but he certainly never said anything about ending up like this. Did it not take a while to deal with? To keep from ‘freaking out’ as the kids say?”

  “No, I … for a while I did. But later not so much.”

  He laughs, but it sounds kind of girly. “Because you didn’t care about anything at that point, right? Don’t you think it’s ironic that the very reason you wanted this ultimately kept you from caring about why you wanted it? And by extension, taking any sort of agency to achieve it?”

  I answer him with silence.

  “But you were capable of hate, weren’t you? Oh, yes. Otherwise, Rock wouldn’t have suffered so … completely.”

  His cold fingers reach into my mind again. And for the second time in five years, I beg: “Please don’t. Not this part …”

  And for the second time in five years, the begging is ignored.

  FIVE YEARS AGO …

  “Ready for another round?” the waitress says, looking at my almost empty beer glass.

  I press the Ray-Bans a little closer to the face of the fifty year-old priest I possessed this morning, and nod. “Beer me.”

  The waitress raises her eyebrows at me, then looks at the jukebox in the corner of Frankenstein’s Pancakes. “Y’know, I haven’t heard that Brittany Spears song in years, but you’re the fifth person this week that’s been in here playing it. Wonder what gives?”

  I jerk off the priest’s white collar and toss it on the table. “Other four ran out of money.”

  She looks at me for a hot second before shaking her head and walking away. Leaving me to adjust this priest’s crotch … again. Possessing dudes is the worst. Always feels like I’m trying to sit on something that I can’t quite move out of the way.

  The bell above the door rings and in walks a guy in his late forties. His fancy tweed jacket and slacks were probably a lot fancier some time ago, but it looks like he’s been sleeping in them for days. His eyes circle the tiny diner, spending at least a full second on everybody, until settling in my direction. He slowly walks to the edge of my table, looking at me. No, that’s not right: His eyes aren’t looking—more like … examining.

  “Can I, like, help you or something?” I say.

  He points at my glass: “You’re drinking beer, father?”

  I clear my throat. “I have a problem, or whatever … just leave me alone.”

  He grabs my glass and takes the last swallow.

  “Hey!”

  He slides into the chair opposite mine with a burp. “If you were an alcoholic, you wouldn’t be wasting your time with
light beer.”

  “Listen, I don’t really—”

  “But maybe I’m wrong, so we’ll play this game if you want.” The old guy grabs a menu wedged between the napkin dispenser and the window. “Please forgive me, father. For I have sinned.” His eyes search up and down the menu. “Repeatedly. Especially that coveting one. Huge fan.” He tosses the menu to the side. “What comes next? We Hail Mary or something? Maybe high five?”

  “Whatever,” I say, easing out of the booth.

  He grabs the father’s wrist, stopping me: “If I can find you, piece together what you’ve become, so can others eventually—Daisy.”

  I stare at him, open mouthed. And slowly sit back down. “Who—what are you?”

  “Doctor Salvador Casa. And awesome.”

  “No, I mean, what’s your Superpower? There’s no way you can just be a—”

  “Someone who loves Brittany as much as you do is much more likely to come to one of only three places in the city that still has her in the jukebox. It’s 3:00 AM, yet you’re wearing sunglasses. I’m guessing it’s to hide some sort of tell—which is pretty common for possession powers. You’re holding your elbows close to your sides, like a girl—not a guy. And the way your legs keep fidgeting … let me guess: you’re not used to sitting with a penis yet?”

  I stop moving padre’s legs and put his elbows on the table. “I … what?”

  “Nice response. Witty. Look, it doesn’t take Superpowers to do what I do. I just notice things that other people don’t or won’t.”

  I look at him for a few moments … “Bullshit.”

  Casa sighs and rubs the top of his head, giving him an even more severe case of bed head. “Alright, normally, I don’t do parlor tricks unless it’s for sex, money, or—on the rare occasion—both, but fine.” He turns in his chair, looking over his shoulder. “Your waitress is pregnant, in her first trimester. You can tell by the way she keeps going to the bathroom and is the only employee that hasn’t taken a swig from the tap since I’ve been looking at you from the parking lot. The racist bartender keeps serving white people before everyone else, regardless of what order they arrived. That older gentleman in the next booth keeps eyeballing you like he wants to reenact Sodom and Gomorrah. Joke’s on him though.” He looks back at me. “You don’t know what to do with one penis, let alone two.”