Red and Black

by Nancy O'Toole Meservier

  The screech of sirens could be heard in the distance.

  “What’s your name, by the way?”

  Dana blinked at the sudden question.

  “Dana Peterson,” he replied. “And you know what? I think they knew that. They had my picture and everything. Like they were targeting me.” He paused and shook his head. “But that makes no fucking sense. I’m just an IT guy. What would they want from me?”

  The woman frowned, the furrow of her brow obvious even beneath the mask.

  “Make sure you tell the police that,” she said. “They’ll be able to get to the bottom of this.”

  “What? Not up for detective work?”

  “I’m not that type of Costume,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m more the swoop-in-and-rescue type. Leave the police work to the professionals.”

  He frowned.

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Don’t know yet,” the woman said, tilting her head to the side. “But, hopefully soon.”

  Dana could see the red and blue police lights reflected off her face.

  With that, the woman turned from him and sprinted toward a nearby building. Before she reached it, she crouched. Her feet left the ground, launching her up, up, and onto the roof of the ten-story apartment building. She paused and turned around, waving at him. Dana felt his mouth hang open slightly. Her jump had been so powerful that for a few seconds, he could have sworn she had flown.

  2

  Dawn

  Oh shit, shit, shit…

  My black combat boots skidded across the flat rooftop of the building. My arms windmilled, as if flapping around like a crazy person was the perfect way to stop me from falling to my death. After stumbling for a good ten feet, I finally came to a stop, the tips of my toes just hitting the edge of the roof. I felt myself pitch forward, and for a moment all I could see was the narrow strip of ground almost thirty stories below.

  I consider myself to be a lot of things (college student, comic book nerd, daughter, sister, friend, newbie Costume), but I’m not stupid. I didn’t know exactly what would happen to me once I hit the ground below, and I wasn’t that interested in testing out the limits of my healing factor.

  So I overcorrected, and ended up falling backward instead.

  The back of my head hit the asphalt that lined the roof of the Clarkson Building, and I let out an involuntary “ooof!” Pain is never the most pleasant experience. Fortunately, before I could linger on it too long, the sensation began to recede as my body repaired itself.

  I let out a long sigh and raised a gloved hand to shield my gaze from the midday sun.

  If you’d asked me a few months ago about my ideal superpowers, I could have produced a list instantly. Flight would be at the top. Super-strength was another biggie. There wasn’t much elegance to being a brawler, but there’s no denying the effectiveness of being able to hit someone really, really hard. I had never seen the point of super-speed. I’ve always been kinda clumsy and didn’t fancy spending half my time running into walls and off the sides of buildings. I mean, the latter was still an issue, but less of one.

  So it was kind of strange that when I did get my powers, it was almost as if someone had seen my wish list. No, I couldn’t fly. But I could jump so high that with my cape flowing behind me and the wind in my hair, it felt like I was. And boy, was I strong. When I hit things, they usually couldn’t hit back. But the most useful power of them all?

  Resilience.

  The thing they don’t tell you in all of those action movies with the ten-minute balls-to-the-wall fight scenes? When someone hits you, it hurts. And it keeps on hurting. And don’t even get me started on concussions. Just being able to recover from a blow, to keep on moving in a fight…There are few things in life more convenient.

  With a sigh, I pulled myself to my feet, glad that the Clarkson Building at Bailey U was one of the tallest structures for blocks, making it highly unlikely that anyone had seen my total lack of grace. Or any of my training for the afternoon, really. I was on a quest to map out the tops of all of the buildings in Bailey City. It seemed wise to know where everything was located before I concentrated on chasing bad guys.

  Not that Bailey City was a cesspit of evil or anything. In fact, it was a pretty safe place, all things considered. But for how long? In this Age of Heroes, more and more Empowered individuals were popping up every day, and not all of them were friendly. Eventually, someone with bad intentions would find their way here, and my home would need someone to protect it. I had to prepare, to make sure I was ready.

  But for now, I had other places to be.

  Because as someone who had spent her formative years spending way too much time thinking about what kind of superhero she wanted to be, I had long ago made up a list of rules for how not to screw things up.

  Rule #1: Don’t neglect the secret identity.

  And if there was anything that Dawn Takahashi was known for, it was her Wednesday visits to Northwest Comics.

  Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and breathed in once, then twice.

  I have to keep my eyes closed for the transformation, so I’m not exactly sure what it looks like (and yes, I have resisted the urge to record myself with my phone during the process. Rule #2: A little paranoia goes a long way). Still, I have a pretty good idea of how it might look. My costumed self would simply melt away. This included the black pants covered in a pattern of swirls and stars, the matching cape with the colors inverted, the black sleeveless top, my Crayola crayon–red hair, plus a pair of black gloves and a mask.

  When I opened my eyes, I was Dawn Takahashi again—fine black hair, skinny frame, and five-foot-nothing. Putting on the costume added six inches to my height and a nice layer of muscle, which probably did more to conceal my identity than any flashy outfit. Now, instead of the costume, I wore regular street clothes.

  With a sigh, I walked to the doorway (propped open with a brick) that led directly into the Clarkson Building. Outside of it lay a nondescript black cross-body purse and a red cardigan. My cell phone and identifying information had been wisely tucked into my pockets pre-transformation. I had yet to encounter a curious janitor (or even a security camera) while jumping around up here, but leaving my driver’s license and credit cards scattered around was just asking for trouble.

  If you had asked me a few months ago if jumping off buildings would be one of my favorite parts of my job, I would have looked at you like you were nuts. But the truth was, everything about being a Costume made me happy, even the life-threatening bits.

  It’s what made changing back into who I was the rest of the time so difficult.

  Once I hit ground level, I headed east on Applewood Street toward Northwest Comics. I had been going there for years, despite the fact that Bailey City had three comic book stores, two of which were closer to where I had grown up and still lived with my mother. There was just something about a really good comic book store. Once you found one, you never wanted to give it up.

  The streets were pretty calm. It was midafternoon, so a lot of the foot traffic came in the form of Bailey U students making their way to and from class. The school was sizable enough (just over ten thousand students) that I didn’t see anyone I recognized, even though I had just started my sophomore year a couple weeks ago and had encountered plenty of students through classes and events.

  Before long, the maroon and white BU banners vanished, marking the end of Bailey U territory. I turned onto Ashe Street and was immediately met with a familiar sight.

  “Stop torturing animals!” a tall skinny, woman, her hair in a ponytail, cried out.

  “Animal testing is wrong!” her partner, a shorter man with a rounded middle, added.

  Their costumes were made up of a bright green and blue fabric, the legs and sleeves coming up short on the couple’s long limbs. Wetsuits, probably—a popular choice for newbie Costumes who didn’t have a solid background in cosplay. Their wrinkled, mismatched capes looked like bedsheets, and I recognized t
he plastic sequined masks as coming from a local party store. I winced, once again glad that for whatever reason, my costume and abilities were a package deal, making it unnecessary to hit up Party Mania for my disguise. Of course, there were professional outfitting companies, but you practically had to be Bruce Wayne to afford one.

  That, and I never knew how much you could trust their “absolute privacy” contract clause.

  Feeling the distinct type of shame that exists when encountering individuals whose flavor of embarrassment hits too close to home, I quickened my pace. Not that they would notice me. The couple (whose Facebook page advertised themselves as Captain and Lady Justice) had a route of protests. Wednesday was all about SynergyCorp’s testing on animals, and they rarely wavered in their pursuit of well…justice. Interestingly, they were becoming a popular staple in the neighborhood. A lot of Bailey U students took selfies with them.

  It wasn’t long before I hit Northwest Comics.

  “Hey, Dawn!” Steve waved at me from the front desk as I entered. “As expected.”

  The Caucasian, brown-haired, thirty-something owner of Northwest Comics ducked under the counter to find my weekly stack of comics. As he did, I found myself glancing around the store.

  I had first encountered Northwest Comics as a painfully awkward twelve-year-old, pulled in by my teenage brother. Now, as a pretty awkward twenty-year-old, it was practically my second home. The store was shaped like a backwards, upside-down L. The left side contained the front door, and the rest of the wall was lined with comics, this week’s titles right at the top. The back wall continued the collection, which eventually transformed into the graphic novel section the farther you got into the right corner. This took up most of the short side of the L. Merchandise could be found under the glassed-in counter that took up much of the right side of the store, as well as the wall behind it. The emphasis was on comic books, but Northwest also sold other geeky items like dice and Magic: The Gathering cards, which was what had drawn in my older brother, Alan, in the first place.

  “X-Men is great this week,” Steve said, passing me a stack of comics. The silver rings on his fingers reflected the light of the fluorescents above.

  “It’s been really good recently. Did Michael like it?” I asked, referring to Steve’s husband and business partner, who knew more about X-Men than I could ever dream of.

  “Hasn’t had a chance to read it yet,” Steve replied. “Too busy working.”

  I nodded as I continued to look through the stack. When I got to the last one, already bagged and boarded, I felt a smile spread on my face.

  “A new Hunter Davies,” I said.

  “Silver Shot and Golden Strike. Your favorite.”

  One of the interesting things about reading comics in a world where superheroes actually exist? There were the regular superhero comics, about fictional superheroes, but there were also comics about Actual Superheroes—all by the mysterious Hunter Davies.

  I studied the cover, which depicted two figures surrounded by a mass of shadowy villains. One was a white guy with pale-blond hair dressed in silver, his longbow aimed and ready. In front of him was a statuesque black woman dressed in gold, delivering a swift punch to the nearest bad guy. Her fists glowed with light.

  Silver Shot and Golden Strike were the first people to make the jump from Costumes to Actual Superheroes. About six months after they started making headlines, the Hunter Davies comic Silver Shot and Golden Strike started showing up online. It was never revealed how much truth there was to the reclusive writer/artist’s comics. Most Actuals he wrote about were cagey about how true his comics really were. But one thing was certain: When Hunter Davies started writing about you, you were considered legit. Not just a random person wearing a costume (à la Captain and Lady Justice), but an Actual Superhero.

  He even gave you a name.

  “He’s released the beginnings of a new sketch online,” Steve continued. “And he’s hinted that she might be someone new.”

  I must admit, my heart skipped a beat.

  “When did this happen?” I asked, trying to keep my voice at a normal curious fangirl level.

  “Just an hour ago.” Steve leaned toward the computer at his desk. He clicked on something with his mouse. “Here, take a look.”

  He adjusted the screen, revealing the outline of a rough pencil sketch. There was a woman in the foreground, hands on hips, cape flowing in the background, hair tousled by the wind. It could be me, but I didn’t cut the most unique silhouette.

  “She could be anyone,” Steve said, confirming my thoughts. “Although most of my customers seem to think she’s Miss Red and Black.”

  My head jerked up. “Who?”

  “A Costume seen around Bailey City for the past month or so. Dresses in red and black. Jumps around on rooftops.”

  Well so much for not being seen…

  Steve paused, giving me side-eye.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her, given your interest in Actuals.”

  “I’ve heard people talking about her. I just assumed she was a Costume like Lady Justice or the Red Bandit,” I said, delivering the line like I hadn’t practiced it in front of the mirror dozens of times (keeping a secret identity was tricky when you weren’t the best liar). I peered up at Steve. “Do you remember her?”

  “The Red Bandit?” Steve nodded. “Heard she was still in jail. But no, Miss Red and Black seems to be the real deal. Empowered and all that. Someone said they watched her jump to the top of the Commerce Building.”

  Which stood at fifty stories tall. That was a feat I had yet to accomplish. I guess it doesn’t take long for the rumor mill to start.

  “Anyway, it’s what’s in the background that’s getting the most chatter.”

  I turned my head back to the screen and squinted slightly. Over each one of the Actual’s (my?) shoulders were what looked like two figures. Their features were unclear, the quality of the sketch being less detailed the further you went back, but they were certainly people, one a lot bigger than the other.

  “Who are they?” I asked with a frown.

  “Oh, there are theories.” Steve rolled his shoulders as he stood up straight. “Sidekicks, mortal enemies, robot buddies.”

  “Robot buddies?”

  “Some people are really nostalgic for TechnoFiend.”

  “Rest in peace,” I said under my breath.

  “I hope she’s Red and Black,” Steve said. “Don’t me wrong. Captain and Lady Justice are great for business. I’m even thinking about inviting them over for a meet and greet. Still, it would be nice for Bailey City to get a real, Empowered Actual. I’m sick of borrowing Boston’s second-rate Heroes.”

  “Like Pixie Dust?”

  “Well, I like Pixie Dust, actually.”

  “Sunshine hates her.”

  “I hate what now?”

  I turned to front door to see a short, curvy Chinese girl walk into Northwest Comics. She was dressed in a plaid black-and-white jumper over a white top and black tights. On her head was a headband decorated with fake red-and-black roses. A small black backpack, just big enough to fit a cell phone and wallet, completed the outfit.

  “Is it the fact you left the suspenders at home?” Sunshine asked, crossing the room. “And the hat?”

  I blushed, looking down at my outfit.

  There were only two rules about being friends with Sunshine Campbell. First, you had to be okay with the fact that she was a pretty direct person. Second, every now and then, you’d have to let her dress you.

  Sunshine ran a fashion blog that was all about finding great looks for a wide variety of body types without sacrificing your principles. I had never asked how popular it was, but I had yet to see a post that was not accompanied by comments, and her Instagram had about twenty times as many followers as anyone else I knew. The first time Sunshine had asked me to be a part of the blog, I had been flattered. Finally, someone who appreciated my jeans-and-T-shirt style. Then I showed up and found Sunsh
ine with a completed outfit (half from Goodwill, half made by her own two hands) that somehow both fit me perfectly and was the most stylish thing I had ever worn. It was unlike anything I would have picked out on my own.

  Sunshine wanted to turn the blog into a career. Her course load showed it, with a double major in business and fashion design, and classes in photography and new media. It was a good thing the two of us were so close, or I would have resented how bad she made me look. Career-driven, yet creative, she was everything my doctor-turned-novelist mother probably wanted me to be. I, on the other hand, had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

  Well, at least the Dawn half of my life.

  Today I was dressed in a recent “Sunshine Approved” outfit: high-waisted gray shorts and a white top with a Peter Pan collar (tucked under my favorite red cardigan, of course). On my feet were black ballet flats. In addition, there were certain accessories that Sunshine swore completed the outfit. Unfortunately, she often forgot that while fashion design majors were allowed to be quirky in their clothing choices, undeclared students had to tone it down a bit.

  “I dunno, the hat’s a little big for me. And the suspenders remind me of, you know…that guy with the high-pitched voice who used to be on that TV show?”

  “Steve Urkle,” our Steve replied, ducking below the desk. He came back up empty-handed. “Nothing for you this week, Sunshine.”

  “No Saga?” Sunshine asked.

  “Hiatus.” Steve shrugged.

  “Again? Anyway, my followers loved the suspenders, Dawn. They thought you looked cute.” She sighed. “You gotta learn to be bolder, girl.”

  I shook my head. Bold moves were for…other aspects of my life. Jumping off rooftops, stopping IT guys from being kidnapped…

  Speaking of which, what was up with that Dana Peterson thing? It just felt…off. What was so special about this man that he would be targeted like that? And why, of all people, was super-bro douchebag Marty Tong involved? I had known the guy since high school, and his rap sheet was more likely to include drunk and disorderly charges than attempted kidnapping.