The Extraordinaries

by TJ Klune

  “That’s better,” Gibby said, pulling him back under the umbrella. “The world is right again, and all is well.”

  “Whatever. I gave you good advice, and you know it.”

  “True,” Gibby said. “But I’ve always felt like the best advice is the one you can also follow yourself.”

  “What?”

  She bumped his shoulder with hers. “What about Seth?”

  Nick blinked at her. “What about Seth?”

  “Really. That’s what you’re going with?”

  Were they speaking the same language or…? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gibby sighed. “Oh, lord. Okay. Let’s try this a different way. Nicky.”

  “Gibby.”

  “What happens when you graduate and you and Seth go to different schools?”

  “Not going to happen,” Nick said immediately. “Seth and I already have plans to go to the same school where we’ll share a dorm the first year, and then move off campus the following years. When we graduate, we’ll get an apartment in the city where I’ll spend four years on the force before leaving to open my detective agency-slash-bakery. Seth will become a famous author who writes true crime stories that won’t actually be true because they’ll have dragons in them, or he’ll be a lawyer that wins every case since he’ll be the voice for those who can’t speak for themselves.”

  Gibby gaped at him.

  Nick looked over his shoulder, but there was nothing of note behind him. He turned back to Gibby. “What?”

  “You just … how can you … If I hadn’t made that promise—” She shook her head. “I swear to god, if I’m not there the moment you have the biggest realization of your life, I’m going to cry foul and make you do it all over again.”

  “Are you okay?” Nick asked seriously. “Because you’re not making sense. Did you have a stroke? Can you feel the side of your face, or is it numb?”

  He reached to poke her cheek, but quickly backed down when she snapped her teeth at his fingers.

  * * *

  They’d made it four blocks when it happened.

  Nick said, hey, let’s go down this alley, because it’s a shortcut.

  Gibby said that going down alleys when it was dark and raining was never a good idea.

  Nick called her a chicken. He might have even folded his arms at his sides and said bawk bawk, though he wasn’t proud of it.

  Gibby threatened violence against his genitals.

  Nick demurred.

  But then Gibby stomped toward the alley, and later, Nick would tell himself that it was all her fault, that if she’d stuck to her guns, they wouldn’t have run into two goons with leather jackets and knives that looked like swords but were actually only switchblades.

  “There was a hot dog stuck in the light on the platform,” Nick told her as they made their way down the alley. The rain pounded down around them. “I can’t stop thinking about why it was there.”

  “Someone threw it up there.”

  “I know that, but not that kind of why. Not the why of action. The why of reason. Why did the owner of that hot dog decide to do that? It makes absolutely no sense.”

  Gibby snorted. “Sometimes, people do things just because they can. There doesn’t have to be a reason. It’s all chaos.”

  “Anarchists, man. I’ll never understand them.”

  “It’s not about—”

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  No one who started a sentence with well, well, well ever wanted to do something nice. Nick turned slowly to look over his shoulder.

  Two men stood behind them. One of them had a mustache. It was wet from the rain and hung under his nose like a drowned rat. The other was balding, the strands of his comb-over plastered to his head, rainwater dripping off his earlobes.

  Nick froze. They didn’t look like they had a gun, but all he could think about was his mother’s last moments, something he’d stressed over time and time again. He’d never been given a clear picture of what had happened, only being told by Cap that it had been quick, something so uniquely terrible that it didn’t help as much as Cap thought it would. Nick was brave, yes, but he was also in a position to know that sometimes, people didn’t come home no matter what they’d promised him.

  He almost tripped when Gibby shoved him behind her, hands curling into fists. He swung his backpack around to his front, going for the mace that Dad had given him. He’d wanted a Taser, but Dad had figured he’d end up electrocuting himself, which—while rude—was probably accurate. But given the way the universe worked, Nick found everything but the mace as he dug through his bag, including lip balms, a used straw, and an old sandwich that needed to be disposed of immediately as it posed a health risk. He was panicking, and it was only getting worse. He looked up from his bag out to the street behind the men in the alley. He could see people scurrying by on the sidewalk, umbrellas up, faces down toward their phones.

  And it sucked. Even though Nick had lived in the city all his life, he’d never been mugged before. Because he was wired the way he was, he’d fantasized about what he’d do if the situation arose. In these fantasies, he’d be brave, taking no shit from anyone. He wouldn’t need to be saved because he’d save himself. But faced with this cold reality, he could barely function, becoming more and more desperate when he couldn’t find the goddamn mace.

  “Everything,” Mustache Man snapped, causing Nick to inhale sharply. “We’ll take the whole bag. Both of you. Now.”

  “And if we don’t?” Gibby asked, because she was more of a badass than Nick could ever be.

  “No,” he whispered in her ear. “Give them what they want.” He could picture it, clear as day: Dad receiving yet another phone call that would send everything crashing down around him. He couldn’t let Dad go through that, not again.

  She didn’t look at him. “We’re not going to give them anything—”

  Male Pattern Baldness pulled out a knife, popping out the blade with the click of a button. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t the biggest knife Nick had ever seen. It was maybe five or six inches. Small, really.

  But Nick knew it wasn’t the size that mattered.

  It was what could be done with it.

  He gripped Gibby’s shoulders, trying to make his legs work so he could step around in front of her. He was sweating, and his heart was racing, but he tried not to let it show on his face. You didn’t show fear in the face of a predator, especially when said predator had a knife.

  Scratch that. Two knives, because Mustache Man also pulled out a knife similar to the one Male Pattern Baldness had. And because Nick wasn’t always in control of his thoughts, he wondered if they were dating, and had picked out his-and-his matching switchblades. He cursed himself for being a romantic even when he was about to be stabbed.

  He leaned his forehead against the back of Gibby’s neck, struggling to breathe, his bag pressed between them, trying to gather the tattered remains of his courage. In his head, he could picture it: He’d shove Gibby behind him, his shoulders squared, and he’d tell their muggers to go to hell. His dad had been a cop for longer than Nick was alive and had instilled in him a sense of duty. Of honor. You protected those who needed it. And not that Gibby needed it, exactly, but the principle was the same.

  It was something Shadow Star would have done. He was a hero, and he wouldn’t take crap from anyone.

  He could do this. He could do this.

  “Okay,” Nick said slowly as he raised his head. “No one needs to get hurt.” He stepped around Gibby, meaning to stand in front of her, but she grabbed his wrist, holding it tight. They were shoulder to shoulder. He heard Dad’s voice in his head, whispering that it was easier to stand together than it was to struggle apart. He slid his hand up until Gibby’s fingers latched onto his own. He squeezed her tightly.

  “Then hand everything over,” Mustache Man said, jabbing the knife toward them. “And maybe we won’t consider seeing what your blood look
s like on the pavement.”

  All in all, it was a very believable threat. Nick absolutely didn’t want to see what his blood looked like on the pavement. Even if he was brave (ish), it was outweighed completely by the fear of being stabbed. Nick did not want to be stabbed. He did not want Gibby to be stabbed.

  “Okay,” he said, hating how his voice wobbled. Gibby heard it too, inhaling sharply, her grip hard enough to cause Nick’s bones to grind together. “Please. Don’t hurt us. We’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “That’s better, kid,” Male Pattern Baldness said, mouth twisting in a sneer. “Maybe next time, learn to keep your gob shut.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” a deep voice growled from somewhere above them.

  Nicholas Bell froze because he knew that voice.

  That voice had starred in many a fantasy, alongside those in which Nick had saved himself. Sometimes, that voice would whisper in his ear as its owner held his hand, telling him he thought Nick was cute, and they should go on a picnic or to the boardwalk and make fun of all the tourists paying fifteen dollars for cotton candy. That voice had also been his muse in the writing of his magnum opus, the ever-growing tale of love and sacrifice, of hot superheroes and supervillains in skintight costumes, starring a young, handsome man named Nathaniel Belen, mild-mannered and innocent until he fell for the protector of a city and thus put himself in the crosshairs of the war between good and evil.

  That voice belonged to someone Extraordinary.

  Nick took a step out from under the umbrella. He turned his face toward the sky. Rain fell onto his cheeks.

  And there, perched on the side of a rent-controlled apartment building, was Shadow Star.

  His black costume was slick with water. It glittered in the low light that filtered out from one of the windows of the building. The star symbol was stretched across his muscular chest. The lenses over his eyes flashed, and his mouth was open, teeth bared as he snarled down at Mustache Man and Male Pattern Baldness.

  Nick’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. He’d had dreams that had started like this, and in those dreams, he’d say something witty and hilarious, causing Shadow Star to laugh (something Nick didn’t think he actually did, given that he needed to spend his time brooding about darkness and the diseased heart of the city). But for the life of him, Nick couldn’t say a word, his brain misfiring at the sight of the Extraordinary he idolized to what was most certainly an unhealthy degree. Eventually, a sound did fall from his mouth, but it was a breathy sigh. Not his finest moment.

  Mustache Man took a step back like he was getting ready to run. Male Pattern Baldness gaped up at Shadow Star, mouth opening and closing.

  Mustache Man turned and—

  Shadow Star raised his hand, and from underneath his wrist, a bright light burst into life, illuminating the alleyway, casting shadows where none had been before. Nick blinked against the flash, turning his head away to shield his eyes. He looked back in time to see Mustache Man make it two steps before his own shadow rose up from the ground, grabbing him around the ankles, flipping him up and over until he landed on his back with a bone-jarring crunch. He stared, dazed, up toward the sky, blinking slowly in the rain.

  Male Pattern Baldness didn’t try to run away.

  Instead, he darted toward Nick and Gibby, knife still clutched tightly in his hand. Nick scrabbled backward, pulling Gibby with him, causing them both to stumble into a small, ancient dumpster against the side of the building, overflowing with what smelled like weeks-old Chinese food. The umbrella fell to the ground, and they were instantly soaked.

  Nick held his hands up, annoyed that he was about to die right in front of Shadow Star of all people, already preparing an angry diatribe he was going to snarl at God and Jesus and some apostles when he got to heaven, if that was where he ended up.

  Male Pattern Baldness had almost reached him when Shadow Star flipped down between them. He landed gracefully in front of Nick, crouched low in the way only superheroes seemed to do, one hand against his chest, the other raised away from his body. Male Pattern Baldness tried to stop, but the pavement was slick, and he slid through discarded newspapers and what looked to be the remains of either curry or a diaper.

  Shadow Star wrapped a hand around his throat, using his other hand to knock the knife away before it’d even become a threat to him. The man’s eyes bulged and he said, “Urk,” like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t quite do so around the grip Shadow Star had on him.

  Nick had never mustered as much willpower as he had right then to keep himself from reaching out and touching Shadow Star’s back. It was only a couple of feet away, and it’d be so easy, but in the end, while he might have had a rather significant crush on the Extraordinary, he was also respectful of one’s personal space, and would not touch someone without their permission, even if it seemed like Rebecca Firestone did it all the time.

  “You made a mistake,” Shadow Star growled at Male Pattern Baldness, bringing their faces so close together, their noses almost touched. “One that you’ll regret.” His voice was deep, almost like it was being modified somehow to disguise it, but Nick also thought there was a great possibility that was how he normally sounded. He tried desperately not to sigh dreamily right then and there, especially with Shadow Star actually growling like Nick had made his character do in the fic. Screw everyone who didn’t think art imitated life.

  Male Pattern Baldness said, “Blargh,” and then Shadow Star threw him against the side of the building, and he landed in a pile of trash, where he stayed, the only movement the slow and steady rise of his chest.

  Shadow Star turned toward Nick.

  It was at this moment that Nick realized two very different things:

  First, his underwear was wet from the rain, and having wet underwear was worse than wet socks.

  Second, this was the moment he’d been waiting for ever since he’d seen Shadow Star for the first time On the news three months to the day since Before had become After—a blurry cell phone video that showed him backflipping off the top of a bridge, landing in front of a man who’d been ready to end it all and jump into the Westfield River. Nick had, at last count, watched said video 647 times in the last two years. Granted, since then, there’d been other, clearer videos of Shadow Star (hell, he’d even been interviewed, though it’d been with Rebecca Firestone, but Nick had become an expert at muting the video whenever she spoke), but that had been Nick’s first, and therefore his favorite.

  So, yes. Nick’s underwear was wet, and his crush on this Extraordinary could apparently grow even bigger when he was standing right in front of him. He needed to act cool. It was not every day one was rescued by the superhero of their dreams.

  The problem with that was Nick didn’t necessarily know how to be cool. Oh, sure, he understood the objective concept of it, but Nick was an awkward sixteen-year-old boy who wasn’t always in control of his mouth. Which was why instead of being cool and saying Thank you for saving us, you’re so neat, my name is Nick, and I’m glad I’m not dead right now, he blurted, “I have a pillow with your face on it!”

  The only sound that followed Nick’s slow, mortifying death, was the rain on the pavement. And Gibby saying, “This is painful to watch.”

  Shadow Star offered a hint of a smile, and Nick did his best not to stare, though he was failing spectacularly. “Are you all right, citizen?”

  He couldn’t believe Shadow Star was actually talking to him. “I don’t do anything weird with the pillow, in case you were wondering,” and oh god, why couldn’t he stop talking about the stupid pillow?

  Shadow Star said, “Oh. That’s … good.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “It is. Like, so good.”

  “Right,” Shadow Star said slowly. He glanced over Nick’s shoulder at Gibby, then looked back at Nick, who couldn’t help noticing they were almost eye to eye. Add in the fact that Shadow Star looked so much younger up close, and Nick couldn’t tell if he was smitten, or if he was about
to faint. “Are you both all right?”

  “Aside from the emotional trauma that will probably rear its head when I’m thirty-seven and working at my cubicle in a dead-end job that I hate, just fine,” Nick babbled, unsure why the words coming out of his mouth were the ones his brain deemed necessary to speak out loud.

  “I’m fine,” Gibby said mildly. “Any trauma I might have had is being washed away by the tragic comedy occurring right in front of me.”

  Shadow Star took a step toward them, gaze fixed on Nick. For his part, Nick remained where he was, though he doubted he could have moved even if he wanted to. Shadow Star’s mouth twisted slightly, and Nick tracked the movement with laser-sharp focus. They were—speaking objectively, of course—nice lips. Perhaps the nicest lips he’d ever seen.

  Shadow Star leaned toward him, and though Nick had no idea what the hell was going on, he was so on board with this unexpected turn of events, because it looked like Shadow Star was going to kiss him.

  Holy shit. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  This was what he’d written fanfiction for. He understood at that moment that Shadow Star had seen through Nick’s failings as a human being and had somehow already fallen in love with him right back. He didn’t know how it’d happened (especially so quickly—maybe Nick was cooler than he thought), but he was already picturing a house in the suburbs where he’d go to book club meetings and say things like, “Yes, Pride and Prejudice is an old book about stuff, but I didn’t get a chance to finish it because Shadow Star took me out to dinner last night at a fancy restaurant that had separate forks for the salad.”

  Life was glorious.

  Except.

  Except it wasn’t a kiss. It was Shadow Star bringing his left leg up toward his chest, then kicking it out behind him. The moment Nick thought was supposed to be the second first kiss of his life was actually Shadow Star’s foot striking the newly risen Mustache Man in the chest, knocking him back.

  And yet, Nick’s lips didn’t get that message until it was far too late. He kissed the side of Shadow Star’s head, right on his mask. It tasted of wet rubber.