The Mechanical Muse

Chapter 8 (Part 1)

Cassandra and I were hungry after the game, and while we had lost Valdez and Lucy somewhere behind us—they were probably greeting their fans—we didn't care to linger and wait for them: I had been in the spotlight enough for one day. I had taken off my baseball cap and given it to Cassandra to be more anonymous; it was quite a jarring contrast with her green top, but I think red suited her. Red suits a lot of people. The dining halls were going to be far too crowded with wannabe paparazzi, so we went to the surrounding neighborhood to a nice little Persian place staffed by old people with better things to do with their lives than browse TikTok.

"I don't like Valdez and Lucy. Not one bit," Cassandra confided in me shortly after we sat down. "Like it's cool Lucy can do all those crazy backflips and everything—she should have busted out some moves on stage—but I think she and Valdez let things get to their heads a bit. Just because they're acting like they're in some old wuxia film doesn't mean they're movie stars. I bet they'd stay there all night if they still had autographs to sign."

Very few people had asked me for autographs, and I think people were more interested in how I played foosball with Harry Styles than how I beat people up with recycling. Why couldn't they have given me something cooler to do? This question of "why" began to seize me with a slight tremor. Why was this necessary? What was going to happen when they discovered there was no kidnapping attempt, that the student we saved did not exist, that we weren't heroes but actually villains? The chancellor, the audience, Cassandra—everyone we held dear. I didn't mind being caught in small lies, saying I finished all my vegetables or that I found Valdez's misogynistic jokes funny, but this was a bit outside of my comfort zone.

"Yeah, I think they would," I said.

"You sound sad—is there something on your mind?" Cassandra asked. I shook my head.

"Of course there must be something on your mind. You had your moment of heroism yesterday, and you're still reeling from being called up on stage for something you didn't want anyone to know about. Did I guess right?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said sulkingly.

"Well I'm just lost for words. I don't know how you did it. How did you make those nunchaku from the rubber bands and cups and everything so quickly? You're like MacGyver. Was that something you practiced?"

I didn't like where this was going, though she sounded genuine in her inquiries. I didn't think she was trying to catch me in a lie, but I had no other choice. "No, not really, the idea came to me in the moment. It was instinct. I don't really remember how I did it."

"And I'm surprised too that they were so effective as a weapon. Like if you hit me with a paper cup, I don't think it would hurt that much, even at the speed you were whipping them around at. Did you put something inside so they didn't crumple?"

Since when was she such an engineer? "I'm surprised too, but it's convenient that they didn't fall apart. But I don't want to think about it anymore. It was a bit traumatic."

"You're right, it must have been traumatic. Do you remember the girl's name you saved? I hope she's doing all right. And it looked like you talked a bit afterward though the video cut off—I saw her give you all hugs and everything."

"I think it was Elena, Alina, or something like that—maybe Helena? That could be it. Something with an 'uh' sound at the end—not Cassandra, that's your name—Regina? No, but that's—" Cassandra cut me off:

"No worries if you don't remember. I'm just trying to think about what she must be feeling. After such a traumatic experience I'd be worried for her. And for whoever filmed it—I'm surprised they didn't help, but I guess that's the bystander effect."