Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Two: The Downside of Super-Strength

Now, this would be a crappy origin story if died. You'd probably ask for your money back, which is what I would do, but you're not paying for this. Which is good economic sense on your part.

But I digress.

The Universe doesn't care what makes a good origin story. People die. Sometimes by perfectly normal means, sometimes by drowning in illegal rivers of chemical pollution.

Would this be a bad time to admit I don't know how to swim?

Goop oozes through my blazer and shirt. It fills my head with twittering birdies and my lungs with acid sludge. It burns. And it's heavy. Though I splash and scream, the brew is so thick my thrashing only yanks me deeper into the bog.

Masquerade looks down at me and waves. With the last of my strength, I flip him off. You're tough, I tell myself. You can get yourself out of this one. Sure, you live by the beach and can't swim because water is scary, but you've got this. You can deal.

This is before I'm pulled under.

If a galaxy had a texture, this is how it would feel. The swirl of hot colors around my head. The darkness. The sting of broken rocks against my body like burning, poky, stars. My nostrils are sealed shut, my cheeks pufferfished with acrid air.

Could this honestly be the end?

I hope not. Drowning is already a bad way to go, and it only makes it worse I'm being passively murdered by a supervillain to cover up what I've seen. Me, a freaking reporter, unearther of truth.

No, an ironic twist isn't a great way to go, either. Leave that for the authors.

My arms sink below me in the bubbling goo, fingers twitching with stunted nervous energy. I don't get to see my life flash before my eyes. I just see darkness, the deeper I sink. Below me, my fingertips find the crowbar, smooth and slimy, at the bottom of the lagoon.

With my brains about to squish in my head from the liquid pressure, I think of Kai. I think of Finn. I think of Dad.

I think of dangling helplessly in Masquerade's grasp and of that grin squiggled across his mask, eternal in its cruelty.

The more I think of it and the people I care about, the more I hack at the choppy waters. The soup clings to my skin and sizzles under my clothes, but I can't let go.

That mask.

All I see is that mask. All hard lines, and a thick, overwide smile. And all I can think about is what it stands for. That boy. Someone has to fight back.

I have to fight back.

Another kick and I burst through the blackness. Goop clings to my face like a mask and hangs off my arms in strings like a goopy sort of net. The air, though acrid, is delicious to my burning lungs

I upchuck my stomach, wading through the sludge and stumbling up into the grass the ooze only brushes.

"Monet!" I jump. I can't tell if it's Kai or Finn or even Masquerade, because everything sounds like it's been dunked underwater. A hand pats my arm, making me gasp, and sputter, and wheeze. The stranger's gentle squeeze has all the crushing-force of a steel claw on my now brittle body. I heave up a little more of my stomach, my skin still burning, my brains still melting in their skull cavity.

"We need to get her checked out."

"No." I heave, spitting up strings of vomit and sludge. "I just need coffee. And a hot shower."

"We should probably call 911."

I shake my head. My hair is slicked to my forehead and neck in chemical grease, the gooey substance dribbling down the back of my neck. "I need to get these pictures to Mayweather—"