Damsel[ed]: Rescue Required (#3 of the Damsel[ed] Series)

Chapter Five: When In Doubt, It's a Trap

Gats.

He sits with his knees bouncing, an overstuffed gym back half-open on his lap, all the clothes in the world poking through the zipper teeth and bulging out of tears at the bottom of the worn-blue nylon. You can pick him out immediately, even in the gush of nervous people, excited people, people rushing back and forth, packed together like playing cards. He looks up every second or so, scribbling on his drawing pad, his eyes so big they bug out. A lone jittery boy, draped in tourist gear, pressed up against a window as people pass by.

It's been at least three hours since the dinner disaster. I'm wearing a purple 'Starlight is for Heroes' ball-cap, which is a clear rip off of 'Virginia is for lovers', but Starlight is a chunk of Virginia, so I don't know if it's okay or not. I even bought Heaven a Galaxy plushie and I give the purple knight a squish for moral support, staring down at the toy's little button eyes and the smile stitched under its little plastic visor.

It's a struggle to connect the stuffy to the beautiful, brooding, broken girl. When I look up, the walls and people seem to be moving in on me, crushing me. It's a barrage of ugly thoughts, all at once. Owl's complex. My prison. The cage. And before I even approach the boy I have begun to shiver, warmth seeping through my skin, like the heat of the blood that splattered my face and shirt just days ago. I squeeze the miniature Galaxy even tighter, but looking down at the smiling, chibi-like face puts a lump in my throat.

Is this really what people think she's like? This happy, cute thing? Do they know she's only sixteen? That she was almost tortured to death?

"Gatsby?" calls Storm. His voice is deep and echoes off the walls. Cuts right through all the white noise. My pulse is pounding in my clammy fingers. I force a smile.

"Y-Yeah." My voice is too shaky. I straighten up and lower it, pushing back at the fear that's begun to creep into me. You are what you look. I try to laugh. "Yeah, yeah. New kid!" I wave wildly at the lone boy and squirm through the human flood, shoving, knocking one man out of the way.

He catches my eye and shrinks back for a second before popping up off the window, knocking over his bag and spilling its contents all over the floor. He stumbles a little, struggles to push the bag over his shoulder, apologizing in quick, mumbled sentences with the stylus clamped in his teeth. I push through the throngs and kneel down at his side.

Pictures spill out of his wallet. There's a ratty stuffed rabbit with a chewed ear at the bottom of the pile, and drawings. Crumpled drawings, drawings in plastic sleeves, drawings held together with strips of tape. Pencil-drawn, oil-painted, chalk-etched. He blushes when I pick them up, takes them from my hands and shoves them into his bag so hard I can hear the paper tearing. "Hi," he says. "You must be... Angelos?"

He's wearing a 'Starlight is for Heroes' cap, too, and his ponytail peeks out of the back, black chunks framing his face. His skinny jeans are splattered with paint. His collar is flipped up, his shirt half-tucked. And most of all, he looks like Angel. A paler, pocket-sized Angel, with the same dark eyes, hooked nose, and lean face.

I shake my head. "Gatsby. You?"

Storm and Juniper appear on either side of me, flanking me. The boy cows a little, and then straightens up, his eyes going round. A smile twitches on his lips. "Hi," he says. "You're the Fibbs, right?"

"And you're Grayson Shiroza—"

"Just Shiro's fine!" Another awkward laugh. He scratches the back of his neck, bouncing from foot to foot. "Have you always lived here? Starlight City, I mean." The Grayson kid clears condenstation from the window, glancing out at the city lights on his tip-toes. "It's amazing," he breathes. "Just—wow. Thank you so much for having me. I-I don't know what to say." He extends that chuckle, a little eh heh heh heh. A bouncing, twitching, and under-breath squeaing mass.