Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Reluctant Rescue

Percy is sinking.

Max limpens, his last breath escaping him in a few pearly black bubbles, and Monet has become a dead weight in her other hand.

Percy doesn't know what she expected, exactly. An easy swim? The bog isn't so deep. The problem is that the sludge is more quicksand than tar-pit, and the more she swims against the choppy waters, the harder they tug her ankles, down, down, down into the artificial depths. But Percy won't let get. She trails her fingers up the sleeves of Max's costume, curls them in the stiff corners of his torn cape, rolls the hem around her wrist. She catches him by the small of his back and shoves his face up to the air. He's still sinking. The sludge is now up to her mouth; she lost the air she'd tried to save by jabbering reason at Monet.

With her fingers curled in the cuffs of his sleeves, she reaches for Monet's collar. The sludge now reaches her nose. Her shoulder is clicking. With the strain of pulling the villain from the muck, she figures it'll pop out of its socket in a second or so. Shivering against the acrid chill, she snatches up Monet by the high collar of her super suit.

Come on, she wants to scream, come on. It can't end this way, can it? The girl bursts through the choppy water from a single hard tug from Percy. She coughs and groans, spitting up the brine. Max's body pulls Percy into the brine, fills her eyes with it, so all she can see is the bubbles in the water and the darkness around her. She struggles and wheezes and silently screams. Her fists come up with a sucking sound from the strings of goop, and in a desperate attempt at reviving her, she punches Monet in the assumed chest area. Hard. With her ears full of brine, Monet's hacking sounds murky and far away to her, like a painful reality from a distant dream.

I'm sorry, she thinks to her mother. I'm sorry I didn't inherit your superpowers, I'm sorry I couldn't redeem the bad guy or get the girl. I'm sorry my noble sacrifice and plan failed. I failed you and everything you stood for, and for that, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I...

Above, Monet sputters and screams.

Percy releases her, her grip on Max tightening still as she drifts toward the bottom of the bog with an almost peaceful indifference to the pain of her chosen death. Monet gargles, coughs, images whirling behind her eyes. Of the bog, of her, of Percy, of Max, her friends. Her skin buzzes, a warm and painful reminder of her powers. The responsibilities she's taken upon herself.

Percy sighs.

Groggy, Monet's stitches torn open from the ferocity of her fight, her arm cracked and the bone bent,  she manages to yank Percy above the bubbling pit with a single, super strong jerk. Her legs are still wrapped around Max's waist. Percy groans and chokes, her head pressed to Monet's chest. The hero's flight is stilted, and clumsy, and weak. She isn't so much as rocketing into the air as she is squirming against the ropes of toxic goo clinging to her.

This time, when she frees herself, she isn't vowing to stop Masquerade or save the world from ever being hurt by him.

She's vowing to save him. As freaking crazy as that sounds.

The chemicals lash back to their pit. Monet tears free, Percy shivering against her, Max a wilted lump that sags in her grip. She surveys the world around her, the quiet thump of the rain on the grass, warehouse, and overgrown cottage. The closest hospital will still take her several minutes to fly to, and she doesn't trust herself, injuries and all, to make it in time. So she lands back on the hill of clover behind the little house and lays Max down on the patch. Percy collapses on all fours, wretching. Monet winces and stretches Max flat, clearing the tar-like goop from his face with a single wipe. He looks so young, his expression blank, his mouth pressed into a hard line. An edge of panic rises back into her.

"Percy—"

Percy coughs and places her cold, dripping hands on Monet's. She helps her tip his chin to the side, centers his head back. Pinches his nose, helpfully gasps, "four breaths. I can take it from here, if—"

"It's okay, thanks, and uh, thanks too, for..." For saving me, in more ways than one, I guess. Her heart is like lead in her chest as she leans over. And flinchingly, she presses her mouth to his and begins rescue breaths with more than a jolt of pain. Percy scrambles away behind her to get help. And Monet is racked with guilt and self-loathing in equal parts. She might've killed him. But that was the plan, to keep him from Kai and Finn and other innocent kids. It hurts her. Killing him and saving him both feel wrong to her, still, even after making her decision in the pit.

But then his eyes open, and they crack her open like a kick of whiplash. His young face, the raw terror in his wide glazed brown eyes. Like he sees her as the Grimm Reaper herself. Monet pulls her face away and he rolls his head to the side, sputtering. She grasps him by his wrists. "Max? Are you okay?"

He laughs, trembling. He raises his head to speak, and then he lowers it back into the patch of clover, coughing. The boy wriggles to escape, but Monet places a knee on his stomach. He's a pale little sniveling heap, captured easily in her grasp. Is he still there, she wonders, the boy crying alone in the middle of the night? The one who tried to spare her, the one who looked so tentative on their date, so earnest, the one who seemed to care so much about his school and student council.

Where does the boy end and the mask begin?

He blinks up at her. His mouth opens, then he shuts it, frowns. "I—I'm sorry." Tears are streaming down his face, but he doesn't seem to notice. They leave faint gray trails on his cheeks. "Monet, I'm—"

Monet lifts her fist and closes the distance between them with a single punch to the side of his jaw that splits the air with a click and a crunch. His head snaps to the side. He quiets. She picks him up and slings him over her arms, woozy. Blood trickles from her side. For the first time of the night, the pain comes to the front of her mind. The throbbing ache, the raw, numbing tingle, the ebb and flow, ebb and flow, goop dribbling from the corner of her mouth. Max stirs. She squeezes him and he falls limp over her arms.

Percy bursts through the doors of the warehouse, where the heroes are tearing its insides apart chain by chain by chain. Most of the heroes don't even look up when she enters. They're intent, slipping through the crumbling building like bright, multi-color shadows. "Mon—Onyx needs backup. She's got Masquerade." They abandon the warehouse like that. A few quick glances thrown in her direction, and they're racing outside to help. Sirens wail in the distance. Monet stumbles up to the front of the house, edging against the siding, Max clenched in a death grip. Percy races toward her as she wheels back and slumps against the door. She's shaking.

"Mo!" Percy races up to her, still woozy. Monet glances down at her. Her lips part into a half smile, and she slumps against Percy. Her side is crusted with sludge and blood. Her shoulders tremble, and at first, Percy thinks she's crying. But then she hears the sound of laughter, a quavering giggle suspiciously resembling a sob. Percy tenatively braces her arm and her fingers sink into a rut of split bone. Monet doesn't even react and Percy, afraid of bringing the injury to light, tries to chat her up to keep her distracted. "Uh, Mo, what are you laughing at?"

She sighs into Percy's shoulder, still clutching Max in a strangling hold. "My gosh," she slurs. "This is going to make one heck of a blog post."