Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Seventeen: Crack and Shatter

We Don't Have to Dance—  Andy Black

In the night, I make black market deals. Somewhere between the back of an aging pharmacy and the very pits of hell. I won't detail them for you. Just imagine a greasy brick alley and people with illusion-casts for faces, like when you looked for a face you saw a black hole. I can't tell you if this is real anymore. I can't tell you if I'm seeing the world as it is, or if I snapped in prison and it's all some kind of induced vision. Some kind of trip. 

I wake up early to catch Gideon before he goes to work. Apparently 4:30 isn't early enough, because by the time I've prepared the concoction (bubbling and hissing) over the toilet, he's already sitting in front of the door, rolling up his jeans and lacing up his boots. "Morning," I say to him, holding a hand over the glass. "I made you something." The consistency, at last, has settled into something milky; it feels heavy in the glass, like liquid lead. A Grayish goop. Not exactly yummy looking. 

"Max." He yawns and points at my gourmet slime. "Don't give me that thing. Poison me after work."

"Oh come on." I move to pat him, and when I do, his shoulders sag at the touch. He makes a sound that I can't really describe as a sigh, more like the little hiss a deflating punching bag would make. "Is that what you're gonna do to me, treat me like a supervillain? I guess that's all I'm gonna be."

"Not gonna work, I've seen Descendants. You're poisoning me, or love-spelling me. But..." You can tell when Gideon's about to say something he's proud of. His right cheek lifts all the way and his brow quirks up with it. Something flashes in both eyes. He's the softest creature I know, but when he gets smug I could swear there's some small piece of him that's dangerous. "You don't have a heart, edge-boy."

"Huh?" That's Gideon. An actual enigma. Talking fast, talking in his riddles. The goop hisses in my hands and I squint at his cute, eager little face. 

"You're poisoning me." But he says it lightly, right after her gives me a tight smile and a toss of his curly hair. It's got a blue sheen this morning, a little greasy. He hasn't slept. "I knew it was coming, you're with the bad guys now, and I'm gonna have to fight you."

I choke on air.

I am with the bad guys, I always have been, but the way he says it makes my heart drop. That he expected it, that he always knew who I would become when I at least thought he found some good in me, and that he doesn't look scared. He meets my eyes and I know he's ready to take me on. And though he's weak and I'm strong, that little flash of danger I see in his eyes, it sends the smallest chill down my spine. I dig into my holster, the one I hid with my sweater. "No, I'm trying to protect you." I let my voice get all crackly. Usually, sounding desperate is something I rehearse, something that doesn't come naturally. But these high-pitched words come far too easy. "Don't you trust me?"

The danger I see in him becomes less something I 'see in his eyes' and more something very real when he gets up and backs into the kitchen. "I do trust you, but we're gonna fight if you make me drink some creepy thing. I've fought with power harvesters before. You think I'm so fucking weak, well, I'm not. And don't deny it, I see the way you look at me, edge-boy..."

I don't wait. The glass gets thrown down and I pick up my tranq gun. It's a new one, and it looks like hell. Like I bent the zaggedy iron pieces of a broken radiator into the shape of a gun. A ratty, cheap steampunk thing. A flick open a glass tube, pour the contents of the glass into it, cap it, and load it into the chamber. While Gideon stumbles over his words and makes his tired threats in the kitchen, I shoot. Less of a bang! And more of a thuff! Two shots into the back of the neck and Gideon crashes helplessly to the floor.

He spasms a little. Sweat sprouts on his upper lip and his eyes grow big and swimmy in his head. Like glittering black fish. I kneel to his gasping little face,  pull the burner phone I bought for him out of his pocket, plugin ten memorized digits and say, "Hello? Hi? This is Max, Gideon's Roommate? Yeah, Gideon's really sick right now."

I hold the phone up to Gideon's mouth. He garbles, chokes, moans a little. The pixie-voiced college student on the other end gasps.

"Laryngitis. Since he can't, I just thought I'd call out for him. I'll take good care of him, don't worry about that." And I hang up. Gentle reader, don't worry about Gideon's safety: I underdosed him. Didn't want to stop his heart like I did with Monet. So while he chokes a little, I put my hand over his eyes and shut his eyelids tight. His eyelashes flutter against my calloused fingers.

"Hey, hey, Gideon. You good? I think you're having an attack of some sort." I pluck the needles out of his neck and sweep them onto the floor. Blood spurts, so red it's almost black. "Guess you got worked up, there. No offense man, but maybe you are a little weak. Are you gonna fight me?"

Glug glug glug. That might not be what he says, but that's what I hear. I pet back his curly hair, it's wet, but crisp underneath. I pick him up and his hand grips my shoulder. He digs his fingertips in so deeply I can feel his nails; he keeps them short. A desperate shock of his power rages into my skin.

If another super had done that to me? Black Ice or Yellow Star? A whole chunk of my flesh would have melted or burnt or frozen off. I would've dropped him, I would've screamed and clutched the new horrible wound, my day a hell of a lot worse. But with Gideon's soft skill, it charges me. All the knots in my muscles, all the scabbed cuts and deep divet all the pain fades.

I throw him on to his bed, shut the door of his bedroom, and drag his couch against it. It takes a couple of minutes. I should've locked him in his closet or tied him up, but I can't. There's a part of me that won't degrade him like that, a part of me that promises to be better to him than I was to Chip. Granted, that part of me is holding closed flood gates with rage and sadism and plenty of other generally shitty things howling on from behind them. 

(There's a part of me that wants to degrade him like that, you see. Another soft thing to crack and shatter. )

I pat the tranq gun on my hip, draw in a long, deep breath, and leave to wreak utter havoc on the world. 

***

"This is hell, yes? I am in hell..."  Chip hums to himself. If you made a ven diagram with Chip as a circle and parties as another, the circles would sit on opposite ends of the paper. Chip: Quiet, lonesome, prone to panic. Parties: Loud, crushing amounts of people, the definition of chaos. But it's where he has to go. It's his first lead. 

When Finn stops at a gas station, he and Kai step out of the car to shake the jelly out of their legs. The sun is setting. Bands of pink and orange stretch over them, the odd twinkle of a star like a shimmer of a sequin caught in a fold of glittering fabric. Beyond the gas station, a cityscape. But it's a point in the distant, and the rolling hills, big meadows, and small panel houses are up close. He draws in a long, sharp breath. 

A light on a rotting lamp post flickers on, illuminating the fliers upon fliers, nailed up and glued over, sharing its base. Gigs, rideshares, missing pets, found pets, one with a bunch of emoji guys yelling about supers being evil. But it's the yellow one, about bad ideas and booze, that makes Chip pause. 

Advertising an illegal party? Now that's a Max move.

He points at it and Kai wheels around, howling for Finn. Finn wanders over, shouting something about time and 'getting a move on,' when he sees the poster and audibly hisses. "Oh no." Runs his hands through his hair. "Oh shit."

The knife in his boot feels extra heavy. Chip's revenge will happen tonight.

***

Writing used to be pretty hard with two jobs. It was something that I really had to fight to squeeze in between the working and the night-adventuring. But now that I have zero jobs and a stay-in-place order, so my goal is to finally finish this thing before I lose my mind. 

#QuarentineGoals