Maybe it wasn’t a newfound surge of self-discipline, maybe it was just that I stayed in the secret base for several days. I wouldn’t call it moping in an angsty, semi-jealous funk, because it wasn’t that. Brooding sounds better. Sounds contemplative, dignified, even. It sounds like it doesn’t include searching Lacey’s name on tabloid websites to see either any announcement or baseless speculation that she’s gotten back together with Mr. Perfect.
Maybe I hoped she would come back around to the secret base, whether it be knocking on the tunnel door or crawling back through the vents. I wanted some kind of apology for kicking me out like that, or at the very least, some explanation. But it never came.
Vin hasn’t been helping either. Every moment Maestro isn’t present, he’s on my case, telling me to lose this girl.
“She is just playing around with your feelings, and it’s clear you’re just going to get hurt.”
Yeah, I know. It feels very clearly headed in that direction. I should just cut it off now.
It was just a one-time thing, anyway.
It’s another bitterly cold day in Goethal. The majority of the snow is piled up on street corners or melted in slushy streaks between trails of rock salt. The occasional flurried snowflake goes directly into my eye as I walk the streets with my hood up and my head down. The sweatshirt and denim jacket combo are a little difficult to tuck my wings back into, but it’s a lot less conspicuous than the flying suit during the day, and the skin and bones are thin and flexible enough to make it work.
I personally don’t love the feeling of my wings pressed in tight against my back—it’s that balls stuck to the inside of your thigh on a sweaty summer day feeling, except it’s my entire back—but it’s easier to blend in when they’re tucked under my jacket, and blending in means I can pick up takeout.
The henchman thing is really more of an overnight job in the family business, honestly. For the most part, I am a normal guy who goes out and gets breakfast sandwiches at bodegas during the day. I wish I was also still the guy who had a weird little crush on the pretty girl from Channel 6 News, instead of the guy who’s tying himself in knots over whether she likes him back.
It’s fine. Really, it is. It was only ever just a stupid crush.
I’m almost able to convince myself of that, sitting on a rooftop, overlooking the frosted cityscape, folding back the foil on my breakfast sandwich.
This is what life is about, the true pinnacle of happiness. The smell of bacon-egg-and-cheese with a hashbrown on a fresh sesame bagel with spicy mustard erupts from the wrapping, releasing a cloud of steam that burns my fingertips. The sandwich is almost too hot to hold, and the aroma of it makes my mouth salivate with anticipation. I know in my heart that those first few bites will cure me.
The guy getting mugged in the alley directly below me is a little off-putting, though.
It stops me just as I’m about to take the first bite of my sandwich. His voice breaks every few words as he pleads with the other guy about making rent this month. From up here, I can really only see their winter hats and the vague shape of one winter coat pinning the other against the brick wall.
Briefly, I think about the light in Lacey’s eyes that night outside the museum when she asked me if I was a vigilante.
Fucking hell.
I sigh and wrap the foil back around my sandwich and stuff it into my sweatshirt pocket. This won’t take a minute; it’ll still be warm when I’m done.
Let’s get one thing clear: I am no hero.
I don’t stop crimes; in fact I’ve committed more than I could even try to count. Breaking and entering, trespassing, destruction of property, assault, battery, theft, jaywalking, flying in restricted airspace, speeding, loitering, parking in front of a fire hydrant, parking on the wrong side of the street, parking after posted signs allowed, destruction of a parking meter, kidnapping, credit card fraud, you name it. I’ll get around to arson one of these days, probably. Really there’s no telling what Maestro is gonna need his goons to do.
You get caught on camera fucking up part of your job while still technically committing crimes, and people start talking about this vigilante shit. Heroism is just the angle from which the story is told.
It’s not as much of a rescue as it is a jump scare. Both the attacker and his victim startle when I land on a dumpster lid with a loud bang that reverberates through the alley.
They don’t have time to react, though, before I dive at the mugger, sending the both of us tumbling to the ground. The knife he was holding disappears into a pile of trash.
My shoulder hits the pavement, but at least the other guy does as well. He lands hard with a groan, and I can hear his nylon jacket scrape the pavement as he rolls over and starts to get up. He grabs me by the collar of my sweatshirt, and instinctively I wedge a foot between me and his chest. I hold him there for a heartbeat, my hand closes around an empty bottle littered near me. I shatter it over the mugger’s head, and he stumbles back woozily.
I pull myself to stand, keeping my eye on him as he tries to steady himself. He pants and glares at me, but after a moment, hurries off out into the street, around the corner.
Ugh, whatever. Conflict resolution skills in action.
I massage my shoulder and try to roll it, still stinging from the impact, and turn around. The guy who was getting mugged takes one look at me, makes a choked noise and runs off in the other direction.
“Not even a ‘thank you,’ ” I mutter, turning around again. Under my slides, something warm and wet penetrates my sock, making me leap back a step.
My bagel lies murdered on the pavement, the mugger’s cratered boot print in the hashbrown and melted cheese, sesame seeds scattered around it like drops of blood.
Oh I could cry. This crime fighting shit is not worth it.
“Serves your dumb ass right,” I scoff to myself in a pretty-good impression of Vin’s growl. “Did you forget what you are? A mutant. A monster.”
