“The mutants I created were nothing like this,” he says, looking at Ellis, who looks pained inside the capsule, his palms pressed to the inside, his arms tensed and the cords of his neck straining. “Tonight will be particularly spectacular, I think. Now be a good girl and memorize your lines.”
I push off the ground, my eyes, my heart, all burning with anger. “No. You don’t control me.”
I don’t know what to do but stand as he crosses the darkened stage to me. I swallow, watching the cybernetic armor shift and adjust from its sleek, powered down design, mechanical pieces whirring as it transforms into a jagged, menacing weapon. The LEDs even fucking turn red as its engines rev, loud and powerful.
I’m so focused on his superhero armor, I don’t even see him swing his bare hand down at me until it makes contact with a dull slap.
My head rolls back against my shoulder from the smack, a biting, ringing sensation spreading over my cheek.
Clayton scoffs as if I’m not even worth dealing with. “You think you’re going to stop me? You’re just a stupid girl. You’re nothing. Sit down.”
Suddenly, in the middle of this strange lab equipment, the backdrop of mutant-making serums and robotic armor, his weird costume, all of it becomes startlingly mundane.
A hot tear streaks a line across my stinging cheek. I see Clayton for what he is, now. I see all of it clearly.
It’s all fucking pageantry.
All his wealth, his grandeur, his power, and for what? Kayfabe. Illusion. It was never about saving people, it was always narcissistic at its core, a theater of violence where he cast himself as the undefeatable leading man. That instead of helping people with his wealth, the most he could conceive of was to dress up as a superhero.
I’m so sick of all of it, I act with barely a thought.
Surging forward, I hurl hands and elbows at whatever I can reach of him—it’s not a great plan. Clayton reacts, trying to holdme off with his robotic armor while one of my nails nicks the side of his neck. Shock and anger flash in his eyes as red wells up along the scratch.
I don’t know what I’m doing, really, but it doesn’t matter. Clayton isn’t exactly a practiced fighter, as much as he likes to post photos of himself in the training ring with famous coaches. We’re an awkward tangle of arms for a few uncomfortable moments, neither of us willing to let go, to cede an inch.
He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. I flail and throw out a hand wildly as my balance violently twists, grabbing his armor. A blast of eye-searing plasma flies into the lighting equipment above us. Some of it catches fire, sending a cascading power surge through from one stage light to the next.
Distantly, I’m aware of the growing unease of the crowd just beyond the heavy velvet curtains, the shrill voices raising alarm.
Clayton tries to throw me off, and for the first time that night, my heels fail me. I fall back hard on my ass and go sprawling.
Breathing heavily, Clayton presses his bare hand to the cut on his neck. He looks back and forth from the blood on his palm to me in disbelief as I shakily push myself to stand a few feet back from him.
Apologies are ingrained in my jaw, but I catch myself before the rote memory of the words manifests aloud. Instead, I straighten and close my mouth. I level a look at Clayton and nod.
From the look in his eyes, I know he understands: I’m not sorry.
Anger contorts Clayton’s features, his face reddening up to his ears. Grabbing his robot armor and turning it on me again as it revs, he spits, “You stupid bitch.”
Panicking, I backpedal and semi-intentionally dive behind the table holding his award while the glove sings with power. The laser blast shakes the table. I feel the heat curl around the edges.
It dissipates quickly. In a moment he begins flipping switches on his robot glove again, revving it up for another blast. The desk jerks away from me as Clayton kicks it with one of his robot boots.
I shuffle back from him on the ground, my hand touches something cold and metal behind me. Groaning, I pull myself up as quickly as I can.
With a scoff and a smile, Clayton holds his palm up to me again and fires off another beam.
In a panic, I grab the award and hold it up to shield my face. The laser collides with the award, plasma radiating out, deflecting.
The room is too bright to see for a moment, but when my vision returns, I’m a little singed, and probably smell like a campfire, but I’m alright.
I meet Clayton’s eyes, defiant. I can’t help but grin. It feels good.
The humor falls from his face, as he slowly lowers his palm.
Then he pivots on his heel, turning his palm back toward the tank. The light on his palm glows a bright, horrible red upon Ellis’s face as the sound of his laser charging fills my heart.
I’ve been so scared of my anger for so long, thinking it would resemble Clayton’s, that it would make me willing to hurt people without a care. But anger wasn’t what moved me, then, to throw the award at Clayton.
