by Jenn Gott
This time, there was nothing. Jane leaned back and took a moment to clean her glasses, clear her thoughts. The paper stared back at her—empty, waiting. There was a certain expectancy to a blank page that Jane was never quite comfortable with.
Jane bit her lip, let her pencil make a line. A vague image strung her along, and she did not interfere. The outlines of a room gave structure to her drawing. Jane hummed under her breath. She made a figure, and then another. Swirls, and then shapes. By the time she realized that she was drawing Captain Lumen, the details had already started to creep in. Jane sat back, breathing deeply as if waking from a trance. She looked down at the drawing, still vague on the page, but there was enough detail to see what she was going for. Herself, in uniform, standing in the Vault below the headquarters. A prison cell stood before her, as Captain Lumen looked in on the man being held. He rested on a bench, his leg up beside him, hand laying casually over his knee. Doctor Demolition’s black uniform was already partially filled in with thick layers of graphite, but his face . . .
There was nothing in the blank circle of his face. Jane had never drawn him without his mask before.
Her chair screeked underneath her as she stood up. She was still holding her pencil, tapping it thoughtfully against her lip as she walked. The drawings didn’t truly matter, she supposed—certainly they served no purpose, other than a kind of meditation for Jane—and it’s not as if they were entirely accurate, though she was basing them on conversations overheard. Still . . . how often do you get to see your own creations come to life?
She wanted to draw him as he actually looked. For real.
Jane was certain that she wasn’t supposed to have access to the Vault. Though the Heroes wanted her help, needed her help, there remained a very clear distinction between them and Jane. She was like a freelancer, a temp, not truly part of the office. Not invited to the parties. Not trusted with the supplies.
To hell with what they wanted. Jane rode the elevator down, down, down, watching the gently pulsing panels of white that slid up the walls as she passed each floor. Jane was risking her life for their cause. She was owed one or two.
Besides, she was Captain Lumen, right? The computer recognized her, even if the Heroes would not.
The access panel outside of the Vault turned green. The doors slid open. Jane tucked her pencil into her ponytail, and stepped through.
And there, inside the cell, there he was. Doctor Demolition. The one and the only. The man who had been wrecking havoc on Grand City for more than a year now, who’d been defeated time and time again, only to rise with an even more dastardly plan a few weeks later. Or, as Jane knew him:
“Eddie?”
Eddie, the man that had fired her. Eddie, with his bobblehead collection and his habit of accidentally spitting as he talked. Eddie, who took credit for Jane’s ideas at every opportunity, who never appreciated what she’d given to QZero, who seemed somehow angrier with each new level of success that the Hopefuls franchise achieved.
Eddie whipped his head up, his eyes wide and frantic, as Jane burst out laughing.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. His voice was overly strong the way that it got when he was trying to hide something. “How did you get that name?”
Jane’s laugh condensed to a smug grin. “Oh, this is rich.”
“Listen, whoever you think I am, I’m not,” Eddie said.
Jane raised an eyebrow. She crossed her arms. “Really? So you’re not Edwin Easton, formerly of Clear City, husband to Maxine, father of Lucy and Thomas? And I suppose that you don’t really like Tycho’s Tacos with an unholy passion, especially if they give you extra packets of hot sauce?”
The absolute stillness that radiated off of him told Jane all that she needed to know.
Jane smirked. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.
“What do you want?” Eddie managed to say. Though it took him three attempts, and even then, his voice was stiff with tension.
“UltraViolet.” The answer came automatically, as if this was always the reason that she’d come down here. She leaned in, until she was just on the other side of the glass barrier that separated them. “Who is she?”
Eddie shook his head. “I don’t know. Truly! I’ve told your Heroes that, and I mean it. She came to me about a year ago. Wanted me to cause chaos in Grand City. But she’s never divulged her secrets to me. I’ve never even seen her face!”
“You expect me to believe that?” Jane asked, though in fact she did. Eddie was so many things, but not a skilled liar. Especially when he was stressed or intimidated. Jane remembered one time, running into him talking to a corporate bigwig in the hallway, how Eddie had folded so easily under pressure, like a wet comic book.
“It’s the truth!” Eddie said. A layer of sweat had sprung up on his brow. Next would come his habit of gnawing on his lip.
As if on script, Eddie’s teeth appeared, drawing his lip in. He chewed, chewed, his wide eyes never once leaving Jane’s face.
Jane sighed. She dropped her arms. “Okay, fine. But listen, you have to be able to tell me something. Why does she want to destroy the city? What’s her endgame?”
Eddie stopped chewing. His eyebrows raised up—first one, then the other. His mouth was red and irritated as he said, “You mean you really don’t know?”
“Apparently not,” Jane said. “So why don’t you just tell me?”
“She wants to destroy you.”
Jane frowned. “You mean the city? Or the Heroes?”
“Both,” Eddie said. He stood up, his face turned serious, like someone had flipped a switch. When he took a step forward, closer to the glass barrier, Jane suddenly felt an urge to step back. “But mostly, she wants to destroy you.” Eddie jabbed his finger at the glass, straight at Jane, making her jump. His grin cut the room like a knife across her skin. “Jane Maxwell. Did you really think that we wouldn’t know who you are?”
Jane’s blood went cold. She reached behind her, fumbling for the door controls, as Eddie—as Doctor Demolition—reached into his uniform and removed the smallest piece of tech. He crunched it between his fingers, and a pulse shot out around him.
Later, Jane wouldn’t remember hitting the floor. The explosion would exist in fragments: the sound of glass splintering, the burst of heat hitting her square in the chest, the ringing in her ears. Her world blinked in and out, as heavy black boots stepped over the rubble, coming toward her. Lights flashed red, alarms sounded from so far away. Sparks made her wince. Her breath squeezed tight as Doctor Demolition’s face, now masked, came into focus above her. He pinched her chin, turning her head toward him. His voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“The Spectral Wars are coming, Captain. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”
Fear turned Jane’s world black. Like a curtain falling, she slept.
Within days, Jane’s family had returned to their normal lives. Allison drove down to D.C. (though she promised to visit again soon, to see how her father was doing). Mayor Maxwell went back to work. Mrs. Maxwell retreated to Charlotte’s Landing.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mrs. Maxwell said, opening the door for Jane and Cal. She stepped aside, motioning to the foyer. “Well, help yourselves. You know where the basement is.”
“Thanks, Olivia,” Cal said, as he breezed past her like he owned the place.
Jane hung back. Even though it wasn’t really her mother, the words that they’d shared last time sat prickly between them. She wanted to talk about them. She didn’t want to talk about them.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “I have a busy schedule—you’ll barely even notice that I’m here. As I’m sure you’re counting on.”
“I’m not—” Jane started, but Mrs. Maxwell was already shaking her head. She turned away, leaving Jane to enter the house and close the door on her own.
Jane picked her way inside.
Honestly, she’d have been just as happy to never see this place again. But s
omething had changed, since talking to Doctor Demolition. The threat of UltraViolet’s weapon hung over everything now, coloring Jane’s world. She couldn’t just ignore it anymore, as much as she might want to. She had to be honest: the rest of the Heroes’ efforts may not be enough. And neither, realistically, might Jane’s—but she had to at least try.
She’d never be able to look at herself in the mirror again if she didn’t.
So here they were. Training again, isolated from both the city and the rest of the Heroes. Part of Jane felt like a little kid, shuffled off to summer camp to get out from the adults’ hair, but she couldn’t really argue. While they didn’t exactly blame her for Doctor Demolition’s escape, neither was Jane the most popular person among the group right now. And not having to look at them every day, see the mix of judgment and uncertainty in their eyes . . . it might help.
Days passed. Not many, but so full that Jane lost track of them easily. During the day, Jane ran and fought and ducked and scrambled. Lights flared—over and over and over again, so much that Cal had taken to wearing his sunglasses even indoors. Jane’s head throbbed. At night, she counted her bruises, took stock of each sore muscle. Once, in a fit of frustration, Jane yelled at Cal that he was putting her through basic training, only to have him answer that that’s exactly what he was doing. This version of him used to be in the military, after all. He knew how it was done.
Jane didn’t know what to say to that. Cal shrugged—then barked out another order for her, and she sprang into action as if she was a puppet on strings.
She slept deeply. Chugged gallons of water. Juanita, or whatever her name really was (she never said, even when Jane tried to ask), made Jane dinners fit for a king. Heaps of protein, full green salads, rolls slathered in fresh butter. Jane would eat by herself, by choice, alone in the formal dining room. She carried her plates back and forth, loading up course after course.
“. . . thought we were pals!” Cal was saying one evening, as Jane came back into the kitchen. “Amigos! Compadres!”
Juanita blinked up at him. She held up a plate of fresh cheesecake, right under his nose as if to distract him. Jane sidled up, just long enough to steal a slice of cheesecake for herself, and left them to sort it out.
Every day, there were more stupid exercises. Another routine designed to jar her powers, another test for Jane to pass. Jane had been afraid, at first, that her powers might prove overwhelming, that the voice that had egged her on at City Hall would return, but so far it was all routine. She certainly felt in control—even the day that she’d finally managed to break through into infrared, the whole of the darkened basement now visible to her, she’d been in control.
So . . . maybe the voice had been nothing, after all. A freak occurrence, like a snow squall in July.
Now she stood on the docks, alone, trying to focus her breathing. Her powers hummed through her, but Jane kept a comfortable leash on them. Even the tickle in her fingers was becoming familiar.
Jane stared out at the water. There were several targets bobbing in the distance, buoys that Cal had positioned earlier that day. Jane didn’t understand the point of this one, but when did that ever matter? The buoys flashed wide stripes of red and white, red and white, as the currents tugged them over and over. The sun beat against Jane’s back, the exposed length of her neck. Six new bruises yesterday, and by now every muscle ached down to the bone. She was sweaty, cranky, crusty with salt from a two-mile swim.
She was just about to target them when the sound of a door slamming shut broke the stillness.
“Cal, I swear to God, if you’ve come to tell me one more—”
But when Jane turned, it wasn’t Cal cutting down through the slope of grass.
It was Amy.
Jane felt as if she’d fallen into a dream. Amy smiled. Waved. She had on an a-line skirt, and a sleeveless blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Bare legs led way to flat sandals tied in place around her ankles. A red belt cinched in at the waist, drawing together the yellow and blue and white of the rest of her outfit. With her bobbed hair, she could have been a model for an upscale thrift store, vintage clothes curated for the highest quality. The mere sight of her lifted some of the weight from Jane’s chest. The view cut a perfect picture: Amy backed by a sprawling green lawn, a white beach house and the blue sky framing her. Every color popped, the image screaming of summer, of lazy days, of long nights at the beach, of sparklers, of steaks cooked over a charcoal grill.
“How’s the training going?” Amy called as she approached.
Reality crashed back into Jane, and she made a face. “Don’t tell me you came all this way just to ask me that.”
“Why not?” A trace of laughter clung to the edge of Amy’s voice like perfume. “Aren’t I entitled to fuss over you?”
Jane flushed. Her eyes found the wood of the dock, the wet splotches from her bare feet.
Amy had reached the dock by now. She picked her way along the planks, walking along them as if they were stepping stones. Up close, Jane could see that she’d chosen white lace fingerless gloves for the day, like she was expected for tea with the Queen.
“How do you do it?” Jane asked. Amy glanced up, puzzled, so Jane added, “Handle being a superhero. I’ve been here for less than two weeks and already it’s exhausting. And you . . . I mean, you can’t even touch things without absorbing their emotional energy. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”
Amy shrugged. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, dragging loose strands across her cheek. “You get used to it,” she said as she brushed them aside. She laughed. “I’m sorry, that’s probably not very helpful to you right now.”
“Not really, no,” Jane conceded. She looked down at her hands, reflecting brightly in the sun.
You get used to it. Jane snorted. She doubted that she’d ever get used to any of this—not just the superpowers, but the whole package deal of her double’s life. The house, the money; the parents, their fractured marriage locked up inside; a sister, so new to Jane and already not speaking to her; training sessions that left Jane feeling like she’d been pulverized with a baseball bat.
Without a word, Amy ran a reassuring hand up and down Jane’s shoulder blade. Jane closed her eyes. Amy . . . That much, at least, Jane felt like she might be able to get used to. Not Clair, no—nothing would ever be the same as Clair. But there was just enough of Clair in Amy that it was easy to forget sometimes, easy to allow the familiar gestures of comfort and support. Tiny bits of Clair in an otherwise empty and cruel world.
In the grand scheme of things, it was barely anything—table scraps at a pauper’s supper—but it was more than Jane would ever get back in her own world, in her own life.
“You know what I think you need?” Amy asked. She wore Clair’s bright tone in her voice, the I’m-going-to-fix-everything tone that Jane thought had been lost forever.
“No,” Jane said. “What do I need?”
“A break.” Amy smiled. She threaded her hand down until she’d taken Jane’s, careful to avoid contact between their bare fingers. She gave Jane a gentle squeeze. “Come on. I know just the thing.”
* * *
“Where exactly are we going?” Jane asked for the hundredth time.
“Patience,” Amy said. “Honestly, Jane. You were never good at waiting for anything, were you?”
“No,” Jane said, so directly that Amy laughed. It used to make Clair laugh, too; she had endless patience for Jane’s impatience. In fact, Clair used to revel in concocting elaborate scenarios to torment Jane—every birthday, anniversary, Christmas. She dragged out Jane’s presents all day, hiding them behind the furniture like Easter eggs.
“One more,” Clair would say, whenever Jane stumbled across another one. She’d grin, a wicked, evil, grin, because there was never any way of telling if there truly was only one, or still another half-dozen scattered among the apartment.
“God,” Jane would whine, “you’re killing me here,” though that was a lie. As much as it drove Jane c
razy, she loved the thrill that it gave Clair, and would dutifully scour each room top to bottom, knowing that Clair was sneaking off to rearrange the hiding places while Jane’s back was turned.
“Okay, we’re almost here,” Amy said, snapping Jane back to the moment. The summer day returned in force: the heat off of the interlocking brick sidewalk, the drawling chatter of the Landing accent, the smell of ice cream twisting along the breeze.
Amy stopped. Jane stood beside her and looked around, but, not being familiar with the island, she wasn’t sure why Amy had brought her to this particular street corner. It looked the same as every other one that they’d passed: a coffee shop (independently owned, none of the corporate sellouts for this tourist town, oh no), a bank, a preservation society. An old couple walking side by side down the sidewalk, a middle-aged woman with hair frizzed to high heaven, a young mother out pushing a jogging stroller, a cradled poodle with a wig.
“I don’t get it,” Jane said.
Amy smiled. “You’re not supposed to—yet. Here”—she reached into her purse, drawing out a cheerful, cherry-patterned silk scarf—“tie this over your eyes.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.” She shook the scarf, as if it might entice Jane into taking it.
Jane crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not blindfolding myself in public.”
“Oh, I think you will.”
“Do I even want to know why you have that in your purse?”
“Now that would be telling,” Amy said, flashing a knee-weakening grin in Jane’s direction.
Jane looked down, hoping that her hair would cover the flush creeping up her cheeks. She supposed that it was her own fault—she’d kind of started it.
She snatched the scarf out of Amy’s grip. Took off her glasses, tucking them into her shirt pocket. Tried to ignore the curious looks that she was drawing as she lifted the scarf in front of her own face and closed her eyes. The scarf smelled like jasmine and turpentine—like Clair—and the silk caressed her skin with the softest kisses. Jane fumbled to tie a knot. Warm fingers fluttered against hers, shooing them away, as Amy took over the process. A few short tugs later, and the blindfold was secure.
