by Mike Chen
All except one person, a silhouette in a hood and backpack—the only person walking in the other direction.
Got you.
She tilted her palms back to propel forward. But she failed to burst ahead the way she expected, and instead, her powers wavered, her hearing range fuzzied just a hair even when concentrating.
The hiccup forced her to rotate her body, catching herself before hitting the ground less gracefully than she would have liked, especially with a broad-daylight audience. She stood and realized she’d just managed to avoid colliding with a security guard who’d stumbled out of the bank while rubbing his eyes and holding his head.
“Sorry,” she said to him. He looked up, then recognition flashed across his groggy face, and he started babbling. Zoe stopped him. “Yes, I’m her. Gotta go.”
A quick turn and two steps forward got Zoe nothing but a mob of people, all pointing and screaming her way, everything amplified by her heightened hearing to a point where the simple digital click sound of a camera phone echoed like a train plowing through. From behind, someone spoke in a reporter voice while recording on his phone: “What appears to be a daring daytime heist by the Mind Robber has come full circle, as San Delgado’s Throwing Star has arrived. This battle of the city’s extraordinaries has got everyone’s attention right here, right now.”
A hero pushes forward, she told herself, and her legs churned before she leaped into the air, a soaring arc that drew dozens of eyes on her path across the sky.
The heels of her boots clunked on the asphalt, a few feet from the empty parking spot she’d intended, and thankfully right after a car had passed. A quick glance showed that this remained the clearest path, though she’d lost sight of the Mind Robber. Zoe pushed herself, and while she still moved way faster than the rubberneckers jogging down the street to watch her, it became clear that something dialed down her swiftness and power.
Of course, she knew what caused it. But she shook it off. She’d deal with that later.
The end of the block came fast, the looming shadow of the TransNational Building and the dimming afternoon sun taking away some of her long-distance visibility. But she kept pace, coming to the intersection and leaping.
About two stories straight up. Not her best jump, but enough altitude to locate the outline of a hood and too-large backpack.
She landed, keeping her eyes on the bobbing hood while he ran. His voice carried through the din of traffic and humanity, repeatedly saying “sorry” and “excuse me” to the people in his way.
At least he was polite.
She ran again, dancing between coming and going cars. But at the end of the block, he was nowhere to be seen.
Cars slowed, then pushed past, no longer gawking at the novelty of the Throwing Star. Even passersby did the same, people hustling home or parents crossing their street tugging on the arms of their young children. The children, though, still marveled at her; she told herself to wave at one little boy even though she was generally terrible with kids.
That was unfair. She was generally terrible with human beings.
Zoe reminded herself to focus, and she scanned again. Still no signs of the hood with the backpack.
“Sorry, excuse me” floated through the air. But where?
Zoe looked down.
Straight down. A Metro station.
Of course. She mentally kicked herself. “Got you this time,” she said. “Asshole.”
Old newspaper pages kicked into the air as Zoe rushed to the Metro entrance. She dashed down the stairs and hit a wall of people trying to beat the rush-hour commute all at once.
None of them seemed to care that the Throwing Star was right behind them. Shoulders bumped into her as men and women tried to ram forward, all too busy staring at their phones or looking at their feet to notice that the city’s extraordinary vigilante stood right there.
Zoe was kind of offended.
“Sorry, excuse me,” the Mind Robber said from way within the station—the left platform. Gauging the gulf of people between here and there, Zoe flexed her palms flat and she pushed hard against an invisible pressure, propelling herself upward. The top of her head bonked into the ceiling. Dust that had accumulated probably since, well, the opening of the Metro decades ago, sprinkled on her head and shoulders, and Zoe tried to ignore the odor of soot and garbage that came with it. Instead, she angled her palms to shoot herself forward over the daily workforce, speeding past them toward the interchange at the room’s far end.
“Look out!” she yelled, loud enough to get people’s attention, and she tried to land without stepping on anyone’s toes or bags before dashing through the next intersection, her extraordinary speed slowed by the sheer volume of people. The squeak and groan of a train pulling into the station caught her ear, along with the Mind Robber’s nonstop apologetic refrain—still polite, but more urgent. She considered hovering again, as the view from her five-foot-four-inch frame meant more necks and shoulders than a clear view of the Mind Robber. Instead, she chose force. “Stop him,” she called out.
Apparently, that was the best phrase to grab people’s attention. They hesitated and looked at her, then parted into a path as they gradually realized the Throwing Star was chasing a bad guy. The train doors opened and the Mind Robber hopped on with the quickest of looks back her way.
Her path came to an abrupt end as a half-dozen people stood in Zoe’s way, staring blankly ahead.
He’d stunned them. Melted their brains or whatever he actually did.
Would he try to do that to her?
The train beeped and announced itself. “The doors are closing. Next stop, McCrimmon Square,” the automated female voice droned. Zoe vaulted over the static group and rushed to the platform. The train started to roll, and with each of Zoe’s steps forward, it seemingly matched her acceleration and upped the ante.
Twenty feet. Then fifteen. If she pushed hard enough, maybe she could jump onto the back of the train, punch through the window and climb in that way. The Metro office would probably accept the cost of repair for catching the Mind Robber.
Ten feet. She prepared to go, hands primed to help propel her forward. Seven, six, five...
The world spun, then her head hit concrete. “Oof,” she grunted, realizing that she’d stumbled and fallen, tripping on her own legs. Not a consequence of dueling with the Mind Robber, but her own less-than-ideal coordination.
The back of the train disappeared into the tunnel, its lights fading into black.
The Mind Robber got away.
“Are you okay?” a man asked, kneeling down and offering a hand.
She waved him off with a frustrated sigh, and though she didn’t have extraordinary smelling, the scent of alcohol on her breath clearly came through. Ceiling dust from earlier had melted with sweat, creating a thin but very palpable and very gross grime on her head. To top it off, her left pinky finger was now mashed into a wad of gum.
She pushed herself off of the Metro station floor. A small crowd formed around her, staring, some taking pictures, and some talking on their phones. “Holy shit, dude, the Throwing Star is right here and she totally ate it while running.”
Don’t punch him don’t punch him don’t punch him.
“You look like you could use a beer,” a woman in a business skirt and glasses said.
A beer. Problem was, she’d already had a drink. Six in fact, a whole pack that she’d noticed sitting in the hallway on her way up to her apartment’s roof. The original plan didn’t involve finding the Mind Robber, or even to drink all those cans. She’d donned her speed-resistant suit and pulled her FoodFast delivery polo shirt over it, en route to pick up an order from Noodle Tent. Sprinting atop buildings proved to be the fastest way to deliver food, making her the only person in San Delgado qualified to do such things. Her five-star rating probably topped the list of Best Things About Zoe Wong.
Little did she know that the same thing that boosted her confidence also took away her speed and strength. Lesson noted.
“I’d love one,” Zoe said, the whoosh of another coming train causing her hair to whip all around. “But I probably shouldn’t.”
As she made her way out of the station, a new problem surfaced: On which rooftop had she ditched her FoodFast polo shirt? Missing that Noodle Tent delivery put her five-star rating in jeopardy.
3
JAMIE STOPPED, CATHCHING HIMSELF. He’d gone too far this time. Close eyes, deep breaths, count to five, and then open eyes to see the damage.
Damn it. He’d really done it. He looked at the grout brush, then the lines between the countertop’s tiles, then back at the brush. Yes, he’d gotten the coffee stain out, but he’d also scrubbed too hard, wearing away some of the grout.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d arrived home, throwing his cash-filled backpack on the futon cushion. It landed with a thump, startling Normal out of her cat tuffet next to the window. And though he stopped to give Normal a calming pat, his instincts took over, starting with a meticulous cleaning of the litter box, then a complete vacuum of the small apartment. Then organizing his stack of library books into a preferred reading order, putting away the neatly folded clothes in the laundry basket, cleaning the pour-over coffee carafe and kettle before brewing a fresh cup. As it settled, he noticed some drips of coffee had been absorbed into the grout lines adjacent to his row of ceramic mugs, thus kicking off his quest for a completely clean and reset kitchen. All of the fear and concern and guilt from the day funneled into his end-to-end cleaning spree even though it wasn’t Sunday, the day he typically reserved for getting his home in order.
But this. Flecks of dried grout stuck to the brush bristles, and Jamie squinted, examining them as if he tried to break into the memory of the synthetic fibers. He blinked when Normal mewed at him, snapping him back into the present. He had to slow down. He had to regroup. He’d gone too far this time, and though the counter looked clean, a closer examination showed a tiny degradation in the grout.
Damn it. Jamie blew out a sigh and surveyed the room.
So neat. So organized. In fact, it was nearly identical to when he’d woken up here, standing in the middle of a barely furnished apartment two years ago. On that morning, he had blinked as he came to, his eyes adjusting from blurry to focused, taking in the sun shining through the cheap tan drapes onto the futon in the middle of the living space. Once he’d realized where he was, it had dawned on him that he didn’t know who he was. He’d walked methodically through the semifurnished apartment, looking for triggers. Coffee table, bread, water, sink, bed, toothbrush. He knew what those were, their purpose, but none offered clues about himself. Even the mirror produced zero recognition; he didn’t know what history lay behind those eyes, what the story was behind the scar on his palm.
And now? What he wouldn’t give for that blissful ignorance, free from knowing that the injured woman from today was all his fault.
How could he have been so stupid, so reckless?
As with each of his bank robberies, he’d taken his time, planned a strategy, even wrote out his script beforehand and memorized it. He still lacked in execution, but that was why he had checked out some acting books from the library. The whole goal, the entire focus was to get in and out as quickly, as cleanly as possible. That meant brain-stunning the people in the building in a very specific order under a very specific time frame, all while cackling like a cartoon character and reciting over-the-top lines in a not-quite-there American accent.
If he controlled the entire situation, then no one got hurt and he did his job.
Except when one of them had a medical condition.
Jamie cursed at himself, cursed his fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, cursed the whole damn situation. Not once, not a single time had he ever considered the possibility of a medical issue.
He finally broke, forcing himself to move. A click on the remote control brought his small TV to life, flashing a news report about electrical surges throughout the city before turning to the bank heist. His fingers fumbled to hit the power button again, taking several tries before the screen thankfully went to black, leaving only the sounds of a hungry cat meowing to remind him that he hadn’t given her dinner or her nightly treat of coconut water yet. Jamie set the grout brush in the sink, and obliged the demanding cat.
Seconds later, the room filled with a content rumbling of purrs.
But even Normal’s happy noises failed to remove the trauma of the day. The sound of the woman’s head hitting the tile. The sight of the blood pooling. The desperate cries of her coworker.
Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it.
Onward. Next task: the money. He grabbed the backpack and headed to the bedroom. The backpack’s large top zipper got caught as he tugged on it, and the stress of the day gnawed at his patience, skipping past his normal mode of meticulously fixing it and jumping right to forcing it free. On the underside of the zipper, the corner of a hundred-dollar bill clung in between the metal clasps.
Jamie sighed, a sound soon mimicked by Normal yawning at his feet. “You have no idea,” he told the cat before reaching in and starting his post-robbery sorting process for cash.
A buzzing sound rattled the room, causing a handful of loose coins on the end table to dance; it broke his focus, jolting his shoulders and neck in surprise. From the hallway, he heard Normal’s claws catch in the thin carpeting before dashing off to find a hiding spot from the abrupt noise.
He picked up the phone, heart pounding that it might be someone on his trail. But a glance at his screen caused a sigh of relief. Reminder: Support Group. San Delgado East Side YMCA. Six o’clock.
Right. The weekly support group—more specifically, San Delgado Memory Loss & Dementia Support Group.
Not that Jamie cared about the giant gap in his personal life, the big cloud of nothing stemming from the moment he awoke in this apartment all the way back to, well, his birth. Something pulled him away from those thoughts whenever he even approached the matter, like staring into a bright beam of light until the intensity forced his eyes away. Every time. That avoidance happened so frequently it felt instinctive at this point, skirting whatever that was and whoever truly stood behind the impenetrable fog.
It didn’t matter. No, the support group was for learning more about memory loss in general, to guard himself from any further memories vanishing.
The irony of the Mind Robber dealing with all that didn’t escape him.
He resumed unloading the cash, first putting the stacks by denomination from left to right, then counting and rubber-banding any loose ones complete with a Post-it note with the total on each makeshift bundle. In the closet sat a safe—something that had been absolutely terrible to get into his apartment. He pulled off the blanket hiding it and turned the dial. Left with click click clicks. Then right. Then left again.
It opened up, revealing a larger version of the stacks assembled on his bed. Jamie took new bundles, two at a time, and neatly set them in the appropriate spots, making each tower of cash grow until the backpack and the bed were clear of evidence. A notebook leaned on the cash; Jamie pulled it out and opened it to the ledger he’d crafted, filling out the columns with the latest tally of earnings, anticipated expenses, safety-net cash and overall savings.
At the top of that column was a little drawing he’d made of a palm tree and a beach. Based on today’s earnings, he was nearly 80 percent to his goal. Depending on the size of each haul, a few more robberies—especially if he remembered to ask for the stacks of hundreds specifically—would provide enough fi
nancial comfort to retire on a tropical beach at a much lower cost of living. He’d read that the coffee in the Caribbean was excellent.
A comfortable permanence, as long as the Throwing Star didn’t track him down. That further complicated things, and Jamie wondered if he’d jinxed it all by invoking her during his bank performance. He gritted his teeth.
So close to a fresh start for him and Normal, and he wouldn’t let the Throwing Star jeopardize that.
Normal gave an urgent meow, which translated in cat speak to “Where is my bed?” Jamie folded the blanket exactly and draped it over the safe, then put a small cat tuffet back on top of it. A gray-and-orange blur zipped by, and in one leap, landed on the tuffet, turning his trail of crime and/or source of income into the world’s most valuable cat bed.
Jamie exhaled, and his mattress bounced as he flopped on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling but brain refusing to shut off. One blink and he saw the woman fall again. Every time he closed his eyes, the image reappeared, except each instance seemed to intensify in its color and sound, the sheer vibrancy of his mind seemingly taunting him.
He could lift the memory out. He’d done it before as an experiment, including writing a note with steps and details as proof that he’d removed his immediate recall of the moment. It left him with what he presumed to be the same nausea that his victims experienced, and other than a few follow-up trials, he hadn’t done it for any practical purpose.
A small price to pay to be relieved of the guilt.
Jamie raised his hand, this time pointed at himself, and he closed his eyes, digging deep to flip through his own memories. Bright and fresh, full volume and movement, no haziness or missing pockets of moments. One wipe and it’d be gone.
But what would that make him? A possible murderer without a conscience? He treated his villain persona and robberies as a job, an income. Not to hurt people, not with malevolence or sociopathic apathy.
