We Could Be Heroes

by Mike Chen

  When the power had fluctuated, the woman behind the counter had been looking out the window. The lights flashed, the sound of machines died, and for a split second, she saw a glowing blue figure appear at the glass, like electricity in the form of a human. She startled, then muttered, “Whoa, weird lightning,” and she went on with her day.

  But Jamie was pretty certain a random lightning crackle wouldn’t leave HER on the window.

  And the message he saw last week burned into the flyer, STOP. That same smell.

  STOP HER.

  Was something telling him about Zoe? Could he trust her?

  Nerves rattled through his body, a sudden edge to his thoughts as he considered the path before him. If he trusted Zoe and showed up, it might be a trap. Was that what he was supposed to stop?

  Or maybe it was unrelated. There were, after all, a lot of hers in the city.

  Zoe had dangled a carrot: freedom from this life. Regardless of what cryptic messages and blue-lightning guys appeared, that was the bottom line.

  This was a transaction. Service for service. Mutually beneficial. With a worthwhile goal.

  Running away forever sounded like a wonderful plan.

  10

  ZOE DECIDED TO CLEAN her apartment.

  If someone snuck a look from outside, they’d have seen a blur of chores, including the occasional stubbed toe followed by “Shit! Goddamn it!” Her strength made it easy to do things like lift up a sofa with one hand while vacuuming with the other. She kicked a large crate of individual mac-and-cheese boxes, which she’d bought at the dollar store even though she tossed the cheese packets in favor of using similarly priced marinara jars, into the corner. Her hands swept over the worn edges of the coffee table, something she’d rescued out of the apartment building’s hallway some months ago despite the bleach stain on one side (a little paint helped bring at least a sense of respectability).

  This is what she had to do. For the hour prior, she’d stood in front of her detective board, searching once again for the connections that weren’t there.

  The lease. Printouts of every company she could find with the name 2D in it. LinkedIn profiles of people who’d worked for those companies. Rumors of people with abilities in other cities, from sightings in Hartnell City to rumors of so-called magicians dueling in New Turning. Social media tracking of those reports, printouts of internet forum discussions. All tied together by string, lines zigging and zagging back and forth.

  And the name tag. It always came back to the name tag.

  Twenty-one million results came up for the name Zoe Wong. She’d dismissed it early on after crossing off Zoe Wong the entrepreneur, Zoe Wong the Australian artist, Zoe Wong the food critic, and all the others who were clearly not her, clearly not the identity she’d assumed. The name tag stayed on the board, but the mystery behind the name built around it.

  It culminated in a point of frustration, one that manifested itself in a tight fist. With a slight tremble in her hand, she actually considered how long it would take to jump out the window and hover over to the corner liquor store, buy and pound a bottle of the cheapest rum available, then make it back up and brush her teeth to hide the smell.

  No, she told herself. This was about finding the truth, a truth that might connect all the puzzle pieces about abilities, about her history and who she was. Which made having a preemptive drink seem counterproductive.

  Usually when she felt this pull, she loaded up another cheesy movie on HorrorDomain; since the robbery, she’d actually donned the suit a few times with the intention of being the Throwing Star of media creation, not just someone who improvised while delivering food. Enough shitheads did horrible things that it really only took minutes before she gave into jumps, sprints and a series of violent blows leaving bystanders either gawking or applauding or both. But right now that wasn’t an option, nor was watching the second half of Lo-Bot: Samurai Cyborg, not with Jamie’s imminent arrival. So she’d cleaned, and now as she took in her handiwork, she wondered if she should be a maid instead of delivering for FoodFast.

  A knock interrupted her thoughts. She took one last look at her now-spotless home before opening the door.

  “Hi,” Jamie said. He was holding flowers. Not a bouquet, but a small potted plant with a few petals between green leaves.

  “Oh,” he said. His heat signature glowed with burning cheeks. “It’s a peace offering. Good faith, you know? I mean, you’re supposed to bring wine to a social gathering. But I don’t drink so I didn’t know what would be good. I considered ice cream. But that might melt. Um, then pie or a dessert, but I don’t know what you like. So then I thought flowers but then flowers are like for a date and this—” he nodded, shifting his weight as he stood in the door’s threshold “—clearly isn’t a date. So then I figured a plant. Plants are good. You know? We could always use more of them.”

  He seemed nervous. And curious. Especially when she tracked his eyes to her detective board. Not once did she detect anything threatening.

  “Come on in,” she finally said. She pointed at the counter, the place where empty plastic bottles and cans sat merely an hour ago. “I could use a nice plant.”

  As he entered, Zoe loaded up, ready to release and explode. She awaited any clues indicating an invasion from the Mind Robber. With each further step he took, the tension escalated, even as he looked at her detective board and motioned to it. Monitoring him, preparing for any possibility of shit going wrong, stole her focus from his questions. Though she still nodded in generic response.

  As far as she could tell, he was showing curiosity, especially when he looked at her futon, of all things. And a little fear. And some distress, or maybe caution. That was it. Nothing aggressive or malicious. All logic pointed to him not being such a good actor that he could completely suppress his emotions and intent.

  “Hey look,” he said with a laugh. He tapped a few printouts on the detective board. “That’s me.”

  Maybe it wasn’t him per se that caused her to tense. It might have had more to do with the fact that since she’d lived there, only one person had come in outside of her landlord. And that was to fix a leaking toilet.

  “You have...a name tag?” He pointed at the center of the board.

  “Yeah. It came with the place.”

  Zoe watched as Jamie examined the folded paper throwing star next to the name tag. “Did it come with this too?”

  “No, I made that myself after the media came up with the name. But...” She paused, considering what she should say. This would be the first real test of the other hero name. “I thought maybe ‘Shuriken’ might be better. It’s Japanese for throwing star.”

  Jamie’s expression didn’t change either way, which meant he wasn’t listening or didn’t think it was a cooler name. Or maybe he was too focused on the rest of the board. “Huh.” Jamie let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head. “I didn’t get a name tag.”

  “No name tag? How’d you get ‘Jamie’?”

  “I looked up lists of common-but-not-too-common names,” he said, his brow crinkling. “Just picked what felt right to blend in.”

  “Did you get a lease?” Zoe asked.

  “Yeah.” His finger tapped against the yellow carbon-copied paper of her lease. “2D Industries.”

  So there was a connection. The very fact that they both dealt with the mystery company ignited her nerves, almost magnetically pulling her forward. This was a good first step. Better settle in. “Let’s start with that. And see?” She threw her hands up. “I’m not double-crossing you. All good.”

  “Right. Right, right, me too,” he said with a sigh. “Formal agreement to not double-cross?”

  “Signed and co-signed.”

  “If you break me apart, then who will feed Normal?”

  “Okay,” Zoe said, a genuine laugh while trying to stand in a relaxed position. “I won’t kill yo
u.”

  “Thanks. The Throwing Star is a friend of felines.”

  “And a good host.” She opened the cabinet above the kitchen sink and slid out a plastic cup with a fast-food logo. “Water?”

  * * *

  Jamie hadn’t been this nervous using his powers since he first considered robbing a bank. On that day, he’d smiled despite the racing pulse hammering through his veins. The envelope in his hand crinkled, sending tension through his body as the pressure of the moment dialed up. He’d presented the package, holding it a few inches over the cubicle desk until he felt the sturdy grip of acceptance on the other side. His fingers let go, and the temp agency staffer, a very polite woman named Meredith, returned the smile and nodded.

  “Thanks,” she said, totally oblivious to the magnitude of the moment.

  That day marked the third time he’d attempted to use a driver’s license and birth certificate—both forged and purchased off the internet, of course—to join the roster of a staffing agency. The first time had wound up as an epic fail on his part, where nerves got in the way of remembering details and ultimately he’d brain-stunned the staffer, grabbed his things and got the hell out of there. The second time, it actually worked, and Jamie worked four gigs over eight months. Everything ran as planned, almost shockingly so as check after check arrived; he cashed them at a nearby service before bringing the paper bills to a local bank branch, slowly filling up his goal chart.

  Then questions about his tax-exempt status came up.

  He’d weighed opening up, of course. After all, it wasn’t exactly his fault he couldn’t remember anything. But too many what-ifs chased that idea—what if he had a criminal record? What if he’d get arrested for fraud? What if there was something weirder, more sinister behind it all?

  No, he resolved not to take those chances. Instead, he took the option of “get the hell out,” hopefully disappearing into obscurity following several days of skulking around the agency’s office in various disguises to perform memory surgery on his so-called talent advisor.

  All that effort just to get back to the start: another intake with a different agency, this time with a different set of fake documentation. Meredith removed the ID card and birth certificate from the envelope, and though she skimmed it over with a totally normal look, Jamie caught her eye double back before her expression froze. The grief almost made him wonder if it was worth the hassle. Low-paying physical labor offered much more accessible work and much less scrutiny.

  Problem was, he’d really preferred something indoors and quiet.

  “I’m going to make copies,” she said. Jamie nodded, a pleasant “of course” accompanying it, until she stood and turned.

  His shoulders crept up, with a tightness that turned the screw on all his thoughts and feelings. If she had suspicions, then he’d have to reset the process again, find a different agency, perhaps even rework the documents. Options began playing out in his head, though the current of anxiety made it difficult to concentrate. He tried to calm himself, setting his focus to the benign chatter still in earshot from the lobby area.

  “Why do we do this? Every few months we’re someplace new,” a woman said, her voice laced with a gravel that betrayed a significant amount of smoking.

  “Gotta pay the bills,” the man sitting next to her said with a heavy sigh.

  “You know what I’d do if I could? Like if I was invisible? I’d rob banks.”

  The man responded with a laugh, but his friend continued. “Seriously. I’d rob banks.”

  “You want cops chasing after you?”

  “I said if I was invisible. Then I wouldn’t have to temp anymore.”

  “Okay, but the whole ‘stealing people’s life savings’ doesn’t bug you?”

  This time, it was the woman’s turn to laugh. “Life savings? You think anyone actually loses anything in a bank robbery? Government insurance covers that. Here,” she said, grunting as she shuffled in her chair. “I just looked it up. Insured up to two-hundred fifty grand per account. And there’s no way these arms are strong enough to lug out that much cash in one afternoon. Besides, it’d give the local news something to talk about for a few days.”

  The pair chuckled at each other, then continued onto a tangent about best bank heists from movies, but ideas had already starting setting up shop in Jamie’s mind. Suddenly, it snapped into place. He wasn’t invisible, but he could be invisible to memories. And he wouldn’t be stealing from people, just from large faceless entities.

  This made sense. It made too much sense.

  Jamie realized he’d started to lean forward in his chair, and told himself to relax when Meredith returned with his paperwork. “Sorry about the delay, Mr. Sorenson,” she said. By then, he’d gotten used to the last name that he’d picked mostly because it sounded good. “I just had to verify something. But it’s good now, so we can dig into the details. First, were you thinking long term or short term?”

  Robbing banks. With his powers.

  It was so obvious. He just had to figure out how.

  “Short term,” he said.

  After that day, he was the Mind Robber.

  And now he was going to plunge into the Throwing Star’s brain.

  Jamie watched as Zoe sat down across from him, eyes closed. “Do you need to, like, rub my forehead or something?” she asked.

  “Nah. I can do it from here.” Which was mostly true. In a few bits of experimentation, he’d found that physical contact did lock things in better. But that would put him within striking distance of her, and part of Jamie still worried that Zoe would turn, grab him and toss him out the window. Truth was, he almost chickened out. But that would have pissed Zoe off even more, and the last thing he needed was the Throwing Star tearing into his apartment to exact vengeance over a missed therapy session.

  “You think the extraordinaries in Hartnell City do stuff like this?” Zoe asked.

  “You really believe those rumors?”

  “Oh for sure. We can’t be the only ones.”

  “I don’t know if I find that idea comforting or frightening.” Jamie adjusted and did a calming internal countdown from five. “Ready?”

  Zoe sucked in a breath that drove up her posture, and her shoulders didn’t drop until she spoke. “Ready.”

  “Okay, just...relax.” Eyes closed, his fingers went up, not to remove any memories but to better lock into the connection.

  “Can I talk during this?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure. I’ve never played therapist during these things.”

  The first memories appeared, as if projected onto a screen in his mind’s eye. It rolled chronologically, and Jamie’s fingers twitched as he pulled them, first with her cleaning the apartment, then some rooftop dashing, then the YMCA, then the chase down to the Metro station. He maneuvered around, slowing down moments and exploring them, simply to get comfortable before reaching deep into the past.

  “What do you see?”

  Guess she could talk during this.

  “Watching you beat the shit out of criminals is fun. As long as it’s not me. Okay, I’m going to go back. When I find things, I’ll ask you about them, see if you can place them. To kind of gauge your memory so I get the context of your life.” Jamie pulled harder on the memories, and it triggered an audible grunt from Zoe. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Keep going.”

  Images rifled by, a flip-book of random moments. Tapping away at her phone. Walking up and down the hallway. Grocery shopping. Liquor stores. Some terrible and gory movies—he really should give her book recommendations. And a lot of running.

  Discovering her ability to hover. Dumpster diving by a motorcycle shop to get pieces for her suit and watching videos on how to stitch things together. Squeezing into it and zipping it up, but almost always with a FoodFast polo shirt over it and bundles of food on her back.

&
nbsp; Except when she ditched the food and polo shirt to fight crime. But Jamie marveled at her ability to come back to her thermally sealed backpack and still make her delivery after punching bad guys.

  Jeez, he thought, she’s good at her job.

  He pulled further and further until a blank wall stopped him. It wasn’t black, and it wasn’t white or even cloudy; instead, a sense of obstruction occupied his mind. Scaling back a few moments, he got a still photo of this apartment. Except he moved it back and forth, and no further memories came by, and Jamie began to wonder if this was a memory glitch until he noticed the clock in the corner ticking by.

  These were her first awake memories. He explored more and saw that she’d stood there in a stunned stupor, probably similar to when he did a brain-stun, for a good hour or so.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Something’s up.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just, I found the moment you awoke here. You were conscious enough to process memory but didn’t move for over an hour.”

  “I remember that. Like feeling like I was gradually entering my own body.”

  Jamie sifted through the memories some more until clear movement showed in her mind’s eye. She explored the space, wandering from corner to corner, pausing to look at a mirror. Then she noticed something, something on the small coffee table—the same coffee table in front of them right now.

  A note.

  And on it, a message.

  Zoe must have heard him gasp. “What?”

  “That note. Do you remember that note when you came to?”

  “‘You are stronger than you think. Push yourself.’ Yeah. It was my first clue.”

  “I had one too. It told me I could read memories. Do you still have yours?”

  Zoe went quiet, a thrum of her own feelings blurring into what Jamie could read. “I, um, tore it up. One night while drunk.”

  So that’s why it wasn’t on her board. “Okay, I’m going farther back. There’s like this wall blocking it.”