“Eric—Eric, I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”
“Fuck you, Peter.”
Peter launched himself at me with a cry, swinging his arm and hitting me on the jaw. Tit for tat. I fell back and slid across the roof, my back scraping against the rough surface and the smaller debris that littered it.
“Don’t make me fight you,” he panted as I struggled to get up.
I rubbed the back of my hand against my lower lip and saw blood smeared across my glowing knuckles. I looked at him, my eyes narrowed, my body heaving from our exertions. Around me heat thickened.
“This is all your fault,” I said. I couldn’t control the violent shaking in my voice. “It’s all your fault. I hope you can live with this, Barlow. Because I sure as hell won’t make you forget.”
Peter actually looked helpless against my insane levels of rage. It was like every word I said hit a bull’s eye, and I was glad yet totally devastated.
“Your powers—they’re not permanent. They can be reversed. Eric, please listen to me.”
I shook my head. “I’m listening to a broken record,” I hissed, and in another flash, Peter and I were rolling around in a tangle of limbs. We grappled, throwing punches, or at least I did, mostly.
He held back, dodging my fist or deflecting my hits with his arms. He punched me back a few times, which made me snap. He tried several times to pin my wrists down, but I fought like a madman. I think I was crazy at that moment. I managed to throw one final punch, and he was forced to tear himself away, landing a safe distance from me while I scrambled to my feet again.
We were both bruised and bleeding, our breathing ragged and loud as we continued to face off.
“Damn it, Eric, listen to me!” he cried. “I don’t want to fight you!”
Thank God for giving me that advantage. I let loose a wave that swept him up before he could dodge it. “You lied to me before, Peter! What makes you think I’ll believe you now?” I cried as I shot another wave after him, doubling the force of the first and pushing him off the edge of the roof.
Peter struggled against the rippling currents that held him fast. He gritted his teeth and fought as he sailed to the edge and then past it till he hovered several stories above the street. With a hoarse cry, I shot him another cloaking ball of energy—a massive one. It rolled across in a speed that surprised even me, catching Peter in its bubble before moving onward, in the direction of God knew where. I let loose another energy wave that followed the bubble, pushing it with greater speed away from me. I could barely see Peter’s silhouette inside, struggling and flailing in the thick, airless warmth that surrounded him as the bubble sailed away. I sank to my hands and knees, drained, sick, and wishing I could just lie down and die right there.
From some indeterminate location, I heard the familiar sound of gunfire—endless rounds from tommy guns. The Puppet had re-emerged, I guess, with another army of killer mannequins. They must have just come face-to-face with Magnifiman and Wade back there. I silently thanked the Puppet for the diversion.
The asylum. I forced myself to get back on my feet. I flew, bending all my will and using every last ounce of my energy in the direction of the asylum, where the Trill waited for me. I felt like a battered old toy—weak, tired, bleeding, maybe broken in some places. I knew I’d screwed around long enough and that I couldn’t move forward without proper guidance and help.
Time was a blur of a nanosecond. One minute, I was watching Peter—the quiet, overachieving, artistic boy I still loved—being thrown away in a suffocating energy bubble of my making. The next, I was soaking the iron bars of the Trill’s windows with my energy waves, softening them, and tearing them off with my bruised and aching hands. Within seconds I was face-to-face with the Trill. A white, gaunt face stripped of its mask grinned its pride as it watched me shred the skin of my hands while I ripped the bars off.
“Listen,” I began, forcing him to pause in the middle of climbing over the window ledge. “I’m coming with you, and I’ll do what you want me to do as long as you stay away from my family. You got that?”
“Are you bargaining with me, young man?”
“Shut up. Either you stay away from my family, or I’ll kill you right now.”
He watched me in silence. Then he grinned and laughed—long and hard, a maniacal shriek—the same kind of laughter I’d heard when he’d blown up the aerial tracks several weeks earlier.
“You’ve absolutely no leverage to use against me, Mr. Plath. None. Your powers are new, and you haven’t even mastered them yet. If anyone does the crushing around here, that would be me. Do you understand that? But I’m tickled by your spunk, and I’ll accept your terms. Your family’s safe while you stay with me. Not that it would’ve mattered, you know. My fight’s with much bigger fish than a piddling group of no-name, mediocre folks living in a sad section of the city.” He took a deep breath and then sighed happily. “Unless you have other petulant demands to make, it’s time you honor your end of the bargain.”
I helped him out of the window, and he paused as he held on to me. His eyes narrowed as they swept over my face. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. Then he raised a hand and lightly touched my cheek with cold, white fingers.
“It seems that I failed to disconnect feeling.” He sighed. “The Noxious Nocturne could only fix so many things, alas. I suppose I ought to make a few more adjustments to the program.” Then he let go and flew off, still in his asylum clothes. “Let’s go home, my dear boy,” he called out.
I flew after him, puzzled by what he’d just said. The rush of wind around us felt icy against my face, and I touched my cheek the way the Trill had. I drew my hand back and saw it was wet with tears.
THE END
ABOUT HAYDEN THORNE
I’ve lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area though I wasn’t born there (or, indeed, the USA). I’m married with no kids and three cats, am a cycling nut, and my day job involves artwork, crazy coworkers who specialize in all kinds of media, and the occasional strange customer requests involving papier mache fish with sparkly scales.
I’m a writer of young adult fiction, specializing in contemporary fantasy, historical fantasy, and historical fiction genres. My books range from a superhero fantasy series to reworked folktales to Victorian ghost fiction.
My themes are coming-of-age, with very little focus on romance (most of the time) and more on individual growth and some adventure thrown in. More information can be found online at haydenthorne.com.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small electronic press specializing in gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction, as well as popular and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for stories with GLBT characters, we publish stories in any YA genre. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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