Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  I’d made it!

  I could have whooped for joy. Instead, I maintained a neutral expression and nodded. “Of course.”

  “And do get in touch if any other details come to you. Doesn’t matter how small or insignificant they may seem. Okay?”

  “I will. Can I ask, do you have any leads on who did this?” I called upon my acting skills to ask the question in the most innocent tone possible.

  “Can’t say much at this early stage, but in most cases such as this, it usually turns out to be a hate crime—someone with something against Asians maybe. We found no evidence of bullets or bricks at the scene, so it’s unclear how they broke the glass, but we’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t you worry.”

  Parting from PC Haywood, I got outside, sucked in a deep breath of fresh, free air, and called Kane. We arranged to meet at his place for dinner, and I made my way home.

  My overwhelming sense was one of relief. Phúc Lành hadn’t blabbed about what he’d seen. Perhaps his smile and nod had been to let me know that he planned to keep my secret. I’d need to find a way to be sure on that front, but I could do so during my next shift, which likely wouldn’t be for a few days, until Phúc Lành got the window fixed and the place was ready for business again. I wondered if he had insurance and whether that would speed up the process or delay it with endless paperwork. That wasn’t my problem, though. I trusted Phúc Lành would get in touch when he was ready for me to resume my table-waiting duties.

  In the meantime, I had a decision of my own to make. PC Haywood had called my actions at the restaurant heroic, not knowing the half of them, and it had felt good to stop the glass and help those people. Maybe it was time to give the superhero gig another chance. Sure, it hadn’t worked out the first time, but perhaps I’d simply been looking for trouble in the wrong places. I needed to throw myself into it wholeheartedly. London was a large capital city; there had to be crime going on. During this break from the restaurant, I had the opportunity to spend a few days treading the streets again to see what I encountered.

  As it happened, I didn’t have to look all that hard. From that day forward, trouble found me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE NEXT day, I dug out my costume from the back of the drawer and slipped it on. It pinched a little around the midriff. Apparently, all those sumptuous meals, both with Kane and at the restaurant, had taken their toll. I’d need to skip second helpings of dessert from now on. Casting a quick glance in my smeary bathroom mirror to check the additional grams didn’t show too badly, I pulled on my everyday clothes over the top of the costume.

  Kane had a meeting with his agent this afternoon and was heading south to see his family for the weekend after that. He’d invited me to accompany him, which was a big deal—too much so. Meeting a director or two at a party was one thing; I wasn’t yet ready to face Kane’s parents. Kane had taken my refusal in good grace, though I’d had to push him not to cancel his trip, in light of my recent drama. Only when I’d assured him, for the millionth time, I was, and would be, perfectly fine had he packed, kissed me goodbye in the driveway, and set off.

  With the next few days to myself—no news from the restaurant so far—I’d decided to put my superhero plans into action, and I knew just where to start: Whitechapel. I’ve always believed that certain places have different vibes, depending on their history. Take graveyards, for example. Have you ever noticed how some feel serene while others are downright spooky, with a sense of disquiet that sends shivers down your spine? Well, that same test can be applied anywhere. Whitechapel had been the scene of a number of violent deeds in its not-too-distant past, so it seemed a likely spot for new crimes, its bloody aura drawing in the bad guys. That said, the whole of London had seen its fair share of troubles at one time or another. Perhaps that’s why, on this particular expedition, I never made it farther east than the Strand.

  I’d elected to walk all the way from the West End, to enjoy the fresh air and, hopefully, shed a little off my burgeoning waistline. Spotting a Pret a Manger ahead, I commenced an internal debate about whether a duck wrap could be deemed a healthy, necessary lunch since I had a particular hankering for one but needed some kind of justification for the purchase.

  I failed to reach a decision. Screams disrupted my deliberations.

  A series of bangs followed the cries, and I turned to see a double-decker bus careering out of control a ways down the road. It wasn’t a crime exactly, but it seemed redundant to get fussy over the particulars when I’d finally unearthed an opportunity to be a hero and help those in need.

  I dove down the nearest laneway, yanking my T-shirt over my head as I ran. Once I’d reached a secluded spot, in the shadows of the buildings either side, I proceeded to remove my jeans too. In my haste, I caught one denim leg on my trainer and had to hop until I freed it, nearly falling flat on my face in the process. It was far from dignified, but no one was there to see. Down to my costume at last, I pulled on the mask, tossed my clothes in a pile against the wall, and charged back to the main street.

  In my absence, the bus had taken out several cars, shunting them aside, thrusting them into the path of other vehicles. Now it hurtled toward the intersection, where the lights had just turned red. All along the Strand, pedestrians pointed and shouted, some filming the event on their phones. For the present, I remained ahead of the bus, and I needed to keep it that way. If I could get directly in front of it, I was certain I could bring it to a halt. It would likely give me a killer headache, but I could live through that.

  The cars in the opposite lanes had all stopped, their drivers too busy ogling the unfolding spectacle to think about continuing their journeys or moving out of the way. This suited my purposes, though, as it allowed me to dash across the road without risk of being mowed down.

  I skidded to a halt in front of the oncoming bus, raised my hands, and felt for its structure and engine parts. I touched them all within seconds. However, something strange happened. Like in the restaurant, the particles resisted my commands. Was it the size? Had I been mistaken in thinking I could handle something this big? I pushed harder and sensed the vehicle’s forward momentum falter, but it wasn’t enough. All I managed was to give life to a gentle throbbing in my temples.

  The red hulk still bore down upon me. Closer. Closer. Closer. Shit, it was going to flatten me! I would never be able to jump out of the way in time, so I did the only thing I could: I reached for my costume and thrust it upward.

  I shot into the air as if launched from a trebuchet. On instinct, unused to being sky-bound and feeling sick to the stomach at the sight of the ground so far below me, I flailed my arms and legs. The bus passed beneath me, my left toe skimming its roof until I jerked my foot out of the way. I couldn’t think about another attempt to stop it for a moment; I was too busy keeping myself afloat. It wasn’t all bad news, however, because from my new vantage point, I spotted him.

  A figure stood in the middle of the traffic island. He was watching the bus, as were many others, but there was something different about him. He held no phone, and unlike the other bystanders, who filmed the event or chatted animatedly and anxiously as they waited for the eventual carnage, he stood stock-still and alone, his hoodie rendering his face an indiscernible shadowy blob.

  It was his hand, in particular, that caught my attention. He held his arm slightly extended, palm outward in the direction of the bus. It was the same stance I used to help me focus. The truth crashed down upon me. He was the reason I couldn’t stop the bus. The fellow was pushing it in the opposite direction. He was the instigator of this whole disaster.

  At a new series of screams, I turned. The bus was almost at the stoplight; I needed to act. I floated to the ground and, ignoring the bus for the time being, reached for the stranger’s clothes. Once I had them in my mental grasp, I swung. I tried to keep the action gentle—I wanted to subdue the man, not hurt him—but the motion still sent the guy crashing into a nearby group of observers, all of whom tumbled to t
he ground like skittles. I winced, but I pushed aside worries about my suspected perp to deal with later. For now, I needed to concentrate on the bus.

  I grabbed its frame, and this time there was no resistance. It answered my call, the metal ceasing all movement. The wheels shrieked, burning rubber, but the bus drew to a stop, its nose nudging the line at the start of the intersection.

  The world had quieted around me while I focused on my task. Even my headache was less aggressive than in the past, limiting itself to a soft pulse against my forehead. But now the noise returned. It hit me like a wall. People shrieked and jabbered, car horns honked, and engines roared. However, after a moment of mental overload, I blocked it all out as best I could. With the bus and its passengers safe, only two things interested me: Who was the fellow whose powers matched my own, and what had been the point of that seemingly senseless act?

  I jogged back to where I’d tossed the felon. I scanned the crowd left and right, looking for the black hoodie. It was nowhere to be seen. My suspect had fled while I was otherwise engaged. Well, wasn’t that just typical, and rude. If the perpetrator had absconded, that rather lowered my superhero rating. My first day on the job and I barely scraped a C for effort. I spun on my heel, intending to retrieve my clothing from the alley before I pondered the matter further. However, I found my path blocked. A sizable crowd had gathered, and now they pressed in around me, babbling questions and flashing cameras in my eyes.

  “Are you a superhero?”

  “Nah, it’s a publicity stunt! What’s it for, mate? A film? A chocolate bar? A washing powder?”

  “Maybe it’s political.”

  “No, it’ll be a protest against politics.”

  “Hey, can I get a selfie with you?”

  Having failed to get a word in edgeways thus far, I drew a blank on this last question too. The teenage girl—an American, judging by her accent—didn’t wait for an answer, in any case. She twirled around, raised her camera, struck a pose, and—snap!—blinded me with her flash.

  Fuck, she seriously had blinded me; all I could see was white. I blinked a few times and the haze started to clear, but then others decided they wanted similar snapshots, and they pushed and shoved to reach optimum selfie positioning. I was wedged in good and proper; I couldn’t move an inch forward, backward, left, or right. Trust me, I tried them all.

  The wail of sirens filled the air and some of the crowd shrank back, responding to that inbred fear of authority. Able to breathe again, I considered my options. Being taken in for questioning by the police for the second time in as many days was not on my agenda, so I needed to get away while escape remained possible. Despite the minor dispersal, I remained penned in. Nevertheless, it occurred to me, there was one direction in which I was definitely cleared for takeoff—literally. I felt for my costume and gathered its fibers in a tight mental hold. Last time it had been more of an inelegant slingshot effect. This time, I needed to swallow my fears and actually fly.

  The crowd gasped as I burst from their midst. I rose, bullet straight, for several meters, then paused, spun myself horizontal—an exceedingly odd sensation—and propelled the suit, and with it my body, forward on this new trajectory. I knew at once this wouldn’t have worked in my street clothes. The jeans would have given me the mother of all wedgies on the way up, while the T-shirt would currently be strangling me. My costume, on the other hand, was already skintight, so there was nowhere for it to move without taking me with it.

  I imagined that it all looked pretty impressive from below. Had this been a film, they’d have been cueing the inspirational flying music about now, moving in to a sweeping shot. However, it wasn’t a movie, so I had to soar through the sky to the accompaniment of rushing air and distant cries instead.

  At first I worried I might vomit, but the sensation passed as I got used to my new, elevated status. I circled around, keeping behind tall buildings as much as possible, in the hope that anyone following my progress from the ground would lose track of me. Then when the coast looked clear, I descended and set down in a deserted laneway a few streets from the one in which I’d left my clothes. The landing was bumpy and jarred my knee, but I could work on that.

  Thankfully, these narrow side streets entertained only the occasional pedestrian—mostly locals, familiar with the city, who used them as shortcuts to avoid the bustle of the main thoroughfares. Luck was on my side that day because I didn’t meet a single soul on my trek. As I walked, it occurred to me that maybe I should have abandoned the clothes and simply flown home. However, I wasn’t so well supplied in attire that I could afford to write off outfits every time I stepped in to help someone. Nor did I want anyone else to find them, put two and two together, and pass them to the police, who might find DNA evidence and discover my secret identity. That kind of thing always happened in films, and it seemed plausible in real life too. Given that, I needed to retrieve the garments.

  When I reached the spot, they were still there, and I yanked them on, remembering to remove the mask before slipping back out onto the Strand. Police lights flashed, and I saw officers talking with several witnesses as other members of the public milled around. Feigning nonchalance, my acting skills hard at work once more, I shoved my hands into my pockets, slouched, and ambled toward Charing Cross to catch the Tube home. No need to visit Whitechapel now; I’d had enough excitement for one day. Besides, I had some major online searching to do once I got home. I needed to run damage control and see exactly how many images of me had made it onto the web. Of equal importance was consideration of my telekinetic rival and whether or not he posed an ongoing threat. Assuming, of course, that Mr. Hoodie’s involvement hadn’t simply been the product of that ever-overactive imagination of mine.

  IT WAS horrible. It was horrendous. It was horrific. It was an absolute fucking disaster!

  I stared at the screen, unable to believe what I was seeing. I blinked hard a couple of times, really squeezing my eyes shut, but when I looked again, the writing hadn’t changed. On every UK online news channel, and even several European ones, a similar headline blazed: Greenbird Saves Bus!

  Greenbird? My name was supposed to be Telekineticusrex! Fuck! I ought to have had Ellen embroider it on the front of the costume. Or I could have introduced myself to the crowd, instead of standing there mute while they snapped away.

  I supposed I should have seen it coming—the costume was green and I had flown, in a manner of speaking. Even so, who in their right mind would think Greenbird a suitable name? It sounded more like the moniker for a fairy or a dodgy children’s entertainer than a superhero. Greenbird wasn’t a name designed to make evil shiver in its (no doubt expensive leather) boots. “Look out, it’s Greenbird!” If I were a criminal, I’d be more inclined to cackle than cower.

  It took a few hours, but I managed to discover the origins of this heinous act of character assassination: @iloveTHiddy01. A review of this user’s public profile revealed a teenage girl with some serious celebrity crushes and fan girl obsessions. She’d been the first to post video footage of my daring feats, live from the scene, and had described me as “Greenbird.” Other social media users had adopted the tag, and the news channels followed suit. A few other name contenders had arisen, only to be beaten into submission before they got off the ground. In some cases this was lucky, as they were even worse than Greenbird, or based on existing, branded superhero characters, which would have been copyright chaos. Regardless, it was too late to influence the choice. I was stuck with Greenbird forever, and Greenbird was already an online sensation.

  Several videos of the scene had gone viral within minutes of being posted; meanwhile, #Greenbird was trending across all social media platforms. Some of the clearer images of me in action had already been transformed into memes. One person wanted me to run for president, though of which country, they didn’t say. There were a few complaints that I was encroaching on police and/or London Transport jurisdiction, but for the most part, the response to my appearance was positive. Th
e people of London liked me. No, they loved me.

  I watched the various videos a few times each, checking how I looked from different camera angles. Ellen had done great work with the costume. I looked awesome, and those few extra grams from my recent overindulgences didn’t show. With the mask and tight costume, not to mention the flying and other amazing acts, I absolutely came across as a genuine superhero. Social media may have landed me with a god-awful pseudonym, but perhaps it wasn’t all bad news. Acting hadn’t worked out for me so far; I hoped to have more luck fighting crime.

  Despite the itch to keep searching for mention of myself all night long, I reluctantly shut down the laptop and tried to focus on more pressing issues. One other thing social media had granted me was confirmation that my hoodie-sporting suspect was real. Several of the amateur videographers had caught him in frame. Sometimes he was visible only for a second or two, but that was enough to prove he had been present throughout the incident. In a couple of films, I glimpsed him with his hand extended, as I’d seen from on high. There was no doubt in my mind that he had sent the bus on its terrifying runaway-train ride.

  My powers had, I confess, made me feel special, unique, so discovering that someone else shared them came as a blow. Was telekinesis less rare than I’d supposed? Or was the source of the fellow’s power closer to home? The slime had created this ability in me. I was the only person who took a full-on hit from that batch, but others, such as those within the special effects team, had also handled it, and if it wasn’t just that batch but all the slime from the shoot that shared the same properties, then the field widened.

  The longer I considered it, the more likely my theory seemed. It also offered a plausible, if strange, explanation for the guy’s actions. It might have been a test. Perhaps it was no coincidence that I’d been there at the right time to help. Maybe Mr. Hoodie had guessed that I’d also inherited powers, so he’d tracked me down, followed me, and instigated the dangerous scenario to see what I would, and could, do to stop it.