Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  “Greenbird? The superhero?” Kane’s gaze flashed my way, and I deduced from the lift of his eyebrows that he thought Laurence had completely lost it. “Why would you think he’d be here?”

  “Because I followed you, and wherever you are, Greenbird isn’t far behind.”

  Kane rose slowly. “Laurence, you seem a little confused. Why don’t we go downstairs and see the building manager? Do you have friends, family nearby? Is there someone we can—?”

  “You’re the one who’s confused, Kane.” Laurence turned his smug gaze on me. “Isn’t that right, Greenbird?”

  “Os? What’s he talking about?”

  “Yes, Os, why don’t you confess? You’re wearing the costume under that shirt, aren’t you? Why not face me as Greenbird and bare all? Face me, man to man. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Before I could react, Laurence mentally gripped my buttons; I could sense the slight tug. A second later, he wrenched them free. The cotton ripped, the buttons dropped to the ground, pinging off the concrete, and my shirt flapped open to reveal the green costume beneath.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “OSWELL?”

  My overriding urge was to clasp closed my tattered shirt. However, it was far too late for such bizarre superhero modesty. It was clear from Kane’s look of horror that he had seen. And that he understood.

  “I was going to tell you, Kane. Today. Here. Now.”

  “This is what you wanted to tell me a moment ago?”

  Relief flooded through me. It would be all right. Kane would accept that I’d intended to be the one to tell him, and he’d not hold a grudge that it had taken me so long to do so. Despite Laurence’s interference, all would yet be well.

  I met his eye. “Yes. I’m Greenbird. I thought that I—”

  “You bastard!”

  A freezing icicle of fear pierced my heart, making it hard to speak. “Kane, I—”

  “All these weeks you’ve led this double life, lying to me constantly. All I asked for was honesty, Os, nothing else, and you couldn’t even give me that.”

  I floundered. I was sinking, drowning, and I needed a lifeline. If I could only make Kane understand. “I came here today to tell you, Kane. I thought it was for the best to hide the truth from you at first, to keep you safe. I was thinking of—”

  Kane threw up his hands and growled. “Don’t pretend you were thinking of me, Os. Don’t you dare. You were only thinking of yourself. You didn’t trust me, and if you can’t trust me, how can you say you love me?”

  Before I could form a response, a delighted cackle erupted from nearby. The sound sent a shudder down my spine—a loathing that overpowered my earlier anguish.

  I clenched my fists and rounded on Laurence. “You did this.”

  “I gave you the chance to walk away. You refused.”

  “This ends now.”

  “Do you know what, Greenbird? I rather think it does.”

  I saw the flash of movement, but I was too slow to duck out of the way. The swinging bench struck me firmly on the butt. I stumbled forward a few paces. The swaying torn fabric of my shirt was an annoyance. As soon as I’d found my footing, I shrugged out of it. Poised to step forward and enter the fray, I paused. Ellen’s words came back to me, and I knew she was correct. I couldn’t let this be about Oswell and Laurence; it had to be superhero versus villain. In acknowledgment of that, I pulled on my mask. Now I was no longer Oswell Outterridge, cast aside by his lover. I was Greenbird, London’s protector. Behind me, I heard Kane call out to Oswell, but for the time being, I set aside all thought of Kane and my other self. Laurence was my sole focus, and I strode toward him.

  This time when he swung the bench, I was ready. I caught it with my mind and sent it flying back the other way, where it crashed into a bed of roses. My control had never been keener. The underlying resentment I felt at Laurence’s untimely interruption, coupled with the knowledge of the havoc he’d wreaked upon my city in recent days, fueled my strength. Irritation and detestation proved more conducive bedfellows than fear or desperation. No wonder Laurence had kicked my arse before—I’d failed to tap into the right emotions to defeat him.

  Laurence rallied. He snarled and charged. As he ran, he picked up pavers and pots and hurled them at me. The onslaught forced me to temporarily forgo all thought of launching my own assault while I brushed each aside, sending them spinning left and right.

  We vied for supremacy, alternating between offensive and defensive as we fought our way around the garden. Flowers flew and soil sprayed. We left carnage in our wake, the once beautiful rooftop retreat utterly decimated. However, sadness over the destruction was the last thing on my mind. In the heat of the moment, Laurence was my sole focus. I needed to stop him. He had to pay for what he’d done—to me, to my friends, to Kane. By now, caught in the exhilaration of battle, justice played only a small part in my thought processes. I wanted victory most of all.

  I set off at a run and launched forward. My feet left the ground and I caught ahold of my costume, propelling myself at even faster speeds. The action forced Laurence to leap aside. He stumbled. And I took full advantage of his mistake with a mental tug on his shirt, making certain he toppled. The fall sent him into one of the flower beds. His head struck the corner of the concrete planter and he slumped.

  The rush of euphoria at my success faltered when I saw that Laurence wasn’t moving, but it quickly returned, stronger than before. I’d stopped him, hadn’t I? Observation revealed the rise and fall of his chest—he wasn’t dead. Now to get him to the police, after which I could try to mend things with Kane.

  Kane!

  I spun. Kane’s presence had been the last thing on my mind as Laurence and I fought, and I was suddenly afraid that he had been caught in the crossfire. But no, there he was, approaching from the right, unharmed. The tightness in my chest eased.

  “What the hell have you done, Os?”

  Well, I hadn’t anticipated that response. I’d suspected he might still be pissed at me over the lack of full disclosure. I hadn’t imagined he’d look at Laurence with such concern, before glaring daggers at me.

  “You nearly killed him!”

  “But it’s all his fault, Kane. He attacked first, and not just today. He’s responsible for all of it: the restaurant, the bus, our falling out.”

  “Our falling out?” Kane’s expression, already grim, hardened. “Is this because he made a pass at me in the park? Fuck, Os, you can’t go around attacking anyone who expresses sexual interest in me. I’m an actor. Christ, it goes with the territory. You of all people should understand that. You told me you did. You said you wouldn’t get jealous.”

  “Kane, this isn’t about—”

  “No, I don’t want to hear it right now. In fact, I don’t want to see you, especially not looking like that, rubbing your lies in my face with that ridiculous getup. I’m calling Laurence an ambulance and then I’m going home. Alone.”

  Kane stormed toward the lift and I chased after him. I had to stop him. I had to persuade him to listen. It couldn’t end like this. Watching him turn his back on me and walk away following an angry tirade wasn’t a parting I could countenance. It was about as far from the perfect Hollywood ending I’d envisaged for us as you could get. If he would only let me explain.

  In the distance, I heard a siren. There wasn’t much time.

  “Kane, please.”

  I caught up with him as the lift door opened. He raised his foot to step into the car, but I grabbed his arm and tugged him back. When he turned to face me, his expression was stormy, enraged—a look I’d never seen from him off screen. He parted his lips. However, before words passed between them, he jerked his gaze to the side, eyes widening. I twisted to see what had shocked him, only to glimpse a flower pot hurtling toward my head.

  Laurence advanced, bombarding me with everything that wasn’t bolted down, and even some items that had been. They came faster and faster, harder and harder. I struggled to keep up, bare
ly deflecting one projectile before the next catapulted in my direction. Another bench shot my way. This time, I could tell I had no hope of parrying before it struck me, so instead I hit the ground and rolled out of the way. A second later a cry made my blood run cold.

  I looked up. In missing me, the bench had struck Kane, propelling him backward. Both now headed toward the roof edge.

  “Stop it!” I shrieked at Laurence. However, all he did was lower his hands and skid to a halt.

  I reached for the bench myself, trying to slow it, but straightaway I knew it was too late. Momentum was working its own magic. Even if I halted the bench, it wouldn’t save Kane. I tried for his clothes instead, only to stop. If I gripped them too tightly or pulled too hard, I might strangle him, or even snap his neck. It was too risky. With all ideas exhausted, all I could do was stare in horror as, in agonizing slow motion, Kane smashed into the barrier and toppled over it, disappearing from view.

  In the deafening silence that followed, another desperate plan occurred to me. If I jumped after him, I could grab ahold of him physically and fly us both to safety. It was a long shot—I’d never tried to carry anything, let alone anyone, while in flight before—but it was my only hope. It was Kane’s only hope.

  Summoning my every ounce of courage, I broke into a run. By that point, I was scarcely thinking about what I was doing or how I would accomplish it. I simply knew that I had to vault the barrier and dive after Kane. Anything after that I’d have to deal with on the fly. As I reached the wall, I gave my trainers an added boost to help lift me. My foot hit the top of the barrier and I pushed myself off. I could see Kane below me. There was still sufficient time to save him.

  A sideways thump altered my course, spinning me back onto the rooftop. I landed on my side, jarring my elbow and bruising my ribs, but my injuries were not the cause of my pained screech. Kane was falling fast. Two seconds ago I would have been able to catch up. Now, it was impossible. He was dead. He’d crash into the pavement and he’d die. And there was only one person responsible.

  Rage filled me, stronger than any I’d even known. It overpowered me, pulsing through my veins, molten hot and bubbling, all-consuming. The heat surged down my arms, into my hands, and fireballs burst into life in my palms. At the same time, I used my costume to float myself upright, hovering a few centimeters off the ground. Then I sought Laurence.

  He stared at me openmouthed, his gaze fixed on my burning hands. Instinct took over then, and I wound back my arm as if to pitch. When I swung, a fireball left my hand and bowled toward Laurence. He barely jumped aside in time to avoid its fiery path. I tossed another and another, and Laurence retreated in the direction of the lift, hands raised in supplication, eyes wide.

  “I never meant to hurt him, Oswell. You know that. Why don’t you put out the flames and we can talk. We can help each other, you and I.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, and I don’t need help from the likes of you.” I loosed another flaming orb, which sizzled and hissed as it landed by Laurence’s feet. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. An eye for an eye, as they say.”

  Laurence tripped and tumbled, landing heavily on his arse right in front of the lift doors. He stretched his arm, fingers fumbling, but from his current position, he couldn’t reach the Call button. A grin curved my lips. He was trapped.

  “Goodbye, Laurence.” I produced another ball of flame, the largest yet, and took aim.

  Suddenly a bright ping sounded and the lift doors whooshed open. Laurence, who had been leaning against them, fell backward, and I found myself face-to-face with a heavily armed assault squad.

  “Put down the… fire and place your hands behind your head!”

  No! These intruding, dimwitted fools were not going to rob me of my revenge. I prepared to throw.

  A spray of bullets rained upon me. Anger twisted in my gut. They were firing at me? I wasn’t the bad guy here. I dropped my flames and reached for the bullets, catching them with ease. They responded to my command and halted, clattering to the ground. One of the men swore and loosed another volley. These I flung aside, sending them flying to the right.

  I noticed Laurence. He had wriggled his way into the lift and was now cowering behind his rescuers’ legs. The yellow-livered bastard. If I wanted him, I’d have to go through these five to get at him. I contemplated it. I nearly acted. But even in the midst of my rage, I eventually realized that I couldn’t go that far. These idiots were only doing their job, no matter if they were getting it wrong. Laurence would be mine; it just wouldn’t be today.

  With a wave of my hand, I slammed the lift doors shut, trapping everyone inside. Then I dashed across the roof and bounded over the barrier. I soared between buildings and heard cries from below. To my left, a news helicopter hovered, a camera following my every move. I no longer gave a damn about that and swooped beneath it. My action made the pilot lose control. He got them back on track, but I trusted they’d think better of attempting to follow me after that.

  I glanced down and saw that a huge crowd had gathered. There were ambulances and police cars, even a fire truck. They’d have found Kane’s mangled body by now. There was no way I could get to it. He was gone, and I couldn’t say a proper goodbye or take care of his remains. But I would avenge him. Whatever else happened, that slimy weasel going by the name of Laurence Bartholomew would be mine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I SAT cross-legged atop the overturned news van, my hastily packed duffel bag and guitar case by my side. The van’s owners had long since fled, along with the handful of pedestrians and drivers who’d witnessed the scene, not even the bravest amongst them keen to stay put and risk drawing my attention. Police response was unexpectedly slow. I’d been here for several minutes, yet there was no sign of the boys in blue. Either no one had rushed to call them, or they were planning their approach carefully before making a move. I had barely finished that thought when I heard it: a faint siren in the distance. I suspected this one was heading my way, which meant it would soon be time to depart. Although, I was finding it far harder than I’d anticipated to say goodbye to my poxy little flat. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t expected this to be the last time I’d set foot here. When I’d flown in this direction, I’d only intended to get changed before heading to the nearest pub, where I’d planned to drown my deep, deep, bottomless sorrows until I lost consciousness or ran out of cash—whichever happened first.

  There was a lot to obliterate from my mind. I’d failed Kane, in every possible way. That wasn’t the kind of thing from which you just bounced back. My rage had cooled as I’d flown home. I’d told myself what had happened had been no more than a tragic, unforeseeable accident. Laurence was delusional, but he’d not arrived on the rooftop this afternoon with the intention of killing Kane, and Kane hadn’t been someone who’d countenanced negative emotions like hatred and vengeance.

  With the cool breeze buffeting my face, calming my turbulent thoughts, I had almost convinced myself to give up on my plans for revenge, go to the police, and tell them the full story. Then I’d arrived home.

  The press had beaten me there. For a moment, confusion had fogged my mind, robbing me of my hard-won clarity. A host of news vans blocked my street, but there was no sign of the police. It hadn’t made any sense. I’d set down, and they’d instantly crowded me, like a swarm of buzzing gnats, thrusting cameras and microphones into my face as I fought my way to my front door. At first I’d not managed to catch a single distinct question, what with the way everyone was screaming at me at once, but then one reporter had shoved his fellows aside, catching hold of my arm before I could slide my key into the lock.

  “Oswell, just tell us why you did it. Why did you kill Kane Teague?”

  “What?” I’d rounded on the man. “I didn’t kill Kane. It was Laurence. I was trying to save him”—I’d choked back a sob—“but Laurence stopped me.”

  “Are you referring to Laurence Bartholomew? Your other intended victim? The man y
ou would have slaughtered, too, had the police not intervened before you could finish the job?”

  “That’s not true.” I’d made the claim knowing it was only partly accurate. Had the police not arrived, I probably would have exacted my revenge in blood, as much as I hated to admit it to myself now.

  The reporter had looked incredulous. “So you’re saying that all the allegations Mr. Bartholomew brought to our attention this morning are untrue?”

  This morning?

  What mental equilibrium I’d briefly managed to restore during the course of the conversation had shattered in an instant. The bastard had planned this—not Kane’s death, perhaps, but everything else. That explained the speedy arrival of the reporters, both on the rooftop and again here. He’d spun some tall tale about me in advance, so that he could claim any actions he took against me were in self-defense. Kane’s demise only served to make his lies all the more believable to these gullible sods.

  “Get out of here.”

  “So you have no comment to make?”

  “I said get out!”

  Anger had taken control once more. For the first few moments, the reporters had lapped it up, pointing dozens of cameras my way and talking excitedly into their microphones. They’d soon changed their tune, however, when flames ignited in my palms and I started overturning their vans. The less courageous souls had scattered immediately; the rest had followed only when I set one of their vehicles ablaze.

  Once the street finally emptied, I’d ripped apart the burning van, to avoid any petrol explosions, but various sections still flamed and smoldered even now, casting eerie shadows over the bitumen. A few curtains in the windows of neighboring houses had twitched, but no one had ventured outside either in curiosity or to confront me.

  Ensconced within my flat at last, I’d made quick work of packing up my possessions. I’d yanked clothes off the rail and shoved them into my duffel bag, hangers and all. A few items from the drawers followed, and then I’d gone into the bathroom, where I’d indiscriminately pawed bottles, cases, and brushes off the cabinet shelves, letting them tumble atop the rumpled clothes. Next, I’d gathered some muesli bars and cans of drink—enough to see me through a day or two, and finally I’d retrieved my cherished guitar.