by PT Dilloway
The only problem is deciding what to do about it. The jock has eighteen inches on her and probably a hundred pounds of muscle. She figures him for a tight end on the football team or maybe a linebacker. By contrast she’s a skinny munchkin. But that’s never stopped her before. As she told Jasper, she didn’t beat the bad guys because she was stronger or had better toys; she beat them because she outthought them.
She charges forward to grab the jock’s arm before he can punch again. “Leave him alone! He’s had enough already.”
As expected the jock swats her aside like she’s a mosquito. “Get lost, shrimp,” he growls.
“There’s no need to keep this up. You’ve won,” she says.
He cocks his arm to punch the nerd again. Midnight jumps in the way to take the punch—or appear to take the punch. Among the masters she studied under was a Hollywood stuntman; he’d taught her how to take a punch. The secret was to roll with the momentum and let your body go limp while at the same time exaggerating the impact.
She drops to the ground like she’s been shot. She lies there wailing in pain. The nerd touches her shoulder. She looks up at him and winks. Then she rolls over just as the jock is about to grab her so he can continue the fight.
Given her size and weight disadvantage the only option is to fight dirty. She punches him as hard as she can between the legs. He drops to his knees, his eyes practically rolling back in his head. Midnight kicks him in the stomach for emphasis.
Then she grabs the nerd’s hand and runs.
***
They seek refuge in the ladies room on the third floor. Midnight presses a wet paper towel to the nerd’s face to get some of the blood off. When she pulls it back, she studies his nose. “Doesn’t look broken,” she says. She’d broken her nose five times as Midnight Spectre; Jasper had started to joke she should get a nose job.
“I’ll be all right,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He smiles at her, revealing braces but no chipped or broken teeth. “That was so awesome. You were like Huntress or Batgirl.”
“What about Midnight Spectre?”
He snorts but then winces with pain. “You wish. Midnight Spectre would have done something way cooler. He would have ducked under Barf’s punch, worked the body with a few punches, and then thrown Barf over his shoulder.” The nerd pantomimes these moves for Midnight. She has to admit she probably would have done something along those lines when she was a man; she’d done it often enough to guys built like the bully.
“Barf?” she asks.
“His real name’s Bart. People call him Barf.”
“Not to his face, I bet.”
The nerd’s cheeks warm. “Not usually.”
“So he overheard you say it and decided to beat the snot out of you?”
“Pretty much.”
She smiles; it’s good to see the kid isn’t afraid to admit his weakness. Most guys would have bragged they could have handled it if given more time. “So what’s your name?”
“Melvin Amis.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” He straightens to try to summon some dignity. “After my grandfather. He was an oil baron out in California.”
“I bet he didn’t go by Melvin. They’d shoot you in the Old West for that.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your name? I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”
“It’s my first day. My name’s Robin.” When his eyes widen, she says, “Yes, it’s spelled just like the Boy Wonder.”
“There was a girl Robin too. Stephanie—”
“Let’s just drop it.” Midnight goes to the door and peers out. “The coast is clear. You should probably skedaddle. My advice for the future is to keep your mouth shut and start working out. Start with some cardio to build endurance and then move on to light weights.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a jock.”
“I’m not. My…cousin is. He plays football for USC but he looked a lot like you when he was in high school.”
Melvin scoffs. “Did he take some supersoldier drug like Captain America?”
“Steroids are for amateurs and they do more harm than good. You ever want to be a real superhero like Midnight Spectre, stay off the junk and work at it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says and tosses her a jaunty salute. She waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He shifts from one foot to the other. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Maybe after school I could walk you home?”
“I have a ride.”
“Oh.” He grimaces like he got punched in the face again. It’s probably the first time he tried to make a move on a girl and she shot him down. Now he’ll probably end up as light in the loafers as Ellis Pate.
“How about you come with me? I’ve got a killer gym. I can help get you started.”
“That would be awesome!” To her surprise, he kisses her on the cheek. His face turns red at the same moment hers turns volcanic warm. He bolts from the bathroom.
Midnight shakes her head. She doesn’t know why she invited him over. It will at least give Jasper quite a shock to see she’s made a friend already.
Chapter 18
Allison sits in a bar in Paris still dressed in her costume. The only other customer is an old man asleep at the bar. He’s probably been here all night since the bars in Paris just opened while those back in Focal City were announcing last call. The bartender’s left a bottle of red wine next to the old man but made no attempt to wake him.
Back in high school Allison took three years of French. She puts it to use now to order a bottle of absinthe, some of the strongest liquor on the planet. The bartender stares at her for a moment. In English, he says, “Are you sure, mademoiselle? It is very strong.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
Her body is not impervious to drink. It just takes an awful lot of it to have much effect on her system. The bartender actually gasps when she downs a shot of absinthe in one go. He takes a step back as if he expects her to explode. The absinthe tastes like what she imagines battery acid must taste like. Still, she lets out a satisfied belch. “Not bad.”
By the time she’s drained a quarter of the bottle, she feels lightheaded. No other customers have shown up yet. The old man finally stirs. He immediately reaches for the bottle at his elbow. He pulls the cork out with his teeth before he starts to drain it from the bottle. His half-open eyes take her in. In French he says, “You are the Speed Girl?”
“Velocity Gal,” she corrects in English since she doesn’t know how to say ‘velocity’ in French.
He repeats it with his thick French accent. “Why are you here?”
She shrugs. “Why are you?”
“I am getting drunk.”
“So am I.”
He lifts the bottle to her. She clinks her shot glass to it and then takes another belt. The bartender stares at her with amazement. “You don’t have to worry,” she says. “My metabolism doesn’t work the same way yours does. It breaks down the alcohol much faster. I won’t even get a hangover.”
“Perhaps you should not be drinking then,” he suggests.
“I can’t remember the last time I got good and drunk. Now seemed like the right time for it.”
“Man trouble?” the old man asks in French.
“Oui,” she says and then giggles. In English she says, “The trouble is I used to be a man.”
“You had the sex change?” the bartender asks.
“Not by choice.” She sighs. Major Dalton will probably have kittens if she finds out Allison is spilling secrets in a bar. But who are these people going to tell? The old man probably can’t understand her and she doubts the bartender is the sort who will run to the press. “It was done to me and now I can’t change it back.”
“They have surgery for that, do they not?”
> She shakes her head. “It probably wouldn’t work on me. All those hormones they inject into you would break down before they could do much. I’d end up a woman with a fake penis.”
The bartender only nods. He shifts uncomfortably and then starts to wipe down the bar. She can’t blame him. This isn’t a topic really suited for polite conversation with strangers. Allison gulps down another shot. Then she pats her skintight suit. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money on me. I left it back in my purse. Give me five minutes to get it?”
“It is no problem. I think I can trust Velocity Gal.”
She giggles again. “Thanks. I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone take my seat.”
She bolts from the bar. Her first steps are a little wobbly, but by the time she’s out of Paris she’s fine. Running like this will only accelerate the process of breaking down the alcohol in her system. When she reaches Focal City, she’s clearheaded again. She grabs her purse from inside the lab. She can’t take it with her, so she just stuffs a few bills into her boot, where they should be safe.
The bartender hasn’t made much progress on the counter when she gets back. The old man has fallen back to sleep. The way he sucks at the end of the bottle reminds Allison of when Jenny was a baby. Tears sting her eyes at the memory.
She takes the money from her boot and slaps it down on the counter. “Just keep them coming,” she says.
***
It’s eight o’clock in Paris when she wakes up. She had fallen asleep like the old man three hours earlier. There’s a puddle of drool on the counter. A napkin sticks to her cheek when she lifts her head.
There are more people in the bar now, blue-collar workers for the most part it appears. They talk loudly to themselves in French, a few glancing over at her. She’s sure they make lewd remarks at her expense. At least no one tried to violate her while she slept.
The bartender leans down in front of her. “You are awake now,” he says. “Hangover?”
“Nope. I feel right as rain.”
He shakes his head. “That much absinthe would kill a normal woman—or a man.”
“I told you I’m not normal.”
The room goes silent. On the television screen in the corner is the image of a building with masked figures on top of it. They fly Palestinian flags and signs written in Arabic. From what she can decipher of the headline on the screen, terrorists have overtaken a government building. “They have hostages?” she asks the bartender.
“Yes. Two dozen if they are to be believed.”
“Where is it?”
The bartender gives her the address. She nods to him. “Thanks. I’m on my way.”
“Good luck, mademoiselle.”
She nods to him again and then she’s off.
***
It takes her an entire minute to get to the government building. She got lost three times on the way over. She finally located the place by the number of flashing lights out front. She comes to a stop in front of a crowd of officers. A couple of the jumpier ones pull their weapons on her. She puts up her hands. “I’m on your side,” she says in French.
A man in a suit and tie, who has to be a lieutenant or captain or even the commissioner, says in English, “We do not need any help.”
“Those people inside might feel differently.”
“Everything is under control. We will soon have them.” He says something to his officers in French that makes them laugh uproariously. She isn’t sure exactly what it is, but she gathers he’s suggesting the best way she can help is to open her legs for them.
She gives him a superspeed slap that doubles him over. “You pigs!” she shouts in French. In English she says, “There are lives at stake here. It’s not the time or place for this bullshit.”
“Get this girl out of here!” the man in charge says.
Allison grabs him by the front of the shirt. She holds him up like she’s taking him hostage. “Listen, asshole, all you need to do is tell me how to get inside. I’ll handle the rest. Otherwise I’m going to use you as a human shield. Got it?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” He motions for the other cops to back off. Then he tells her where to find the loading dock at the rear of the building.
“I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” she says.
She hopes the police don’t try to shoot her now that she’s let their commander go. It would be a waste of ammunition and do nothing except to alert the bad guys to her presence. In a hostage situation, stealth and speed are essential to making sure no one gets hurt.
The loading dock is locked. Allison holds out one hand and vibrates her molecules enough to use it like a jackhammer. The lock finally shatters. She catches it before it can fall.
She races through the building to get its layout and survey the situation. There are a half-dozen gunmen in the building and the two-dozen hostages as the bartender had said. Only two of the gunmen are actually watching the hostages while three more watch the front entrances. The sixth is on the phone upstairs, giving demands to the police.
It’s a simple enough matter for her then. She takes out the two with the hostages first. She zips by to tear their guns away and then makes a second pass to punch them out. She races up the stairs to do the same to the three watching the entrances.
She goes upstairs to snatch the phone away from the last terrorist. Before he can raise his pistol, she has it in her hand. She points it at him while she tells the police, “The situation is resolved. The hostages will be out soon.”
Before the officer can reply, she hangs up the phone. At this point she wishes she could bend the gun into a pretzel like Starla; all she can do is shake its molecules apart so that it scatters on the floor. She grabs the man by the front of the shirt. “What did you really think this would accomplish?”
“You fascist American whore—”
She superspeed punches him in the stomach. She works his midsection until he coughs up blood. Some of the alcohol must still be in her system as the man’s face changes in her mind to that of the Feminazi. “You took everything from me!” she shrieks. “You son of a bitch! You took my family away!”
She throws him across the room. She’s already there to wait for him when he lands. Then she starts to kick him in the side. She does this until she hears a gun cock. The chauvinist cop from outside says, “Enough. He’s finished.”
Only then does Allison remember she was fighting an Arab terrorist, not the Feminazi. “I’m sorry,” she says, tears in her eyes. “I thought you were someone else.”
***
The fire escape goes up to Jenny’s room. Allison sits on the fire escape with another bottle of absinthe. Through a crack in the curtains, she can see Jenny on her side, an arm pressing her favorite teddy bear to her chest while she sucks on her thumb.
It’s not fair. She shouldn’t have to be a stranger to her own daughter. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she had tried to save the world. She had saved the world on multiple occasions. How many lives had she saved in that time? She hadn’t ever kept track, but it must be thousands, if not hundreds of thousands by now.
And what’s her reward? Some crackpot uses an alien device to turn her into a woman and now her own wife and child don’t recognize her. She takes a long pull from the bottle of absinthe and then wipes the back of her mouth with one glove.
This is bullshit. She’s five feet away from her daughter and can’t let her know she’s here. She watches as Jenny’s legs start to kick. She flings the teddy bear away. Since her eyes are still closed, it must be a nightmare.
Allison’s fists clench. She can save two-dozen French people from terrorists but she can’t save her own daughter from a nightmare. The hell with this, she thinks. It’s easy enough for her to open the lock and then slip inside. In half a second she’s at the side of Jenny’s bed. She strokes the little girl’s hair and whispers, “It’s all right. Daddy
is here. Daddy will keep you safe.”
To her relief, Jenny’s body relaxes. She sticks her thumb back in her mouth. Her other hand reaches for her teddy. Allison fetches it for her before she can wake up. Jenny presses the bear to her chest, a smile coming to her face. Allison rearranges the covers, brushes Jenny’s hair from her face, and then kisses her forehead.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The light comes on. Allison races across the room in a microsecond. She’s on the fire escape when she hears Sally shout, “Who the hell is in here?”
“Mommy?” Jenny says. She sits up in bed, her teddy bear still pressed to her chest. She looks around the room. “Where’s Daddy?”
“I told you, Daddy had to go away for a while.”
“Nuh-uh. Daddy was just here. I heard him.”
Sally sits down on the bed next to Jenny. She puts her arm over the girl’s shoulder. “It was just a dream, sweetie. Daddy is far, far away.”
Allison crouches at the edge of the fire escape, trying to hold in her sobs. By now she could be halfway across the country, but she can’t will herself to move as she hears Sally try to explain to Jenny that her father is dead. “He’s up in Heaven with all the angels.”
“Like in church?”
“Yes, like in church.”
“Why did Daddy go there?”
“He didn’t have a choice. A nasty person blew up the place where he worked.”
“Why?”
“Because some people aren’t nice.”
“Daddy was nice.”
“Yes, Daddy was very nice.”
To calm her nerves, Allison drinks the last of the absinthe. As she finishes, the bottle slips from her hand. She tries to catch it, but the combination of the alcohol and the tears in her eyes slow her enough that the edge of the bottle glances off her fingertips. The bottle shatters on the fire escape.
Allison should get up to run. Instead, she curls into a ball and sobs. She hears Sally tell Jenny to run into the bathroom and lock the door. “Why?” Jenny asks.
“Because I said so. Go!”
Allison hears the fire escape creak and then a hand press down on her shoulder. “It’s all right,” Sally says. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Allison mumbles into her chest. “I’m sorry about the bottle.”
