After The Apocalypse

by Roseman, Josh

  Peter's one of my Facebook friends. I really should see how he's doing.

  "What are you doing?"

  I see Buffy and Willow on the bed, stretched out, looking at me standing by my dresser, laptop open, wearing only my underwear. "Me?"

  "No, the fucking Easter Bunny." Buffy stares at the computer screen, then at me. "So that's her, huh?"

  "That's me."

  "And you can talk to us again?"

  "Looks that way."

  She gives an indignant sniff and stalks off, raising her tail to tell me exactly what she thinks of that. I shrug and give Willow a little scratch behind her ears before going to my closet. I may not have anything that looks like my old costume, but at least I can wear a shirt that's the same color. The closest skirt I have is navy-blue, not the brightly-shimmering color of my old outfit, but the teal blouse is exactly right. I've had it since college; it's silk, and I guess it had cost too much to justify giving away when I stopped wearing it.

  I check myself over in the mirror; the blouse isn't the most flattering thing I own, but at least it fits well; I've got it tucked into the skirt, and the belt is cinched tight. The pantyhose I'm wearing cut into my stomach a little -- it's been a while since I've worn hose, and they were never comfortable even when I wasn't overweight -- but I have to look the part. I even brush out my hair and put some product in it, my hands remembering how to do the old Alexandra style, a gentle wave that spills down my back even if my hair is a bit shorter now than it was then. I really need to get to the stylist if I'm going to be out in public. But today I have something a little more important to do.

  "What do you think?" I ask Willow, holding up the laptop.

  "I think I love you."

  "I love you too," I say, closing the computer. "You're not helpful, you know."

  "I know." She yawns as I scratch between her shoulders. "Where are you going? Will you be home soon?"

  "I don't know how long I'll be out, but I'll be back tonight. I promise."

  "Okay." Her eyes close and she lets out a contented sigh.

  Buffy, though, is not so sanguine; she's sitting on the counter when I come out. "What?"

  "You're an idiot," she says, "but you're our idiot." A pause, but I guess that's as warm and fuzzy as she's going to get. "Don't do anything stupid, all right?"

  "I won't."

  "Good." She jumps down and heads for the front bathroom. "I still need you to feed me. At least until I figure out how to open the food bin."

  "Nice to know I'm wanted around here."

  Buffy doesn't reply.

  I get my wallet out of my purse and slip it into a side pocket of my skirt. My phone goes in the other pocket, along with my apartment key. I'm not bringing anything with me this time that I don't absolutely need. I just have a few errands to run before I get where I'm going; I won't need my purse.

  I decide, since I might not be home for a while and who knows when I'm going to get to eat again, that I'm going to need a fairly large meal. One of my very-rare dates once brought me to an Italian restaurant up in Sandy Springs, and I remember the portions being pretty impressive, so I catch the train up that way and run from the stop to the strip mall where the restaurant is located. It's good, and not too expensive, and no one bothers to say anything about the overweight girl ordering the biggest thing on the menu.

  They're all too busy watching CNN on the TV above the bar.

  Fine by me.

  I take my time eating and afterward hit one of those frozen-yogurt places, just because I can. Over dessert, I check my phone for costume shops and find one not too far away; they haven't heard anything about Alexandra's return, so when I tell the old man at the counter I need something that'll hold a mask to my face for twelve hours, he doesn't ask for an explanation.

  The adhesive is pretty cheap, which is good, because I really didn't think ahead for this part and I might have to throw it away. I'm not planning to go back home just to drop it off -- I might lose my nerve if I do that.

  No, better to just fly downtown and not make any stops. I stick the mask to my face and check my appearance in the front window of the costume shop before launching into the sky. At this point, I don't care if anyone sees me.

  The whole world is going to see me soon enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHAT’S MY LINE?

  +++++

  I've had exactly one in-studio television interview in my life. It was after I defeated the Dark King. The battle and the fallout from it were so massive that I couldn't hide what I was, not after our fight shut down a major highway for hours -- and it wasn't one of those late-night battles they show on TV shows, either, the ones where the road is deserted so they can save on extras. No, this happened right around morning rush hour, and try as I might, I couldn't save everyone. More than a dozen people died that day, and I was almost one of them. After that battle, it became clear to the Professor -- and, I guess, to me as well -- that I'd have to make some sort of statement. Living in Atlanta, it was easier just to go straight to the top and do it on CNN.

  I remember the interview in flashes -- it all happened very quickly, or so I felt, and when I watched it later, I was thankful they'd recorded it, because I definitely hadn't been very coherent at the time. After all, I'd just killed my nemesis, and things were a little hectic as a result.

  But now I'm back. No one's here now who worked with the woman who interviewed me last time -- I asked for a couple of people by name, but they've moved on -- so instead I'm sitting caddy-corner from a woman who's about forty, wearing a sharp business suit and an awful lot of makeup. Her team did a little work on me, too, helping to arrange my hair into the old Alexandra style and covering up some less-than-perfect places on my forehead and cheeks. They wanted to get under my mask, just to blend in the skin tones, but that wasn't happening. Skin adhesive hurts like a bitch, which is why the mask stays on once it's on.

  "This isn't going to be live, is it?" I ask her.

  She shakes her head. She's not even really looking at me, just checking over her notes and pecking on a laptop. "We'll tape it and run it later." Unspoken was the phrase if you are who you say you are.

  How would she know, exactly? Other than a demonstration of my powers -- and we'd planned for that, too; there were some heavy pieces of metal just out of frame -- it wasn't as if I could give her details that were kept out of police reports. And if they brought in a dog or cat or something, I could talk to it, but who would confirm what I said?

  I just hope I don't have to do something drastic. I hate being a showoff; I always have, ever since elementary school, since I realized that being one of the smartest kids in class doesn't mean you're going to be liked by everyone. Or, in some cases, anyone. By the time I'd hit high school, I'd learned to stop showing my intellect, and I had to be even more self-effacing once I had the powers; wouldn't do to end up on the track team, throwing a javelin so far I ended up spearing a passing bird. I suppose I could've done it like that kid in The Incredibles, but that would've just been a lie, both to myself and everyone else.

  I don't have an earpiece like Gina -- that's the reporter's name -- does, so I'm not sure what instructions she's getting from her director. Hell, I'm surprised I rate a private studio for this interview; at the TV station where I work, our reporters are lucky to be assigned a cameraperson, let alone find a quiet place to talk to people on the property. She turns to the camera, smiles, then turns to me. "All right. For the record, please say your name, and then spell it."

  Oh, great. A tough one. "Alexandra. A-L-E-X-A-N-D-R-A."

  "No last name?"

  "Secret identity."

  "Ah." Gina the reporter sounds quite put-upon. "Everything ready in the booth?" A moment of quiet. "Okay. Good. And you heard her all right?" Another moment. "Okay. Here we go."

  She turns a thousand-watt smile on me. "Alexandra, this morning you appeared for the first time after eleven years to assist Atlanta Fire-Rescue at a day-care where an accident se
nt a power pole with live cables crashing onto the roof of a building. Can you tell us why?"

  "Why now, you mean?"

  I can see Gina trying not to wrinkle her forehead. It's not like I'm trying to be deliberately obtuse; I just want to keep my answers on-topic. "Yes, why now, as opposed to, say, during the Mississippi River floods or the earthquake in Haiti."

  I nod. "Shortly after my last major battle--"

  "Against the being you named the 'Dark King'?"

  "Yes, but I didn't name him." I want to give her a dirty look; there are too many interruptions, and I don't want to lose track of the question. "Shortly after I defeated the Dark King, I... well, I guess you could say I lost my powers."

  "How did that happen, exactly?"

  "Exactly?" I try a small grin, but I don't want to look too disingenuous. "I'm not going to say exactly how, because, you know, supervillains." Gina gives me an almost-dirty look. "But there are ways. Every Superman has kryptonite. And, let's be honest here, I'm still just a human being with normal human weaknesses: if you shoot me with a gun or drop me off a high enough building, I'll die just like anyone else."

  "All right. We can skip that one for now." She folds her hands on the desk. "After you 'lost your powers', as you put it, what did you do?"

  "I did what any other eighteen-year-old high school graduate would do: I went to college."

  As it turned out, college had been depressingly normal, especially after all the adventure that high school had been. And it was nothing like the movies, either; the other girls in my building didn't get up to anything crazy, and my roommate -- a tall girl named Regan Chase -- was polite, respectful of my boundaries, and didn't bring guys home and have loud sex on her bed while I clamped a pillow around my ears. Classes were about as exciting as I'd expected: college algebra, English, the obligatory "we know you know how to use a computer but you have to take basic computing anyway because we said so" course that I went to all of twice and then blew off, and American History I. I was dreading Am Hist II, because I had a sinking sensation that I was going to be part of it, but that would be a problem for another semester.

  "Why don't you ever go out?" Regan asked one Friday afternoon. We were sitting in the laundry room, sharing one of the big industrial dryers to save on quarters -- not that I had to worry about money, what with the Professor providing a stipend, but I didn't like to flaunt it. My parents taught me modesty.

  I still missed them, even though they'd been gone for a while now. I didn't think I'd ever stop missing them.

  "I don't know," I said. "I guess I just don't want to."

  "But you're in college. We're living away from home. Freedom, right?"

  "I suppose."

  Regan hopped up onto the dryer and crossed her legs -- and they were such long legs, too. She was really pretty, prettier than me, and when she smiled it was like her entire face lit up. Plus, she went jogging every morning -- she'd stopped inviting me after a couple of weeks of me declining the offer -- and anyway my freshman fifteen had been left behind two months ago in pursuit of a higher number. "Come on, Andi; what's wrong? It's gotta be something big if you're gonna keep brooding about it."

  "I brood?" I had a flash of that scene in Angel where Wesley and Cordelia make fun of the vampire's propensity to do the same. I didn't make a joke about it, though; I didn't think Regan would appreciate it. "I guess I do."

  "Damn right you do." She crossed her legs in the other direction. I tried not to be jealous. She might be pretty, but I saved the damn world six months ago; I figured that went a long way. But Regan wasn't done -- she lowered her voice a little and her hazel eyes went soft. "Andi, something's wrong. I've lived with you long enough to catch you when you let your guard down. You can talk to me; I promise I won't judge."

  "I know you won't." I was leaning against the opposite row of dryers, and it was loud enough that no one could overhear us -- if they even cared to. But the laundry room was a sort of sacred place for having confessional-type discussions; I'd tuned out plenty of them since I'd been here.

  "So spill," she said. "You've held it in long enough." She paused. "Is it something about your past? You don't really talk about high school, but I know you went to that one where that Dark King guy tried to kill all those people. Were you there for that?"

  Was I ever. "Yeah."

  "Did you see Alexandra?"

  I was thankful I had such a good poker face. "No."

  "She was so cool," Regan said. "I wonder what happened to her. I wonder who she really was."

  If you only knew. "Mostly I don't talk about high school because my parents both died last year." The Professor had given me a cover story to use, and I used it. "There was a car accident."

  "Oh, Andi, I'm sorry," she said, and I could tell she meant it. "That's terrible."

  "Yeah." I didn't cry anymore when I thought about it, but it still hurt a lot. "A friend of the family became my guardian until college. He's a professor here."

  "Well, that's good -- that you didn't have to switch schools or anything." Regan cocked her head a little. "Now, what's the real reason?"

  Great. I just had to get a perceptive roommate instead of one who got high all the time and ignored me. I sighed. "I guess it's just..." I paused to think about how I should answer, and then just gave a mental fuck it and told her the truth. "Back in high school, I knew exactly who I was and what I should be doing. But here... here, I just feel lost. Like, what's my line, y'know?"

  Regan nodded. "Well, then, what you need to do is find your place."

  "Easy for you to say."

  She hopped down from the dryer. "Sure it is. And it starts with you going out with me and my friends tonight."

  "I really don't think--"

  "No. You really don't." She stuck her tongue out at me. "Come back up to the room; we'll find you something sexy to wear."

  "Sexy and me don't mix." But I followed her anyway after stealing a glance at the dryer: 45 minutes left on the cycle. Laundry theft wasn't a huge problem -- or, at least, it hadn't been for me -- but I wasn't really thinking about that.

  I was more worried about how Regan was going to turn me into something I wasn't.

  "My degree is in finance," I tell Gina. "My secret identity has a perfectly normal job for a perfectly normal company, and no one there knows who I am either." I feel a little guilty that I haven't at least told Jake, especially now that the powers are back, but I haven't been to work since this whole thing started back up again -- and has it really only been three days? Not even?

  "When exactly did your powers... 'come back', as you put it?"

  Well, she's not getting the exact truth on that one. "Every week, my mentor--"

  "Mentor? What does that mean?"

  Now I do give her a dirty look. These interruptions have got to stop. "When I was fighting evil years ago, I had a mentor who helped me learn to use my powers." She opens her mouth but I don't stop talking. I'm not going to let her get a word in edgewise on this one. "We've stayed in contact over the years, and we get together every week to see if I have powers. Last time we met, they were back." I feel rather smug that I didn't have to lie at all during that part -- the last time I saw the Professor, my powers were back, after all.

  "Is your mentor, as you call him--"

  "I never said it was a man." Hah! Take that, CNN reporter person! I can interrupt too!

  "All right; your mentor, as you call her--"

  I can't resist. "No, you were right the first time; my mentor is a man."

  Oh, now she's mad; I can see the strain around her eyes. "Is he part of some sort of larger group? As a... superhero..." The distaste with which she says the word makes me wonder just what happened to her to piss her off so much. "You must have seen representations in popular fiction about organizations dedicated to the support and training of people like yourself."

  "I have."

  "And is he?"

  "It never came up in conversation."

  "Just how did you m
eet your mentor, exactly?"

  I met him during math class.

  "Andrea?"

  I looked up from my notebook, where I was working on an annoying word problem. "Yes, Ms. Stockton?"

  She inclined her head at the kid standing beside her desk. "You're needed in the office."

  "Okay..?" I picked up my bag and started putting my things away.

  "What did you do?" Jerry, who sat next to me, asked sotto voce.

  "No idea. Maybe I'm going home early?"

  "Are you in trouble?"

  I shrugged and zipped the bag shut, then got up from my desk. "I don't think I did anything wrong." Well, okay, that wasn't 100 percent true; I may have kind-of-sort-of tried getting high with Tiff and Kara after school a few days ago, but it hadn't done anything to me except make me sit there, pretending to care, while the two of them got all loopy and then passed out on Tiff's couch. I'm not sure why they'd included me, except that I think I'd babysat Tiff's cousin or something once or twice. "See you in History."

  "See you."

  I put my bag over my shoulder and followed the office assistant kid out of the classroom. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong -- at least, not on school grounds -- but my stomach still fluttered. I told it to shut up and calm down; it was probably something simple, or maybe a mistake. It was a big school -- maybe they got the wrong Andrea Collins?

  When we got to the office, the kid handed me off to the front-desk secretary, who sent me to sit outside Mrs. Osbourne's office. She was the guidance counselor, and I hadn't talked to one of those since fifth grade, when I got into a fight with a girl named Lauren who'd gotten her friends to go all Mean Girls on me. That one had been my fault -- I'd thrown the first punch, and then my friend Marcy had joined in, and we'd all gotten marched to the office with Marcy nearly in tears because she thought we were going to get paddled or something. I'd put on a brave face at the time, but all that had happened was me and Marcy in a room with Lauren and her crew, trying to hash it out.

  I think I might've preferred getting paddled, come to think of it. At least it would've been over quickly.