Superheroes in Prose Volume Six: I, Pink

by Sevan Paris

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Back Image

  Will Return

  Audiobook

  Superheroes in Prose

  Volume Six:

  I, Pink

  by Sevan Paris

  Story Consultants

  Michael Booth

  and

  Cindy Paris

  Copyright © 2013 Sevan Paris

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  Special thanks to Lisa-Michelle Brower. Our conversations helped me ask the right questions about identity in this book. And to my wife Cindy … thanks for putting up with the crazy amount of Brittany Spears music for the past few months.

  “Life can only be understood backward, though life must be lived forward.”

  — Soren Kierkegaard

  PROLOGUE

  Best. Day. Ever.

  And I deserve it too. More often than not, being a Superhero makes me feel like I’m stuck inside a hate-filled Alanis Morrissette song. But there are moments—not many, but a few—when the lifestyle exposes me to things so awesome, so fantastic, so … Magickal, that no matter how much the rest of my life may be circling a drain of doom, I just can’t help but grin like a kid who’s just seen Star Wars for the first time.

  Yesterday, I helped a Magickal Ward named Ember stand up for what was right. And we slew a dragon (that’s right, a freaking dragon). We forced one of the most powerful Magickal Sayers in the world to get compromise-y

  And then Ember and I totally had sex.

  And it was awesome.

  Even with all of the other stuff going on—with this intergalactic Maul person putting a bounty on my head so large that it draws the attention of Deathbot, with HEROES trying to turn the entire city of Prose against me, with Pink hating me because I unintentionally took her powers away (which is something that isn’t necessarily for the worst)—I just can’t help but let nothing worry me as I trudge through the fluffy, snow covered campus of the University of Prose, on my way to class.

  Gabe, we need to talk.

  Oh well, so much for that.

  I stop in the ankle deep snow. I expected M, the alien that I’m bonded to, to resist the idea of doing the dirty with Ember (which he did). I also expected him to berate me non-stop after we finished (but he didn’t). In fact, he said nothing from the moment Ember and I kissed until just now. Which probably means he was keeping it all bottled up, giving it a chance to fester like a puss-filled zit.

  “M, not now. It’s—” I look at my phone, picking up the pace—“12:55. I have to be in class in five minutes.”

  Yes, but this is an immediate concern, possibly threatening the very nature of our coexistence. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the already fragile nature of that existence.

  There are a few students in the quad with me, so I lower my voice to a whisper: “Well, why couldn’t it have been an ‘immediate concern’ when we were flying above the city instead of now, when I’m on campus?”

  Because it took a while to process your actions last night, Gabriel. And my reaction—my thoughts—about said actions.

  I stop again, after passing another student. “What do you mean? You were quiet right after Ember and I …”

  Snogged? Macked? Tongue-tangoed? Or how about—

  I raise a hand. “Can we just go with kiss?”

  Very well. But can we use a more colorful metaphor for sex? I have some from that Jason Mewes individual that I’ve been positively dying to utilize.

  “Let’s just go with sex, okay! We! Had! Sex!”

  Two girl students on the others side of the quad look at me, hand still raised.

  And yet I can’t imagine how.

  I shove my hand in my jacket pocket and continue my walk of shame through the quad. “Can you get to the point?”

  The point is that the encounter with Ember last night was …

  Here it comes. The thing I’ve been dreading since last night. He finds humanity repulsive, short-sighted, and dim-witted. And that’s on a good day. He pretty much sees, physically feels, what I do. So the idea of having sex is going to be something so repugnant, so—

  Fantastic.

  I stop, hand on the door to Grota Hall. “Come again?”

  Even when I was corporeal, my species was incapable of sensations such as your orgasms. Quite frankly, I’m amazed that humanity would ever have the capacity or even desire to accomplish anything of remote consequence, while being capable of experiencing such a—

  I can’t help but laugh.

  What?

  “So this is what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  This—oh no, far from it. I was wanting to ask you something else which has been troubling me a great deal since we left the company of Ember and her vagina this morning …

  “Which is?”

  Do you think she’ll let you do it again?

  “You’re late,” a male voice says from behind me. I turn and see a professor in his mid fifties, with a wrinkled blue button up and a long black coat. He tugs off a mad bomber hat, turning up ends of his salt and pepper hair.

  I look at my phone, stepping into Grota. “Barely. But—wait a minute, Casa. This is your class. If I’m late, so are you.”

  “It's expected for me to be late. I'm the instructor.”

  “Well, it’s expected for me to be late too. I’m the Superhero.”

  “If you’d been out doing Superhero things just now, sure. But since you’re wearing the same blue hoodie and jeans you had on yesterday, I can only assume you spent the night in the company of a certain Ward.”

  Boy, did he.

  “Did Pink come back last night?” I say, desperate for a subject change before my cheeks catch fire.

  Casa waits until a couple of students pass us in the lobby. “No. I assumed she went back to your place. But I guess you were too busy being inside somebody else’s place instead.”

  Snoogins.

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” I say.

  “Depends. Are you trying to say you won’t be?” He opens the door to the auditorium and walks through it.

  I stand there for a moment, thinking about what he said. I barely catch the door before it closes and catch up to Casa at the podium. Two other students walk in behind me and start up the steps to the seats. “Pink deserves to stew after the way she’s been living her life,” I say to Casa in a low voice, “possessing whoever she wants for whatever reason she wants.”

  “She possessed Lisa Lancaster yesterday to help circumvent some of the discredit that HEROES was about to fling your way.”

  I unzip my hoodie and take it off, wondering why the auditorium’s heat is turned up so freaging high. “I know—but before that, when …. Look: you can’t tell me this town isn’t just a little better off because of what happened.”

  “And there it is.”

  “There’s what?”

  “Your guilt, implied through disassociation. You’re already referring to what happened as ‘what happened’ instead of what you did: took her powers away.”

  “That’s—” I rub my head. “Whatever. I took her powers away. That doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve it.”

  “Which also doesn’t mean that she should be dealing with this on her own. Instead of with someone whom she has helped time and time again.”

  “Fine, fine—I’ll talk to her when she decides to come back from whereve
r.”

  “You’ll need to talk to her before then. The longer she is out there the more she is a danger to herself.”

  “What are you—”

  “Dr. Casa?” a student says from the other side of the podium. Her name is Kate something, but Casa has always refers to her by the town she was from. Not because he couldn’t remember her name; as far as I could tell, the dude never forgets anything and nothing escapes his notice. He just likes treating people like crap.

  Casa looks up. "Cleveland. What do you want?"

  She smacks her five page essay on the podium in front of him—“I want to know why I have an F on my paper.”

  “I want to know why you think your paper is entitled to more time than I’ve already put into it.”

  Kate and I both had Casa for his Supers and Ethics class last fall. Since she signed up for his Psychology of Supers this semester, she had to have a good idea of what kind of ass-hat he is. But if her reddening face is any indication, knowing isn’t the same as dealing.

  She jerks off her white toboggan, undeterred. “I used Langner’s Importance of Wearing Clothes to create an argument about Liberty's costume. And you put an F on here and didn't explain why.”

  “You stated Liberty’s costume influences behavior and didn’t explain why. Think there’s a coincidence?”

  “But I used Langner’s ideas!” Her foot stomps the ground with the last word.

  “Your thesis states that you’re going to use his ideas to advocate your argument.” Casa mocks her with a foot stomp of his own. “But you never do. You just spin in circles, repeating Langner’s ideas again and again. Which means you either don’t know how to articulate an argument or you thought I was going to feed all the papers to the trash can again. If it’s the former, it’s just a matter of time before you flunk out of college. If it’s the latter, it’s incredibly poor taste. And coming from me, that’s really saying something.”

  “I ... don't understand.”

  He slides her the paper back, finger on the F. “Obviously.”

  Biting a slightly trembling lip, Kate snatches the paper and storms out.

  “How can you be such an ass to people?” I whisper.

  “Simple: I’m not a Superhero. How can you do it?”

  I let out a heavy breath, turn and take the auditorium’s steps two at a time.

  Don’t let Casa get to you, Gabe. Not going after Pink last night may have ostracized her even further, but good riddance, I say. We’ve already gotten everything we need out of that dreaded apparition, and the fewer problems we have to put up with, the better. Besides … let’s not forget that your time was far better spent between the thighs of that red headed vixen last night. Which reminds me: Do you think you should call Ember on that iTelephone device after class?

  I find a seat in the top row, yank the bottom cushion down with far more force than needed, and collapse into it.

  More late students slowly scatter into the room, in snow dusted jackets and backpacks. Casa seems to study each one in turn. “Judging from the sour looks on your faces, many of you are no doubt perturbed that we’re the only campus in a fifty mile radius that decided to remain open today. But look at the bright side: at least you’re with me.” He takes the cap off a dry erase marker and writes ‘COSTUMES?’ on the white board. “I’ve graded most of your papers on Langner. And they impressively suck. Which means we obviously need to talk about him a little more and think about him a lot more. So let’s start from the beginning, but using your own words, your own ideas this time: Tell me why most Superheroes and Supervillains wear costumes.”

  There is some squeaking around the room as students take their seats, followed by sudden silence.

  “Very well. Let’s try some random F’s until you decide to learn something.” Casa takes turns pointing at random students: “F … F … F … actually I kind of like that top, so we’ll forgo your F this time … F … F—”

  “They wanna stand out,” a student in the second row hurriedly says. He’s wearing a black and red UTP jacket, and I think his name is Isaiah.

  Casa looks at him. “Since not all Supers are registered, one would assume that, if anything, those cats would wanna stand out less—not more. Thanks for playing, but F anyway.”

  Isaiah slumps in his seat.

  “Who else wants to take a shot at not failing today—anybody?”

  “It can be for any number of reasons,” a girl student in a fuzzy blue coat says. “Uniforms, of the same kind like the ones police wear, imply that you’re part of a group.”

  “And?”

  “And … they don’t want to be part of a group. At least some of them. They lose a sense of identity that way.”

  Casa nods. “And with identity comes recognition. Recognition for what you are. What you represent. Why people—Supers and Norms—should believe in you. Honor you. Respect you. Fear you.”

  “But what about Mystick’s costume?” I say, unable to help myself. “Or Weather Witch’s? What does being all cleavege-y have to do with any of that stuff?”

  “Because, like everything else, it serves the same two goals: distraction or belief. You distract others away from who or what you are. Or you slowly start to believe you are what others perceive you to be.” Casa lowers his head and starts pacing. “Ms. Mystick’s titillating curves help us forget just how horrifying Magick is; Silver Sentinel’s plume, though ridiculous, turns him into a Superhero icon, making us forget about the intricacies of the person underneath; the mere appearance of Major Mayhem’s helmet strikes fear into people before the Supervillain even does anything and …” Casa narrows his eyes at the other students. “What’s wrong with you people?” Casa’s last words aren’t sarcastic—they’re concerned.

  Before I have the chance to say anything, a slow clap echoes from the far side of the room. A tall person stands there in the doorway, bringing his green hands together with two more wide claps. The hands slowly pull back a black hood, revealing a green brain-looking head with no eyes, nose or mouth.

  Thinkor.

  What the what?

  I lean forward in my seat—Thinkor is one of HEROES A-listers. We haven’t been on the best terms since I defeated Liberty and they turned the city against me. But the video I have of Liberty making the deal with Deathbot has kept them off my back so far. So why is he here now? Did he decide the hell with it? Is he here for me? For Casa? For M?

  For all of us?

  Gabe, whatever you’re thinking, remember this: We have no defense against telepaths, certainly not one as strong as Thinkor. Somehow, he was even able to circumvent my abilities to sense his approach. Our best move is going to be to surprise him somehow … which we’re not going to be able to do from way up here, in the top row.

  “We can’t just sit here, M” I whisper. “We just have to move fast.”

  You mean faster than thought?

  I sigh.

  “It’s always the little things that trip me up in these situations.” Thinkor’s words are like whispers inside our heads. But the inflection—it sounds different than the last time I heard him talk in HEROES tower. I can’t say how exactly … just off somehow. “What tipped you off, Dr. Casa?”

  Casa turns away from Thinkor, eyes flicking around the room. “Twenty-one of the twenty-two students in this room haven’t removed their jackets, despite the fact that it’s sweltering.” His words are distant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle that only he can see.

  I look around the room: The others are wearing jackets. And they’re facing the white board with blank faces, like they’re waiting on something to happen.

  Thinkor nods slightly, then stretches his arms wide. “…. They aren’t aware of the heat, for I have taken CONTROL OF THEIR MINDS!” He removes his cloak with a flourish to reveal the purple and black speedo/suspenders looking thing that he calls a costume.

  You should have, instead, taken control of your wardrobe.

  “Forgive the theatricality.” Thinkor shrugs. �
�Sometimes, I just can’t resist.”

  The twenty-one students stand as one and slowly scatter throughout the room. Eight of them go to the windows near me on the top row. Four go to the door. The rest stand in the aisles. They all pull handguns from the folds of their jackets.

  And point them at Casa.

  I lean forward, on the edge of my seat cushion …

  Gabe, the more rash your decision, the more likely someone may die because of it.

  My knuckles go white on the arm rest; my pulse thuds in my temples.

  “Why?” Casa says, as if death weren’t everywhere in the room. “Why do this?”

  “Because, this is the only way I know to get Pink’s attention. Where is she?”

  Why in the name of the Void does he want her?

  “Seriously?” Casa says. “THIS is the only way?”

  “Where. Is she?”

  Casa shrugs. “How should I know?”

  Thinkor laughs. It’s an eerie whisper, at the bottom of my brain that I’m never going to forget. “I thought you might say that.” Thinkor stares at Casa, letting something go unsaid. Something inexplicably and horribly bad.

  Kate walks back into the room, movements stiff and eyes puffy. She holds Casa’s F in her right hand. She holds a gun in her left.

  I power up, replacing my skin and clothing with the blackness of space. My eyes flare, reflecting light off the seats in front of me.

  Gabe, NO!

  I fly above the students, forming a double fist in front of me, queuing M for a Grav Blast. Thinkor raises his hand—icy fingers drag across the underside of my skull …

  And I go completely limp.

  My body falls into a chair, breaking off the armrest on my way to the aisle. I tumble down four hard steps then lay there, unable to even move my head. I’m facing the front of the classroom, unable to decide if that’s good or bad.

  Thinkor returns his attention to Casa. “Let me spell this out for you: With the exception of Galaxy, I took control of every one of these students and forced them to come here today. Armed. I even took control of your administration and had them reopen campus in hopes of having more hostages, but it appears that telepathic manipulation is the only way to get students in your—”