Heroine Complex

by Sarah Kuhn

  “So she’s forcing you to leave your lab for the night?”

  He met my gaze. “I volunteered.”

  He volunteered? I tried to keep the shock from registering on my face. Nate never went anywhere. He was a total hermit. The only instance I could recall of him actually standing outside was the day he’d shown up on Aveda’s doorstep two years ago. I’d mistaken him for a bodyguard hopeful (Lucy had snagged that position several days earlier), but as he’d been quick to inform me, he was the illustrious Nathaniel Jones, the renowned physician and demonology scholar whose paper on the science of superheroism had caught Aveda’s attention earlier that year. Given his unique combination of talents, she’d simply had to have him on staff. I’d known about all this, of course, but I hadn’t known what Nathaniel Jones looked like; unlike other famed demonology scholars, he shunned public appearances and lectures and his photograph never appeared alongside his published papers. I suppose all of this contributed to some kind of self-aggrandizing air of mystery. I mostly just found it aggravating, especially since his need to stay indoors meant he always conveniently “forgot” when it was his turn to do simple household errands. You know, all that “get groceries” type of minutiae that might seem beneath his notice, but was key to keeping HQ up and running.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Your first escort duty is to help me with these buttons.”

  I shuffled back into the bedroom without waiting for his response. After a moment of silence, he clomped in after me.

  I stood in front of the mirror and gestured awkwardly toward my back with my free hand. “I can’t reach.”

  He took the back of the dress from me hesitantly, contemplating the buttons.

  “I’m not sure . . .” he said, his gruff tone wavering. “Perhaps Lucy would be better at . . .”

  “It’s not that hard,” I interrupted, irritation pricking my sweaty skin. “Aren’t you always dissecting demons and stuff? Compared to that, this should be a piece of cake.”

  He adjusted his grip on the tulle. “First you might want to . . .” He gestured at something.

  “I might want to what?” I tapped my foot, my impatience rising. That nyah quality crept into my voice. He always seemed to bring the nyah out.

  “Your, um . . . bra. Is showing.”

  He ducked his head, focusing on the buttons.

  “Oh.”

  My cheeks flushed as I glanced down at my chest, which was encased in hot pink lace. While my T-shirt/jeans uniform was pretty basic, I liked to make my own fun via neon underwear. After setting the library on fire, brightly colored unmentionables were about the biggest thrill I could handle. They were cute, they did not induce anxiety, and no one ever saw them except me.

  Well. Usually no one except me.

  Anyway Nate was right. A faint pink outline was visible through the thin material of the dress. I might as well have pasted a flashing SEE BOOBS HERE sign over my chest.

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling the front of the dress against me. I unhooked the bra with my other hand and tossed it on the floor. “I guess I can go braless with this dress, right? It doesn’t leave much to the imagination anyway.”

  I twisted back and forth, trying to determine if there was visible nipple. It was borderline. The effect of my bigger-than-Aveda’s breasts would be softened by the glamour, though.

  Nate suddenly seemed even more preoccupied with staring at the buttons.

  “Hold still,” he said, some of that signature gruffness creeping back into his voice.

  I forced myself to stop moving and he started doing up the buttons. My foot tapped again and I hastily stilled it, trying to remain immobile while he worked.

  “I pulled some of my recent analyses for you,” he said abruptly. “Regarding common factors in the last two months of demon attacks.”

  “Uh . . . what?”

  While I understood the medical doctor keep-Aveda-healthy side of Nate’s job, the demonology scholar part seemed as gibberish-riddled as his precious portal stones. In addition to dissecting whatever demon specimens came our way, he was always running various technobabble-y tests with names like “multiple regression analysis” and “structural equation modeling,” claiming this would help him discover links between the portals. As far as I could tell, the only link he’d come up with so far was that the portals appeared in totally random fashion and produced scary, hungry demon swarms. Which I could’ve told you without the fancy tests, since I was always there on the scene.

  “You mentioned observing oddities in regard to the Aveda statue demons last night,” he said. “I thought looking at my recent data might give you further insight. Perhaps you’ll see a connection.”

  I shivered, remembering the statues advancing on me and Bea. “Last night you didn’t seem to think I was clear on what I saw.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said. “But you were describing your impressions of the event, and impressions are not exact data. Additionally, because you were in a heightened state, your thoughts were a bit . . . muddled. I am merely trying to eliminate various possibilities to get a better idea of what you deemed out of the ordinary.”

  I bit back a retort about my “muddled” thoughts and tried to call up a more detailed memory of the statue demons. Maybe my stressed-out brain had imagined the weirdness. Anyway, last night’s mess seemed like it had happened forever ago and I had plenty to think about at the moment without fixating on whatever I thought I’d seen.

  “It was probably just a fluke,” I said.

  “Sometimes a fluke can be the first sign of an important pattern—”

  “This is really not important right now,” I said. Not when I had to worry about going out in public as Aveda without setting anything on fire again. “And if you want to collect more data, then seriously: come with us when the demons attack. Check out the scene, observe them in person, analyze what you see with your own eyes. I mean, if you’re going to break the seal on the whole going out in public thing, that seems like it would be way more useful than attending some silly benefit.”

  That shut him up, at least for the moment.

  “Why did you volunteer anyway? To escort me?” I pressed. “You never escort Aveda.” I sounded vaguely accusatory.

  “I’m concerned,” he said.

  “That I’ll fuck everything up like I did at Whistles?” I said.

  “Your power is unpredictable. If I go with you, I can monitor your moods, your reactions. See if we can figure out a trigger.”

  “So you want to make me an extra-toasty lab rat. I should’ve guessed.”

  I tamped down on my irritation. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? We’d already come up with a perfect solution: remove the power from me, put it into an actual superheroine, cut to me fulfilling my long-held dream of being normal. I didn’t need to spend time delving into the hows and whys and wherefores of the fire power. I needed to get the fire out of me—and into someone who could actually handle it—as soon as possible.

  Not that he’d ever understand that. He never seemed to understand anything that didn’t involve a nice, neat little column of numbers.

  “Why aren’t you more interested in finding the exact trigger?” he countered. “‘Crazy bursts of emotion’ is maddeningly unspecific.”

  I shrugged, causing the tulle to shift in his hands. He pulled it back into place.

  “That’s the best way I can describe it. Haven’t you ever had a feeling you couldn’t define? Or articulate?”

  He didn’t respond, so I barreled on. “It’s a certain kind of heightened feeling, like an emotional burst that overwhelms all logic and thought. It takes over to the point where I’m unaware of anything else. I don’t really know how else to say it. I just know when it’s happening.”

  “But we could try to quantify it—”

  “Quantify it? You wan
t me to do tests with my feelings?” I snorted. “Now there’s a recipe for disaster. Anyway, if Scott’s spell works, I won’t have to deal with this much longer. So what’s the point in trying to ‘quantify’ anything?”

  “The point is, you could really do something with it if you wanted to. Learn to control it. Act like a naturally curious person who wants to figure out why you are the way you are.”

  Wow, really? My irritation flared. He’d been aware of my fire for less than twenty-four hours, and already he thought he knew better than me. As if I hadn’t spent the last three years locking myself down, controlling my impulses, and establishing my safeguards. As if I didn’t hear all those terrified screams ringing through the library whenever I allowed my mind to wander during cold, sleepless nights. As if I didn’t know myself all too well.

  But that was his way, wasn’t it? To immediately assume he knew everything about everything without actually experiencing it in real life.

  “I know why I’m the way I am,” I snapped. “Demon portal, freak occurrence, maybe you’re familiar? I know. And I also know I don’t want to be this way.”

  “But you haven’t even tried it,” he said, his voice twisting in frustration. He frowned at me in the mirror. “You’ve wasted all your energy suppressing it. All of these years, and you’ve never even—”

  “Wasted?!”

  I yanked myself free from his grasp and whirled around. He wasn’t done with the buttons and the dress hung half open. How dare he judge me from behind those cold, clinical scientist glasses? He was supposed to be helping me. And helping meant contributing to the whole Get the Fire Power Out of Evie ASAP plan, not asking five million irrelevant questions and acting all superior when it came to dealing with my own actions and feelings. When it came to the very real danger I posed to people. My stomach knotted just thinking about it.

  “All that ‘wasted’ energy means I haven’t burned anything down since the library,” I growled. “How has this not penetrated that supposedly gigantic brain of yours? I destroyed an entire building. I could have destroyed people. I don’t want something that allows me to do that. I don’t.”

  I willed my hands to relax at my sides. I would not allow myself to flare up over him.

  He stared back at me, his eyes unreadable behind those damn glasses. I slid forward, the dress still restricting my every move, and jabbed my index finger into his chest.

  “You want a tip on how the fire power works?”

  I leaned in closer, giving him a glower that was as good as the ones he usually gave me.

  “Don’t make me angry.”

  I turned on my heel and shuffled indignantly out of the room, my half-buttoned dress flapping behind me. I’d like to think I accomplished this with at least a little bit of dignity and a touch of haughty attitude.

  Maybe Aveda was rubbing off on me after all.

  HOLDING OUT FOR A HEROINE Q&A:

  Magnificent Mercedes

  Here at the Holding Out for a Heroine blog, we track the latest and greatest in superhero news—and that includes spotlighting those in and around the supes community! Today we welcome Mercedes McClain, aka Magnificent Mercedes.

  HOfaH: Please tell our readers about your power and how you utilize it.

  MM: I have what I like to call a “human GPS” ability, which enables me to track vehicles, determine the best routes between locations, and “see” traffic.

  HOfaH: You can see traffic in your brain?!

  MM: That is correct, yes.

  HOfaH: And does that mean you can track anything with a GPS locater on it? Like house arrest monitors and stuff? Because that seems like it would be totally useful in a superheroing career—

  MM: No, just vehicles.

  HOfaH: Oh. Huh. That’s—

  MM: Still very exciting, I know. My power is particularly useful in my adopted home city of Los Angeles, where I am able to assist the police in apprehending car thieves and/or individuals who otherwise misuse their right to the automobile. Additionally I’ve been making inroads as far as clearing up the city’s serious gridlock problem.

  HOfaH: And you could totally help the pizza delivery dude find the best way from Santa Monica to the Valley during rush hour, right?

  MM: I could, but as a superheroine, you must make difficult decisions regarding what is and is not a worthy use of your power. And pizza delivery falls into the “not” category.

  HOfaH: I disagree, but let’s move on! So obviously you’re part of the only group in the world that has superpowers: that select number of San Francisco residents who got their abilities eight years ago when the big portal opened up. But not everyone chose to fight crime. In fact, most folks just kept doing whatever they were doing pre-portal. What inspired you to take this on?

  MM: I’ve always had a finely tuned sense of right and wrong and the desire to put good out into the world. Also most people’s powers were . . . how can I put this nicely? Just not all that powerful. Relatively mundane. Only a handful of us saw the potential in what we were given and were therefore able to choose this path. I feel very blessed.

  HOfaH: Blessed! I love that. Hey, have you ever thought of changing your codename to “The Lost Angel” or something? Because you live in Los Angeles and you’re “lost” from San Francisco and then “angel” kind of goes with “blessed” . . .

  MM: I wouldn’t say I’m “lost” from San Francisco. I wouldn’t say that at all.

  HOfaH: Then why didn’t you stay? You could’ve fought demons alongside Aveda Jupiter instead of chasing cars around and stuff!

  MM: I don’t do anything “alongside” anyone. Besides, my work is very important—

  HOfaH: So that’s why you left? Because Aveda outshone you and you had to go somewhere else to get that kind of attention?

  MM: No, of course not—

  HOfaH: What do you think of her new fire power? Word is, it’s finally gonna break her through to huge international fame!

  MM: I very much doubt that.

  HOfaH: Why?

  MM: Well, we don’t even know much about this new power yet. It could be temporary. A flash in the pan.

  HOfaH: She’s sure making the most of it, though, eh?

  MM: Mmm.

  HOfaH: At the very least, this could definitely increase the world’s awareness of supes in general! I mean, most of you are local celebs at best, right?

  MM: . . .

  HOfaH: Hey, maybe more demon portals will finally open up in locations beyond San Francisco? And then maybe people everywhere could get superpowers, too? That’d be way cool, right?!

  MM: I don’t think that would be cool at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE MOMENT I set foot in the ballroom, I was blinded by glittering light. Thankfully it wasn’t portal light. There was nothing supernatural about it, unless you counted what was surely an out-of-this-world price tag.

  The League of Social Betterment Through Bettering Oneself was known for their splashy events: bacchanalias of such jaw-dropping excess, even Hugh Hefner would be like, “Hey, maybe take it down a notch.” I found this amusing, since the League was supposedly based around the principle of finding ways to be less wasteful in our everyday lives, their website littered with such statements as: “Go green!”, “Take a bus/bike/unicycle!”, and “Save the red panda!” (Fuck the regular panda, I guess.)

  I couldn’t recall what this particular benefit was supposed to be benefitting, but every League benefit had a theme, and tonight’s shindig—situated in the vast ballroom of one of the Financial District’s generically sumptuous hotels—was simply entitled “Space.” (Maybe it was benefitting red pandas . . . in space?)

  Strings of twinkly lights sweeping across the ceiling made for a passing imitation of a starry sky, and gargantuan rocket ship sculptures were positioned all over the room. In the far right corner someone had erected a w
ax model of what appeared to be an alien-esque villain who . . .

  Wait.

  I squinted at it. With its swooping horns and voluminous robes, it bore a striking resemblance to The Heroic Trio’s chief bad guy, aka The Evil Master. In the movie he plotted to take over China (not necessarily the world—just China) via an ill-conceived scheme that involved stealing babies. As hokey as he might have been for adult viewers, he scared the shit out of the wide-eyed tween versions of me and Aveda.

  I must have been hallucinating. That was simply too obscure a reference for this crew. League members always let it be known that they were way too socially conscious to own anything as vulgar as a television.

  I blinked several times, trying to avoid disorientation from the lights, and gripped Nate’s arm so I wouldn’t topple over in my ridiculous shoes: five-inch, sparkle-encrusted high heels that threatened to snap my ankles off every time I moved. Nate and I hadn’t spoken since I’d stalked out on him. I’d found Lucy, who had helped me finish buttoning my dress, and then he’d clomped back to my side at the appointed time. Even though he was a pain in the ass, I was grateful for his oversize solidness as the seizure-inducing lights flashed on and off. I knew he wouldn’t let me fall.

  “So we’re trying to go stealth, here,” I said, attempting to convey confidence I didn’t feel.

  “You can’t do stealth in that getup,” retorted Lucy, casting an approving look at my dress. “Yowza.”

  She grinned at me and adjusted her own dress, a 1920s flapper number with a matching headpiece. Probably not your typical bodyguard gear, but she looked wonderful.

  “Maybe not so much stealth as sort of under the radar,” I amended. “I can be an under-the-radar guest of honor, right?”

  The League ladies dominating the scene were undeniably fancy, but these weren’t stock trophy wife types. These were San Francisco fancy ladies: younger, trendier, more in tune with the latest in fig stuffings and the best oldey timey-looking filters for your camera phone photos.