Super

by Karen Diem

  “Fat chance.” Aideen lay down across from her.

  Jerome lowered his body to kneel next to them. “I’m judging. First one to put the other’s hand on the tile wins.” No one argued with the big black man’s qualifications, not with the way his jumpsuit strained to contain the breadth of his shoulders.

  The women gripped hands, and Jerome steadied them as he delivered the rules. “I want a fair fight, and preferably a naked one. So no spitting, hair pulling, or punching, but if your clothing is too confining, take it off.” He grinned and let go.

  Aideen began to press, all power and no finesse, counting on her greater size and weight. Their arms jerked an inch toward loss for Zita. She used the opportunity to tug her arm toward herself and adjust her grip.

  “Did you forget I have brothers?” Zita said. Twisting her wrist, she forced Aideen’s hand back and destroyed Aideen’s leverage with another subtle grip shift. The struggle shifted direction, and it was the bigger woman’s turn to squirm. Biceps warmed and heat began to pool as she forced the cop’s arm down. When their hands were only inches from the tile, another slight shift brought her shoulder muscles into play and finished it.

  “Winner!” shouted Jerome. “The trophy goes to Zita!”

  Aideen pulled herself up, rubbing her wrist. “Lucky.” She turned on her heel and marched away.

  Zita shrugged and waved at the departing woman’s back. “Later! Thanks for the match!” Something about the set of Aideen’s back, as if she braced for something, stirred flickers of guilt.

  Wyn hid a smile behind her hand. Pain etched small lines on her lovely face. “Try to be nicer next time, Zita. Nobody likes to be told they are second-rate.” Her gentle tone belied the sting of her chiding.

  “She could have said no or just not picked on people,” she answered, rising to her feet. I did play nice. Why don’t people believe me? She huffed, and Wyn’s lips curved upward further.

  Jerome laughed. “Do me next, little girl, I want to hear what my regime is!” He folded his arms across his chest and smirked.

  Letting go of her annoyance, Zita focused on the challenge, and made a show of eyeing him before she answered. Bulkier than she cared for, but not as bad as the gorillas by the elevators, Jerome was a heavyweight boxer: as dense and tall as a football player, but light on his feet. “It’s easier to guess on people who spend real time in a gym like you. You’re not a runner. My bet is strength-building exercises, weights, and boxing. If you do martial arts, it’s a mixed bag, not a single discipline. You’re fast for your size, and your footwork is probably sweet. Based on the ketchup bottle exhibition at lunch, you’ve fenced. You want to spar? You’ve come a long way from the kid who watched cartoons with Andy all the time.” His size and strength guaranteed him the win, but she would enjoy making him earn it.

  He grinned, straight white teeth proving his youthful orthodontia had been worth it. “Got it on all counts! You’re on, hon. Oh, and that was anime, not cartoons. Anime is cooler.”

  “Sweet! Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle when I annihilate you,” she teased.

  Jerome scoffed. “Scary words from the featherweight.”

  “Hey! I could totally make bantamweight! Depending on how the rules define it. It’s my turn for the phone.” Joyous, Zita moved over to claim her prize. The phone was still warm from the previous caller. She punched in Miguel’s number as Jerome’s laughter rang out behind her.

  Her oldest brother picked up on the second ring. “Garcia. Talk to me,” he said. His voice held the echoing sound of a speakerphone and the quiet trickle of water behind him. Metal on glass clinked as she drew in her breath to answer.

  She smiled. Zita pictured him in his boring black work clothes with the sleeves rolled up while he washed his dishes with his favorite lemony soap. He would stare down his hawk-like nose at his dishes as if he could intimidate them into cleanliness. Every hair would be in place, except for that stubborn bit in the back that he either did not know about or had disowned years ago. Using the thick, fake Mexican accent that never failed to annoy him, she said, “Oye, hombre, you know where I can buy a poncho? I got nachos and a giant sombrero already.” She snickered. Zita and Quentin had been using that accent to annoy Miguel for so long that it felt natural. Once, she had kept it up for days.

  Metal hit the sink on the other end of the line with a clunk. “Zita! You’re awake! Drop the atrocious accent. Are you okay? Are you… changed? Why didn’t you call sooner?” he exclaimed, ordered, and asked. Not an atypical reaction for her straight-laced brother.

  Zita leaned against the wall, keeping an eye on the room. To ensure the local eavesdroppers would have to exert themselves, she lowered her voice as she answered. “That the fancy interrogation technique they teach you at work?” She made a face at the woman who leaned closer to catch her words. The other looked away. I win. Go me!

  He interrupted. “Drop the accent, seriously.”

  She dropped the accent, but switched to rapid Spanish. Nearby strangers looked disappointed. “If by changed, you mean pissed, then yes. Did you expect me to be happy, waking up in the Man’s internment camp, where they’re starving me, boring me, and refusing to answer questions like when can we go home? If you mean did I grow any appendages or learn to shoot fireballs, no change. Other people did, but they’re in another building. Prison convicts get to go outside, but we don’t. They only have three phones for a couple hundred people, so getting phone time is hard and timed. I figure they don’t want to waste too many people listening in and recording our calls. Without a warrant, too, I bet. Let Quentin and Mamá know I’m surviving. I figured you’re a nosy bastard, you been looking into it. When can I go home?”

  Her brother was silent for a moment after her barrage, the splash of water from the faucet echoing in the silence between them. “Flattering description. It reflects money well spent by those scholarships that sent you to college. I’m glad you’re well enough. Have you seen the news? Everything’s in an uproar over all the… they don’t even know what to call them yet. Changed. Superhumans. Parahumans. Mutants. Powered. It simplifies matters that you’re not one, but the quarantine will to continue until the government decides otherwise. Assume a minimum time of a few months, or a quarter of the year more likely. My best guess is that Homeland Security will open a new section to handle it, but they’re not making friends. The CDC is furious.”

  Zita felt the sudden need to go work out, preferably on a punching bag or skilled partner, until sleep claimed her. Her voice was weak when she asked, “Months! Are you serious?” I won’t be able to go to the jungle this year! All the fun jobs will be taken by the time I get out of this place. Unless one of the adventure vacation places needs a last-minute translator and everyone else is busy, I’ll have to scrounge jobs with Quentin to get money for bills. She jogged in place, needing to move. Dusty old building is giving me allergies, she thought angrily, blinking and sniffing.

  Sympathy radiated from his voice. “I’m sorry, Zita, that’s the latest. They said family members can send books and letters. Is there any book you want? They won’t allow anything else.”

  “Plenty of people outside the camp changed. Can’t we at least be quarantined at home?” she queried. She avoided whining, but it was a near thing, averted only by vicious mental swearing.

  Miguel sighed. “Zita, I’ve been asking. Nobody’s giving on it yet. Try being patient for once.”

  She ran her hands through her hair, avoiding the shaved spot. “What about paying bills? Utilities and rent are on autopay, but if I don’t have money coming in, that’s a problem.” Her foot started tapping.

  Her brother exhaled. Metal squeaked, and the sound of water shut off. “Good point. Quentin has a key, right? I’ll have him collect your bills and pay them out of your paycheck, and he can grant you a loan for the rest. You can pay it back when you’re out or able to access a computer. Did you want a book?”

  “Fine. Send me a one on intermediate Greek. I’ve been picking
up the basics for kicks and it might be hard enough to hold my attention,” Zita answered. If I can become fluent enough by Christmas, that restaurant owner will throw me extra translation work and free dinners.

  Her brother seemed to feel otherwise, his voice gaining cheer as he spoke. “You know, being there could be beneficial. It gives you time to decide what to do with your life.”

  ¡Ni madre! Not this again! Why is he bringing this up now? Her desire to smack things gained a specific, fraternal, target. “There’s nothing wrong with my life,” she began.

  Miguel continued, undeterred. “You’ll be thirty in a few years. Have you saved anything for retirement? You can’t keep bouncing from job to job and giving half your attention to anything other than those dangerous hobbies of yours. Just pick one job and stay with it. If you develop a five-year plan, I’ll help you polish it when you get out.”

  “Four years until thirty,” she said. “Four. Putting more in a 401K won’t solve anything and I-“

  Raising his voice, he overrode her, having found his stride and his happy place in well-meaning harassment. Anyone who says a man can’t nag has never had one care about them. I need a diversionary topic. “Zita, take it from someone older and wiser. In time, you’ll be physically unable to continue, and no one wants to see you alone and crippled or in an early grave.”

  Zita almost said the last words in unison with him. Swallowing her annoyance, she continued, “Can you at least find out if the possessions stolen from quarantine victims included my things? I was wearing Papa’s Saint Jude medal and I want it back.”

  Miguel’s voice sharpened. “How did you hear something like that? Who told you?”

  Oh, Trixie, you naughty girl. What doors have you been eavesdropping at? We need to talk. Putting her back against the wall, she gave a vague answer as she surveyed the room. “Oh, someone must’ve mentioned it. I guess it’s true then.” Jerome and Wyn continued to chat nearby. The excitement of the arm wrestling over, everyone else there worked on their mastery of loitering.

  Miguel exhaled sharply. “I can’t say either way. If it were true, I will be looking into that medal for us—you. Who is spreading that rumor? If it’s true, you could be withholding information on what would be an active investigation,” he pressed.

  His disapproving tone made her homesick. Zita used as much truth as possible. “People have little to do here but gossip. Even if I remembered, they were repeating something someone else said.”

  “Don’t repeat any rumors to anyone but me or another investigator, you understand? You don’t want to spread misinformation,” Miguel ordered as if he expected her to listen. She snorted inwardly. He probably waved a sponge at the phone, too.

  Her reply was forgotten when the elevator dinged, and a platoon in black suits and earpieces poured out. It was four more guards, but they took up so much space that they seemed like more. The room hushed. At the elevator, the usual guards sneered at the new ones, and then stood at attention. Either oblivious or not acknowledging the insult, the new guards spread out and searched the room for threats. Gazes lingered on Jerome before one barked into his walkie-talkie. “Clear.” The elevator doors closed.

  “Something’s happening. Extra guards are pouring in,” Zita whispered into the phone in Spanish.

  When the elevator doors chimed again, everyone was watching the elevator. Her hopes were for an official announcing the end of the quarantine. She clutched the phone. Miguel was shouting, but she ignored it, a familiar and comforting habit. He was probably splattering the wall by his sink with water, too.

  “VAMPIRES ARE NOW REAL,” boomed a reporter on the evening newscast. Someone slapped the television off.

  As the elevator doors opened again, Zita had to crane her neck to see what was happening through the gathering crowd. The guards all but saluted when a slim woman stepped out. The room seemed to hold its collective breath. From what was visible to Zita, the other woman did aerobics and jogging, with ballet classes and gymnastics in her past to explain the walk. The boobs are probably fakes.

  “Hey now! How are all of you doing?” the new woman drawled, lashes sweeping down over her azure eyes and up again. She flashed a brilliant politician’s smile and tossed perfect golden hair over her shoulder, as if filming a shampoo commercial.

  Zita froze. Murmurs began circulating through the quarantined, and she caught the words “Olympic gold medalist,” “famous,” and “celebrity.” Scattered cheers began. Oh no, it can’t be. My life hasn’t been nearly bad enough to deserve that. She scowled.

  One of the extra guards spotted the phone in her hand, perhaps hearing Miguel’s frantic commands for her to report. “You! Hang up the phone now!” He advanced on her.

  The blond celebrity and all the others in the room turned their attention to Zita, allowing her to see the other woman clearly. Two people hung back behind her. I would recognize that clueless tool anywhere. The boobs are definitely fake. I’m in Hell. Is Trixie hiding behind her with that man? “Miguel, they’re making me hang up the phone because Caroline Gyllen is here. I’ll call back when I can. Get me out! Send help! Send lawyers and an exorcist, especially the exorcist!” she hissed before the rude guard snatched the phone and hung it up.

  “Hey, I had several minutes left on my time!” Zita snarled, grabbing for it.

  He held it out of her reach—simple given the differences in their heights—and told her, “You can make your call later.”

  She glared at him and calculated the consequences of scaling him for the phone. With reluctance, Zita had decided against it when a woman spoke behind her. Turning, she faced the one person she had hoped to never see again.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Miss. They’re a little jumpy about security here. I’m sure you can finish your phone call soon. Don’t let it ruffle your feathers,” Caroline placated her, having snuck up through the adoring swarm. A simpering fan asked a question, and she turned to answer. Other quarantined people thronged around her, crowding Zita and her friends away from the celebrity.

  She doesn’t even recognize me. Spoiled bitch! Zita glowered, bitterness filling her mouth, before something else caught her eyes. Wyn was white, and rubbing her forehead. “Wyn? You okay?” she asked, forgetting about the guard and Caroline.

  “Migraine, don’t worry,” Wyn whispered. Her voice was weak and her body slumped. Was she sloping to the side?

  Zita touched Wyn’s shoulder in alarm. Her friend’s eyes fluttered shut, and she dropped. After catching Wyn, Zita dragged her to a sofa, shoving the guard away when he came too close. “TRIXIE! Get over here!” she bellowed, then ordered, “Jerome, keep these idiots back.”

  Caroline said something that Zita missed.

  Trixie shouldered her aside, taking Wyn’s pulse.

  Zita joined Jerome in trying to give the doctor space; wound up by a celebrity and the drama, people kept pushing forward like a flock of sheep. Behind her, the doctor muttered to herself.

  Wyn murmured and her eyes fluttered open. Trixie whispered quiet questions, to which she only whispered, “Migraine, dizzy.”

  “Looks like a faint, we’ll take her downstairs for observation overnight. She’ll be back up and around tomorrow,” Trixie announced. “Can we get help getting her to medical?”

  Zita stepped forward to help, but Caroline spoke a few words to one of her bodyguards first. The suited man brushed Zita aside and scooped up Wyn.

  Caroline retreated to the elevator. “I’ll stop by again soon. Take care!” she said as her guards surrounded her, one carrying Wyn. The noise rose to a mild roar as people chattered about the excitement.

  Jerome stood next to her, hands on his hips. “Poor Wyn,” he said. His brown eyes were soulful with his concern.

  Zita kicked a chair leg. An opportunist had grabbed the phone too. A short, dark-haired man loitered by Trixie, who was scanning the crowd. He stuck his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders like a bird perching, as he looked around too, his face tro
ubled.

  Trixie’s eyes met Zita’s, and she lit up. Seizing the man’s arm, she dragged him over. “Here I was about to cry because you left, and you’re right next to me!” she said.

  “Me? Will Wyn be okay?” Zita queried. Watching him trail behind the doctor, she assessed Trixie’s companion. Martial artist, accomplished, Zita thought absently, watching him move a lean, graceful form. He looked familiar. Black hair in a long braid, brown eyes, Italian or Hispanic, cute if you like the type. Native blood might be mixed in. Why did he try to draw on a mustache and goatee? It looks worse than a bad toupee.

  The doctor waved her hand. “It looked like a migraine with vertigo. They’ll run tests, but a night of peace and quiet in a dark room should fix her up. Zita Garcia, this is Andrew Cristovano. Drew will be rooming with Remus, next door to you. He woke up an hour ago, so will you show him to his room? Drew, this is Zita, and Jerome is next to her.”

  He coughed and stuck his hands in his jumpsuit pockets. “Actually, people call me Andy.” After a second, he nodded to Zita and Jerome.

  Zita put her hands on her hips as she processed the presence of another member of the gene therapy group. “Andy? Do you remember me? We had that wheelchair race on the roof! And you remember Jerome Saint George, I’m sure, from the cartoons at the hospital,” she inquired. Out of all the hundreds in the cancer treatment group, two of my surviving best friends show up here plus a couple of others I recognize? Bizarre.

  Jerome looked at her. “I told you, girl, it was anime, not cartoons,” he said with a shake of his head. Turning to the other male, he said, “Andy, man, how you doing?” They exchanged brief handshakes, and then nodded at each other, male ritual completed.

  “Zita? Really? How could I forget? You know how much trouble I got into for that? Hey Jerome!” Andy grinned, and his face lightened.

  She gave him a hug, slapping him on the back and grinning. Sí, he works out. Bet he’ll spar with me too. Life is looking up. “Hey, those races were worth it! Good to see you again! Though, as a friend, the mustache and goatee thing? It’s not convincing.”