Super?

It's All About Reality

A/N: I apologize for my frequent cover changes. I like to experiment and I have to say I like this one the best so far! Hope you're enjoying the story so far :)
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       Another brutally agonizing day crawls by and it's Friday afternoon. I haven't heard any more from Bloodhound since his jarring discovery of Dominic's appearance in that grocery store, and I'm starting to slowly go crazy. Ollie and Dave have noticed how on-edge I've been since Sebastian's ominous apology, but they haven't said anything. I've spent mostly all day sitting in the windowseat overlooking the yard, the laptop on my lap and a plate of food laying abandoned beside me. I didn't sleep mostly at all last night. And when I did for a few moments and started to dream... Well, let's just say that it wasn't exactly a pleasant reenactment of Crow's little stunt two nights ago. The kiss definitely lasted longer than expected.
       But I'm determined not to let him catch me off-guard tonight, wherever he's taking me. If there's anything he's proved about himself, it's that I can't ever trust him. Certainly not like him, either. Maybe he wants to rekindle some old spark we had, but there's no way in hell I would even consider patting him on the back, much less kissing him again.
       "Maybe I should've driven you to Idaho. Maya..." Dave comes up behind me and sits beside me, grabbing a blanket from the drawers underneath the windowseat and draping it over my bare legs. I watch him in the reflection of the window.
       "I'm going to go insane if something doesn't happen soon. I had all of this information yesterday, and I thought I could act on it... but now I'm just sitting here and I'm going to blow up if I have to wait another day where Dominic could be in trouble and I'm just getting comfy in your living room," I anxiously twist a blonde lock around my finger, but Dave reaches to stop me, forcing me to look at him.
        "Let's go shopping, ok? It'd do you good to get out of the house. Plus, you're supposed to wear something nice to dinner with Crow tonight, right?" He tilts his head, looking so happy that I can't just immediately refuse his offer.
        "You've already given me so much clothes. I'll just wear what I have. I'm not going to try and impress him just to inflate his already maxed-out ego," I snort. "I'd also kind of like to stay here in case Bloodhound writes with more," I protest when Dave gives me his famous disbelieving look. "Aren't you supposed to be at work, anyway?"
        "I have Fridays off. Ollie doesn't, so it'll just be you and me. And come on, you know how much I love spending money on you. Let's get you something nice. You deserve it," he tells me.
       "Don't say that," I reply flatly, looking back out the window. "Don't tell me I 'deserve it,' because I don't. I don't win an award for waking up in the morning. I'm not a hero. I'm not a breast cancer victim. I'm not a victim, period. I'm an ex-villain with a rap sheet that would make anyone cringe. You don't know what I've done, who I've killed. Because as hard as I've tried not to, people have died as a consequence of foolish things that I did to impress Reggie or Crow. I'm not as innocent as you may like to believe. I don't deserve anything!" I'm shouting by the end of my rant, and Dave just looks bewildered.
       "Jesus, Maya. I'm just talking about buying you a nice dress, not giving you my winning lottery ticket. You don't have to feel like you need to prove yourself to me, you know that... right? I can guess at what you've done, and I'm ok with that because I know that you're a good person. I know how this has messed you up. Psychopaths don't regret their past actions. You do, and that means you have a conscience. You can't change the past, but you can redeem yourself now and in the future," he insists. There he goes on his Dr. Phil tangents again.
       "Whatever. If you want to get me a dress so bad, let's get a dress. You don't have to go as far as to call me a good person," I tell him dryly. "That's just cruel," I add under my breath.
       "Ok," he sighs in defeat, knowing he can't talk any sense into me. "But put something else on. Unless you want to go to the mall in your Disney pajamas." He ruffles my hair adoringly and gets up, sending me one last look over his shoulder. "And for the record, I think you are a good person. You just try to act like you're not, for reasons I don't quite understand." With that, he leaves me alone. I sit there for a while longer, watching him pound his way up the stairs.
       "Sure, Dr. Phil. Whatever you say," I mumble. I get up slowly, still watching the yard as I walk over to the base of the stairs. Finally I tear my gaze away and follow Dave. Sunlight filters in through the long, hardwood hall and cast stripes onto my face. I step into the shadows of my room, where the blinds are closed. A pair of jeans. A soft, baby-blue shirt. Nothing fancy, as much as Dave would love for me to wear something     'trendy' or 'fashion-forward.' Just because he likes to be stylish, doesn't mean I necessarily want to be.
        I decide to at least put some effort into my hair, because it's been a long time while since I've worn anything but a ponytail. I guess having your life fall apart will do that to you. It's funny that I used to be so vain. I think most super-villains (and superheroes) are. I used to get my hair done once a month. I'd spend an hour on my makeup every morning. I bought designer sunglasses and crisp new blouses to wear at work. I used to care how people saw me. Which might come across as weird, because it would be easier to just put up an illusion, right? But I was never and won't ever be like Gia. I can't imagine constantly living under a veil like that. At least I still have Maya Waterman. She has nothing.
        "You look nice," Dave says with a smile as he walks into the spacious bathroom. Unlike most stereotypes about gay men, which are usually incredibly offensive, he doesn't own any hair gels or moisturizers or any products at all. I asked him about that, jokingly, and his reply was, 'I naturally look this good.'
       "Sure. You ready?" I ask him after he's done brushing his teeth. He nods and ushers me out. He's wearing a faded Jurassic Park shirt under an grey button-down and some jeans that look really expensive. He may not use a lot of hair products, but he's still an über-consumer.
       "Always," he replies, wiggling his eyes. I roll my eyes, pretty much used to his antics by now, and walk downstairs.
       "Ugh. The leaves are turning already," Dave complains. He loves summer. Like, obsessively. On June 22nd this year Ollie claims he wore shorts and a t-shirt and flip flops even though it was still like 60 degrees. "But I suppose you noticed that after staring outside for five hours straight," he adds slyly.
       "Just get into the car, Dave," I order him. He grins and we both walk outside into the fresh air. Sure enough, there's a bit of a bite to the wind. I look around carefully before getting into the passenger side of Dave's Chevy.
       "Who are you looking for, anyway?" Dave asks, hopping inside and starting the car. "That Crow guy said he was coming at 6. Do you not trust his judgement or something?"
       "Why would I ever trust his judgement?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow. "And why do you keep on bringing Crow up? You seem rather involved with this dinner thing," I say. A mischievous smile twitches at his lips.
       "Ollie may or may not have said that he ships you two," he admits. Then he starts to sputter with laughter. I give a long-suffering sigh.
       "Of course he does. Fanboy," I mutter darkly. "And there is no way in hell I'm going to let him survive long enough to be shipped with me if he even tries to strike up a relationship. Your boyfriend has poor taste," I retort. Dave shakes his head knowingly and backs out of the driveway.
       "Whatever you say. But death never got in the way of love," he tells me, batting his eyelashes dramatically as he drives down the street.
       "God. I hate you so much," I laugh. "If I need to make it clearer, I will never ever ever be interested in Vampire/Shapeshifter Creep, or anyone else for that matter. I don't want a boyfriend, or a lover, or whatever term you prefer. I've had enough drama and angst without one." I give Dave a pointed look.
        "Fine. But good luck changing Ollie's mind. He's already trying to come up with a ship name for the two of you. But it's kind of hard because Crow is his villain name... so..." Dave looks at me hopefully. "You said this dinner was with no masks, right?"
       "I'm not even going to answer you right now, Dave. Just concentrate on the road," I groan. I'm failing to conceal the amusement in my face, however.
       "Craya? Maow?" Dave suggests after a moment of silence.
       "I'm going to punch you, Dave."
-
       As soon as we step into the store, I know I'm going to hate it with a passion. Not only is it named Avant-Garde, but everything comes in shades of raspberry, blush, rosy red, satin, you name it. There's so much freaking pink. Sequins and glitter and rhinestones and high heels that make me dizzy just looking at them. Headache-inducing geometric patterns on leggings that would either make ones thighs look abnormally chubby or pencil-skinny.
       "What is this monstrosity?" I ask Dave distastefully, picking up a sweater that is covered with shaggy pink fur and has a necklace with a faux diamond pendant the size of my fist hanging from it. A store assistant with wayyy too much eyeshadow gives me a dirty look.
       "Fashion," Dave tells me. He's preoccupied with salivating over a pair of Converse with comic speech bubbles plastered over the canvas. I check the price tag on the sweater because why not. My eyes almost fall out of my head.
       "Who would pay 200 freaking dollars for this ridiculous hairball?" I goggle. Dave shushes me and walks over quickly, pulling me away from the sweater.
       "Richer people than me. Now come on. We're here to find you a dress, not to make fun of the merchandise. I'd rather not get kicked out of the store just because you don't have a filter for your mouth," he tells me. I let him drag me deeper into the store, all the while marveling at the gaudiest articles of clothing I have ever seen in my entire life.   
       This whole place screams 'SUPER MODERN' with its high white ceilings and pale blue walls with inspirational quotes plastered across them in flowy silver script. There a few voluptuous mannequins scattered about the store all striking contortionist poses.
       "What made you think to bring me here?" I scoff, poking at a cat-ears headband. "I mean, I love being called be-you-tiful as much as the next guy, but this is just absurd."     
       Even the dressing rooms have passive-aggressive tumblr quotes stamped on the doors. There are some weird mini-chandeliers hanging in each stall, and a sappy pop song sang by someone named Grace Forever or Harmony Lovve or whatever is blasting over the speakers.
       "Just suffer through it. There's just a dress here I saw a few days ago that I thought would be perfect for you," he informs me, sitting me down on top of a giant sea-green fluffball that must double as a chair.
       "You shop here? Often?" I give him my infamous skeptical eyebrow-raise. "I bet their men's section is even better."
       "Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm the worst because I actually put some thought into my appearance. I guess I should wear some paint-stained wife-beaters and baggy jeans like very other guy," he says sarcastically.
       "When have you ever painted?" I ask.
       "I... er... I was just giving an example of something a regular guy would wear. I don't know," he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
       "You see guys wearing a lot of 'paint-stained' shirts? Where exactly do you work, again? Is this some new obscure trend I haven't heard of? Do guys just have a painting party and flick their brushes at each other's shirts?" I laugh at my own wittiness.
       "Maya."
       "And then they're all like, 'Hey, bro! Now I can fulfill my manliness quota with this paint-stained shirt.'"
       "Maya," he demands. Finally I look at him. During my little tangent, a sales associate has come over and watches the both of us with her severely arched eyebrows raised.
       "Can I help you?" she asks irritably. "Or do you just want to keep on shouting in the middle of the store for everyone to hear?"
       "You know what-" I start, but Dave quickly interrupts what was about to be my angry tirade with a hand slapped over my mouth.
       "There was this dress that she'd like to try on," he tells the associate sheepishly. She gives me a dirty look, but after hearing Dave she gives him a sweet smile. Um. Two-faced much?
       "Of course. I'll get you a dressing room started. What's your name?" she asks me as Dave hurries away to find this illusive dress. Um. What?
       "Why? Are you administering a survey?" I retort. She gives a long sigh and closes her eyes while rubbing her forehead with French-manicured nails.
       "We write your name on the outside of the door," she says through gritted teeth, pointing at the little mini whiteboards hanging on the door. Sure enough, one door is closed and has the name "Katlynn" written on it.
       "Oh. Um. Right. I'm Maya. No weird alternate spellings or anything," I mumble, feeling my cheeks redden. The associate just shakes her head and stalks away. I have a feeling she'll give me the stall with the broken door and the distorted mirror that makes you look fatter than you actually are.
       I rush off to find Dave, keeping my head down low so I don't offend more store workers. It's not hard to tell who works here, because in addition to their rather slutty low-cut uniform, they all wear dangerous amounts of eye makeup and have enough rings on their fingers to substitute for brass knuckles in a catfight. I can see it now.
       "Here you go," Dave tells me, gesturing to a rack of the same dress. It's a floor-length, deep red dress with a neck that's basically like a cubic zirconia-covered turtleneck but just on the collar part. The rest of the dress is the waves of smooth red gossamer, and there's a thin fake diamond-studded belt at the waist. It's- dare I say it- actually pretty.
       "Yeah, I suppose I could sew a hidden pocket on the inside to keep my knives," I say casually as another associate walks by. He gives us both an alarmed look and almost trips in an attempt to scuttle away faster. Dave shakes his head but he's laughing.
       "Admit it- it's a pretty awesome dress. Do you want to try it on?" Dave asks. I check the price tag and wince.
       "Nah. I think I've had enough of terrorizing the employees here. Plus I think that one lady may have booby-trapped my dressing room. I'll just find my size and hope it fits. There... is a return policy here, right?" I ask carefully.
      "Don't worry about the price, love. Ollie's a lawyer. I think we can afford it," he says, squeezing my shoulders, like Ollie's being a lawyer automatically constitutes the two of them as being up to their ears with money.
       "I'll tell Ollie you said that," I joke. I carefully choose the dress in my size and hold it up under the soft lighting. "Thank you. Seriously."