Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Six: Protection

A superhero.

He calls me a superhero. He rests his arm on my shoulder, his flame tattoos flexing over sinewy, defined muscles, and though our skin never meets, I can feel the heat of his body through my hoodie. And it makes me shiver.

This is the metaphorical weight of a superhero's cape, I think, the pressure of someone you saved clasped around your shoulders. All up and down the arm, white inked feathers flutter in branches of white fire. I stare.

Gideon is still shaking, still sweat-soaked from his near kidnapping, and I don't think I'm helping, because I'm silent with each step, staring squint-eyed at Chip's boots. I never noticed the long white scuffs on the toes, the cobweb crosses the laces make over the ankles. The purple-sharpied hearts. My eyes sting as he speaks. "You're not from around here, are you?"

I shake my head as the alley narrows and dirty gutters and bright graffiti frame my vision. Dull grays, contrasted with vibrant blues and blacks. Two ten-foot long koi fish swim on the wall right of us, one black, one white, tails crossed and bodies curling to make a heart. I tug my hood down and draw in a sharp breath that I choke on. Cinnamon candy and cigarette smoke. Inhale, the musty, faded smell of the stolen hoodie and the city's burning-oil reek, exhale, let the pain escape my chest in a soft puff of dry air. But my chest is still smoldering with that violent energy. Even though my feet are blistered and my muscles are all rubbery, I'm wired. Eyes pinned open wide, heart still slamming in my chest, my knuckles in my mouth. I'm sucking the taste of blood off my skin while he talks.

"That's okay. I'm warning you, man, I don't have a lot of space, and I don't know if you're going to try to kill me or something, but, kid, you gotta be crazy. I think you crushed that guy's sternum."

"I've crushed a few sternums in my time," I say, staring back at the graffiti with my head craned. I wonder about the dark fish, with its ink black body. I wonder if fate is something you make or something you run from.

"What?"

"Nothing."

There are no skyscrapers here. No glittering steel and perfect yellow square windows like in the comic books. There are narrow streets behind crumbling storefronts, and potholes the glitter with melting ice.

The apartments crouched on the horizon are lopsided, brick splashed with mold and fungus. He walks me toward them, lowered eyes shifting to follow us from outside the stoop. Gideon just walks past them, his fingers digging divets into my skin. I crack my knuckles. I'm not the intimidating type. Scruffily approachable, that jazz. Even in Chip's clothing, I'll never make an imposing bodyguard. I figure I just look like an anime sad boy.

But we're not bothered by them. One person takes a long huff of whatever they're smoking and the smell leeches to my hoodie. This isn't like the comics, the city all glitter and smiling heroes.

What I see is darkness and an overworked hero who will probably have her powers torn out of her by someone like me and kids being kidnapped in alleys and people turning blind eyes. A city like this isn't a haven, it's going to eat me alive.

And with a deep breath, I decide that I'm okay with that.

The lobby reeks of mold and damp, the carpet torn up from the slats. It's dark, the only light cast in harsh white circles. Something scurries over my boot, little feet and little claws, squeaking horribly.

"You scared of rats?"

I shake my head, though I can feel stale cheese and crackers churning around and around in my gut. Gideon leads me up the stairs, fumbling with his keys, phone.

"I swear to God I'm crazy," he says. "I don't even know you."

"You don't." I shrug. "But if I'd wanted to harvest your powers, I would've kidnapped you ten minutes ago in the back alley where no one would've heard or cared if you screamed."