Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Thirty: When I Ruled The World

Song Selection: Viva La Vida— Cover By Future Idiots (That's right, like chapter one)

Percy's pretty sure she's screwed. Looking at those streets, trying to find a route where she won't encounter a van, it all seems impossible. She doesn't have her phone on her; there's no one she can call for backup. Just her, the notebook, and the night sky.

She tries to think of all her skills. Martial arts is a bit of a no-go. The whole punching people generally doesn't go her way, what with her being 5'1, lean on the muscle mass side, and really not into the whole shoving her knuckles into someone's face shtick. Even if she was none of those, being human and not super did kind of have a tempering effect on her getting-into-fights-with-strangers enthusiasm

But there's something she is good at: convincing people to like her. Kind of runs in the family.

She steels herself. "You don't need powers, Percy."

She's wearing Monet's hoodie, it smells like Monet, for one; coffee, dried ink, and heavy athletic deodorant, and it's so big on her, she feels like she can hide in it. Sort of dive deep into the fleecy insides and pretend the world doesn't exist, just her and coffee and Lady Axe. She throws the hood over her head, shoves the damned notebook between her bra and her chest.

What would Monet do? It's not a question she always asks her, because usually Monet's approach to anything is a little...blunt. But it's evidence Monet got, so its evidence she has to consider what Monet would want her to do with. Monet didn't go to the police with this information; she didn't trust them.

The name hits her like a punch.

Mayweather.

It may not look like much, but I swear the journalism office is knee-deep in some illegal, you know, employee practices. Which, you know, I can let slide for the Journal, because what else are they gonna do? Not exist? Yeah, I'm sure corporations and politicans would love that. I mean, there's usually someone in there burning the midnight oil, way into the wee hours of the morning. And say what you will about Mayweather, it's usually her.

Van #1: Percy knocks on the door. Bangs right on the passenger window, says in the sweetest voice she can muster: I'm lost, and I can't find my way back home from this dumb party. Could you point me in the direction of The Journal?

The man squints, and she offers him a pleading look. He points his thumb toward Elward Street. She says her thanks and slips into the night, undectected. That's what she does. She plays Snow White to their Huntsmen. Slinking past vans, crawling through clover patches and grass on her stomach like the world's daintiest soldier, when people notice her, she gives pleading looks with big eyes and sob-stories with her honey-sweet voice.

Some buy it, some don't. But by the time those that don't decide that she's dangerous, she's already scampering off, fast on her feet. And through ducking, weaving, begging, lying, she makes it to the dilipidated building that . "The Journal" is written on a tarp hanging from the front brick exterior. There's grime where mortar should be, it's long and dark and smells like mildew from the outside, the door thick and dungeon-esque to Percy.

Percy slams her fists on the metal frame. It's loud. She doesn't want to be loud, not right now, not with all these big white vans and people watching, waiting to wrench her into the back of their vehicles. A cool breeze blows against her skin through Monet's hoodie, the moon flitting out from the dark sky while she howls for help.

"Ms. Mayweather! Ms. Mayweather! Help, it's Percy!"

The door flies open. Virginia Mayweather is a small woman with very big hair, puffed up with hairspray, shiny with mousse. She has dark circles under her almond eyes, and her green dress is pressed to her body, damp with what has to be sweat. "What." It's not a question from her. Just a cold, tired word.