Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 2: Holy Strawberries, Batman! We're in a Jam!

As I tumble into the night, screaming, flailing, and yeah, sobbing, I decide I hate Gats. Flashes of memory warp in front of my eyes and I clench my fists, my shrieks lost to the wind.

I'm young. Juniper's citrusy perfume stings my nose. I sneeze, sending Jupes and Storm into bouts of quiet giggling.

I'm eight, watching ants crawl from a sugar bowl. Storm and Jupes crouch beside me, giving me 'the talk' about my heritage.

I'm suddenly thirteen and Gats pounces on me, begging for information on the "hot girl next door who eats all your food"—

I guess it's true, your life really does flash before your eyes as you're dying, but I'll stop now. I may be dying, but thinking about my boring-as-spit life only makes it worse. As jolts of shooting pain rip through my back and chest, an image pops into the Death mix. I don't recognize it. My heart jumps. I don't want to.

In the foreground, Gats clutches Heaven to his chest. Her pretty brown eyes pour tears, her dark, soft, skin dirtied in streaks. Gats also seems upset. His collar is flipped up and his hair hangs in messy strands, something he normally won't tolerate. Blue and red sirens blur the background, but I can still see—oh, God.

There's me, or at least pieces of me, and a god-awful amount of red.

The picture fades away. Oh. My cries catch in the back of my throat, burning like acid. When I die, is that how I'll look? Like roadkill? My whole body locks up, so heavy it feels like stone. No, God, no I don't want that.

I swallow hard. I think of how pretty the sky is on a clear summer day and how sweet it smells after the rain has passed and the street is filled with puddles. I think of how perfect Storm's blueberry muffins taste, even when he burns them black. I think of how much fun it is to tear apart Aristotle's theories with Hev and Gats. My heart throbs in my chest. It feels like it's grown so big in these few seconds it'll explode before I hit the ground. I decide I'd do anything for one more day in this beautiful, stupid world.

"Relax, cupcake, and stop screaming, will you?"

My throat hurts from crying and I blink like an idiot. I should've already hit. It doesn't take that long to fall from a dozen stories.

"Hello, hon? Anyone home?"

I look up. And then it hits me like the best slap in the face anyone could ever receive. Holy spit! I'm not dead! I stop crying. I'm alive. I'm alive and I start to giggle about it. I'm alive and I'm not roadkill and a hero is holding me and death can eat my dust and gosh, am I going to punch Gats.

The hero scoops me in a bridal carry with my arms and neck dangling. I smile dumbly. I should hug him or her damsel in distress style to straighten my back, but I don't want to make my savior any more uncomfortable.

You see, when I told Heaven I was a "gentle giant," I wasn't kidding about either part. I'm over six feet tall, and while I still need to do some Olympic eating for my weight to catch up with my height, I'm a little more than doll-light. Plus, I've got these huge shoulders that could easily sport wings if I ever go bird-kid Generation Icarus style, and though they're great for that, they probably make carrying me in mid-air a pain in the butt.

I exhale and almost squeal. Near-death situations make you a little nutty like that, I guess. I raise my head, searching for a glimpse of my hero's face. My whole body shakes from the shock of it all, but I force myself to keep in the moment and ignore the buzz in my stomach.

The hero isn't Galaxy, or if she is, she scrapped her iconic getup in favor of a black jumpsuit and biker gloves, but I don't care. She saved my doomed butt, after all. "Thanks for the, uh, rescue." Now that's real deal Oscar award acceptance speech material right there. I chuckle, giddy and ready to burst into a musical number.

"Do you know how long it takes to free fall from twelve stories?" she asks, snapping me from my dream-like state. Sounds sharpen, and Starlight ceases to spin. I'm staring up at the starry sky, the silvery buildings swirling in my peripherals. "Hell-oo?"

Now, I'm not so giddy. Does she expect me to calculate terminal velocity in the middle of the night? 'Cause, grateful as I am for my life, that won't happen. "I don't know—"

"Three seconds. Less than that, actually."

"Oh, well, that's cool." I squirm my toes in my sneakers. Where is she taking this?

"You're one lucky dude," she says, her voice laced with venom. I need to polish my people skills.

She shifts to the side. While I find her blatant breach of physics a bit troubling, I try to push it out of my mind. When scientists discovered superpowers, they should've thrown the entire concept of physics into the dumpster marked 'Dead Pseudosciences.'

"Umm . . . Yeah. Thanks for the, uh, lift." I cringe again, this time from my punny remark. "But my friends might be worried—"