Chapter 22
Another working day came to an end.
Mecha Man dusted off his shirt, pulled a dried, bloodied piece of tissue from his nose, and touched his bridge with one fingertip.
"Ow." Still a bit sore, but probably healed in a couple of days. Tonight his snoring would terrify poor Baconbits, but otherwise — this didn't even qualify as an injury by his standards. He'd dealt with considerably worse. "Damn."
He walked to his desk and stared at the mess on his workstation with empty, tired eyes. The computer, the chair, the entire surface — sprayed with what appeared to be pastry filling, sweet by the smell, which wasn't helping his mood. The cloying aroma hit his damaged nose and made him want to sneeze, and the thought of cleaning it before it set and hardened—
"Should've just gone to work at 7-Eleven." He grabbed the first cloth he could find and headed for the bathroom, hoping he wouldn't have to wander the entire floor in search of a bucket. "Could be getting high in the parking lot right now, watching two dogs stuck together—"
The thoughts filling his head during the search were, for the most part, memories of recent days — vivid enough to crowd out everything else.
His failed attempt at avenging his father's killer. The collapse of his superhero career, specifically of Mecha Man. The drinking, the sleeplessness, and nothing but Baconbits for company — a dog who farted more than he barked.
At that last thought, the image of Baconbits's silly face surfaced, and Robert smiled despite himself. The mood lifted briefly, then he remembered everything else.
When his career had seemed definitively over, Blond Blazer had appeared and made him an offer he couldn't refuse — and couldn't find adequate words to thank her for. What came out was just a flat "thanks," which felt completely insufficient.
She'd given him a job. Not only for money or as a favor to an old friend, but with the possibility of becoming Mecha Man again. The SDS had promised to restore his suit if he shared his experience and whipped Team Z into shape.
"And somehow everything here still manages to go sideways."
Robertson III's mood was hovering near the bottom. On his very first day, the invisible girl had figured out his real identity. The team he was managing included someone he'd encountered twice in his superhero capacity — Flambé once long ago when the man was still on the wrong side, and then just a few days ago in some random bar, when he'd gotten a faceful of straight spirits.
*Luck is definitely not facing the right direction.*
And now this whole situation with Invidiva. A difficult girl, darting around like a small child who wanted more attention than anyone around her could provide—
"Forget it. Just forget it — her." Still muttering quietly, winding the cloth in his hands, Mecha Man moved his nose experimentally and caught the echo of pain. "She hits hard, though. Credit where it's due."
Passing one of the SDS promotional posters, Robert stopped. His eyes had caught a familiar figure in the image. A few seconds of internal argument — between the desire to finish his errand, get drunk, and pass out, and the pull of simple curiosity — and he stepped back.
The poster showed Blond Blazer. She was smiling brightly against SDS branding, looking directly at the viewer, the city spread out behind her and bathed in the light of her power.
Against his better judgment, Robert's gaze moved to her mouth, and the memory surfaced immediately — that moment, partly the atmosphere and partly the drinks, when he'd kissed her. It hadn't ended badly. He'd kissed her reasonably well, he thought. It was just—
"The setting was right! Not every day they put you on a billboard with the Hollywood sign!" He was talking himself into something, and catching his own expression in the nearest glass — sheepish, panicked, guilty — he at least had the self-awareness to notice. "If I think about it that way, I sound like some kind of maniac." He kept going anyway, glancing at the poster. "Though I'd like to see the idiot who'd try that without your say-so."
He addressed the last part to the girl in the image, almost expecting an answer. Silence.
"On the other hand, I did accidentally spit in your mouth right before, so—" Not sure whether this was a point in his favor or against it, Robert was already turning to continue when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.
The girl currently occupying his thoughts in roughly equal measure to his missing battle suit — which really said something — was coming out of her office, wrapping up her workday.
She saw him, gave a friendly wave, and gestured with both hands — come on, let's head out together. Robert looked twice at the cloth in his hand, then at the waiting superhero, and without spending too long on it, threw the cloth around the corner. Someone's irritated exclamation followed. He ignored it and walked toward her.
---
"Wait, what happened? Come on, tell me!"
Under the disapproving stare of the store clerk, I handed Amanda her beer — which probably did look bad from the outside. I couldn't bring myself to care. My mood was the kind of dizzying that made everything else irrelevant.
"So I walked over and started pouring water on her, and then she kissed me. That's it." I immediately felt self-conscious about how it had looked from Malevola's perspective, and hid behind the paper bag as we walked toward my house. "It's a bit awkward now that I think about it—"
"Ha-ha-ha, nice work, dumpling." She punched me in the shoulder and, for a moment, lifted her usually low-key face toward the sky, watching the first stars appear. "God, I wish I was older—"
"Please." I nearly choked on my beer to her delighted laughter, and had to brace my palms on my knees to cough properly. "Not you too—"
"Ha! Relax." The monster's friendly back-pat nearly drove me into the pavement. Water shot from my mouth in a thin stream alongside the beer. "Sorry — still need to work on that control. Loosen your grip even a little and you go off early. In both senses, apparently."
She drank half her bottle in one go, like Misato Katsuragi toasting herself, and exhaled with a satisfied wheeze.
"That sounded very ambiguous. Could you not say things like that in public—" I waved awkwardly at two mothers who were giving us extremely suspicious looks and already reaching for their phones. I picked up the pace and switched topics. "I've got a couple of jokers on the team who won't let my virginity rest."
"Oh, well, that's the thing, you see—" Seeing my blank look, Amanda clarified. "You're not hideous and you don't look like a monkey. You live with your grandmother but for legitimate reasons. You're strong. So for a super — and we're all a bit unhinged — it's not exactly surprising that your particular situation attracts a certain type."
"Thanks. I think. I don't know how to take that."
"Invite me when you introduce Mal to Grandma."
"I asked you not to call her that," I said. The old emotions — Herman's old emotions, embarrassment and something adjacent to jealousy — flared up. Only months of practice kept the water from starting to run. "And who's Mal?"
"Hm?" Walking beside me, saluting passing grandmothers and young mothers with her bottle — winning cheers from precisely nobody, based on the volume of dirty looks aimed at us — Amanda had apparently decided the evening was a success. "Mal. Malevola — Mal."
"Oh. I don't actually call her that."
"Seriously? Do you call her ma'am? Jesus, Herman." She went for my thigh, since I was walking with my shoulders back and she couldn't reach higher. "At that rate you'll never end up between those red thighs pulling on her tail, if you know what I mean."
She nearly fell into a bush delivering this wink, but I caught her arm in time. The whispering behind us was getting pointed. We were almost to our block, where everyone knew this particular loud-mouthed tiny monster and had long since made their peace with her.
"I always know what you mean, unfortunately." I pulled a new beer out of the bag before she could quietly steal it, and met the awakening monster's gaze without flinching. "Drink it at home. We still need to actually get there. And I have to live here afterward."
"You should be thrilled. Carrying a beautiful woman like me—"
She threw her arms wide and didn't wait for my reaction before beginning to tip forward. There was nothing to do but catch her. My first instinct was to throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but the "unconscious" girl immediately communicated that she'd throw up all over my back. So I braced, held the bags, and kept her in my arms — the challenge not being the weight but not destroying a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of groceries and drinks.
"You got heavier," I said, which any other girl would have punished with immediate violence. For Amanda it was better than any hollow compliment.
"Growing, aren't I." Thumbs up. She smiled for a couple of seconds before her lips softened and her arms folded across her chest. "Just not as fast as I'd like."
"What do you mean?" I understood. Even Sonar would have understood, assuming he was sufficiently narcotics-assisted.
"There's just a lot here I don't understand." Which confirmed it.
If someone asked me to illustrate every word in the language, I'd die of exhaustion — but for *awkward*, I'd draw this scene.
"Listen, I—"
"Don't." She cut me off with a quiet sound. Her eyes were anywhere except my face, which said everything — especially for someone as direct as Amanda. "I understand perfectly."
"I'm sorry, friend."
"Forget it, dumpling. I'm used to it." She patted my chest and gave me a sad little smile that produced an unpleasant twinge somewhere in my ribs. I understood everything. I still felt like a traitor, somehow. "Besides — it would be too cruel. And uncomfortable. For everyone."
"Meaning?"
"Well, there's already Harvey's reputation to consider. And despite all the slippery-slope jokes—" She went even redder, turning further away, pressing her lips together before continuing. "Grandma showed me some of your old photos. You used to really love running around with nothing on."
"Only because clothes were expensive and money was tight — wait." The neck-crick was almost audible as I turned to look at her. She was the color of a very ripe tomato now. "How old are these photos?"
"Not old enough." She coughed, shifted on my arms — moisture appeared where she was touching me. "The point is — if you grew up like that, then you'd need a bigger girl."
"Just — please stop. I'm begging you."
"Sorry. But look, it's not all bad, right?" She tried to inject some cheerfulness back into her voice, which quickly deflated. "Though from my end it would've been easier if you were some creepy little… what do they call them? Lolicons? Whatever those weirdos name themselves—"
"*Amanda.*"
"Okay, okay. Just joking."
Silence settled over us for a few minutes — genuinely welcome — as I brought the wobbling situation under control, and she quietly watched the sky.
"Would I have had a chance at all?" I didn't answer. We were good friends, but nothing came to me except jokes and deflections, and I could feel that anything serious was beyond my current capacity. Amanda understood on her own. "…Right."
"You know what? Let's revisit this in ten years." I was working to say something honest without causing damage. "If I'm still sad and alone by then, you can take me in under your fully-grown wing."
"Jerk." A small, real smile. She wasn't taking it seriously — but she was the kind of feminine that appreciated the gesture — and she managed to fish a bottle out of the bag after all, popped it one-handed, and pressed it to her lips. "Thank you. I won't kiss you, though."
"Fair enough." I adjusted my hold on her slightly, purely out of spite, to slow the drinking. "Didn't really want one anyway."
"Well. That was an easy conversation that cleared everything up. Not so bad." The drunken grin faded slowly as she tilted her head back over my arm. After almost a minute of quiet, she spoke. "I hate my power."
The weight of sadness in her voice was enough that I had nothing left to offer. She turned away so I couldn't see her face. Her breathing went soft and even before we reached the house, where I carried her to the room I'd kept ready for exactly this.
---
A new day, new problems. That might have described someone in Team Z's general outlook, but not mine. Walking into the SDS office that morning, I felt light, easy, and kind toward every living thing.
Including screaming Sonar. And Prizm's suggestive jokes. And the sight of Coupé's blood-decorated donut. And even the moment Colm ran past and accidentally shoulder-checked my relevant anatomy — still fine.
Last night's conversation with Amanda had been a long time coming. I'd been pushing it away, avoiding it, mostly because I was afraid of losing the first — and best — friend I'd found here. But it had turned out to be manageable. She was an adult with her own enormous problems, especially given her ability — she wasn't going to throw tantrums and go silent on me.
Though I could feel that my alcohol-assisted burst of altruism last night was going to generate months, possibly years, of material for her. Amanda could reach Invidiva's level of targeted cruelty when motivated. So.
"Morning, Waterboy." Robert's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. He was standing beside Chase, puffleball dog tucked under one arm, looking at the superhero performance board — specifically its lower half, where Invidiva had proudly occupied last place for both full months of our operation, along with roughly half the rest of our distinguished team. "Look — you're actually doing pretty well."
With satisfaction, he pointed to my name. Nineteenth place, just behind Malevola and Flambé. The three of us held a tight cluster around two hundred and eighty points, within a few marks of each other, and then there was a remarkable gap before the next Team Z member.
Sonar sat at twentieth with two hundred. Colm followed at a hundred and ninety-two. The final four — Golem, Prizm, Coupé, and Invidiva — clocked in at one hundred fifty-two, ninety-six, seventy-four, and forty-two, respectively.
"Nice work, kid." Chase gave me one of his rare, curt nods — his deep affection for us expertly disguised as the expression of a heartless elderly cynic. "Stop wasting time with the garbage and you might crack the actual hero board."
He pointed to the names just ahead of us, a small gap. He wasn't wrong — that was what I was working toward, and where possible I was dragging Sonar with me. Since most of my missions were with Malevola, and she rarely made mistakes alone, she'd claimed the second spot.
First place went stubbornly to Flambé, who for some inexplicable reason had turned this into an anime-style personal rivalry with me and was throwing himself at the work with everything he had. He'd told me directly. He wanted to top the Team Z board. It still counted.
"Chase—" Robert made an attempt to moderate, which was very sweet.
"What? Look at the spread. And if you check the statistics on who's been working with who, you'll understand." Chase turned to face me fully and held the look for a moment, one hand dropping to scratch the dog's ears. "I'll tell you something, son. You're a decent kid, so I'll be straight with you. Stop spending your time with the Invidivas of this team. If you actually want to become a superhero and put that black mark behind you — today's an important day for you. Don't screw it up too badly, yeah? You'll be fine."
He finished and walked off with Robert toward the work area. My eyes caught movement to my left.
A pen rolled off a desk. I watched it skid across the floor, and spent another few seconds thinking about what Chase had said — and what the hint might mean — before heading toward the waiting rooms where the team rested between calls.
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