Superheroes Anonymous (4 page)

I was about to discover exactly how wrong I was.

Around me, ­people scrambled for the exits, shouting and shoving other ­people aside. They'd all recognized the villain, but all I saw was a skinny guy with a mohawk, laughing a bit hysterically. Two things stood out about him: despite the fact that it was lose-­your-­fingers cold, he wore a tank top, and he was hovering eight feet over the ‘L' tracks, cackling like a lunatic. He hovered about twenty yards away, but it wasn't difficult to make out the two kids huddled on the tracks, gazing up at him with slack looks on their faces.

The oncoming train was a little bit more of a pressing concern.

I started running, my shoes sliding against the icy platform. “What are you doing?” I shouted. A crowd gathered close to the screaming woman, who was beating on the air like it was a solid wall, her screams hoarse and desperate. The crowd, on the other hand, watched all of this with something akin to disinterest. None of them looked at the fleeing pedestrians or at me.

I snatched up an empty beer bottle from an overflowing trash can and flung it as hard as I could, pitching forward and losing my balance. There was a world of difference between breaking up a bar fight in Nowhere, Indiana, and hurling beer bottles on a frozen train platform.

Apparently, my aim had improved, though.

The bottle hit the floating dude square between his shoulder blades. He whipped about, looking around until his gaze speared right through me.

He tilted his head. “What are you?” he asked, and lifted his index and middle finger to rest against his temple. “Don't smell like a tourist, don't look like a local. Let's take a peek, hmm?”

The headache that had hit me then had been akin to slamming full force into that train still racing down the tracks. Or it had been like that then. Now, I didn't feel anything, so I stayed crouched on the platform, gasping with the phantom memory of pain as what felt like tiny fingers picked my thoughts apart like bits of cotton batting. I hissed out a breath between my teeth and scooted backward, hoping only to get away from the instant migraine.

Unfortunately, I hadn't realized how close I was to the edge of the platform, the bumpy concrete of the safety lines digging into my knees. Teeth still clenched, I tipped right over the edge.

For a second, it was like flying.

I didn't hit the ground. I saw a blur of vivid green, and the breath whooshed out of me as something snatched me from behind. One second of disorientation later, I was back on my feet, well away from the edge of the platform.

The green blurred away again. It was a man—­no, not just a man, this was a superhero. Where had he come from? I looked around, bewildered, as the man took three running steps away from me and launched himself off of the platform. He swooped across the tracks, flying in a zigzag pattern because the ugly guy with the mohawk kept trying to glare that daggery mental gaze at him. The man in green scooped up the children; an instant later, we all felt the blowback of the train race by. He set the kids on the platform next to their sobbing mother.

The man with the mohawk, who'd nimbly dodged out of the train's path, glared at my mystery savior. In a blink, a lightning-­quick change, he whipped around to smile at me. “Don't worry. I'll see you again.”

And he sped off, right as the man in the green suit and mask leapt at him. The man's fist punched through empty air.

When he turned to look at me, purple light crept around the edges of my vision the way it had in the coffee shop, and I had only a second to meet Blaze's eyes, even greener than his uniform, across the platform before he flew away.

It had been the first time he'd saved my life.

M
Y EYES OPENED,
though the rest of me didn't follow. I floated in a haze. There wasn't pain; there wasn't anything. Though I was in my body, it no longer existed. Did that mean I no longer existed? I wasn't missing much, if that was the case. An unenviable job, no boyfriend, a tiny apartment. Shallow coworkers. Late nights with Ramen and early mornings with instant oatmeal.

I was probably better off without all of that.

Slowly, details trickled into my world. I could feel my hands and my fingers, and finally my shoulders, which ached a little. Sensation returned next to the littlest toe on my left foot, followed by my right leg. It crept up my shins and calves, into my thighs and butt. And it was
cold.
Less cold on my upper thighs and butt, but frigid nonetheless.

When the feeling entered my back, I gasped and felt my lungs expand with it. For one startling eternity of a second, I was aware of every single atom, every molecule, and every fiber of my body. I was Gail. I was. And then it faded away.

But one thought slipped in before everything became nonsensical again: “Why am I strapped to a table?”

 

Chapter Four

W
HEN
I
SURFACED
again, I wasn't alone.

“Would you wake up already? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a narcoleptic, and the solution only exacerbated matters.”

Slowly, I blinked my eyes open, my vision focusing surprisingly quickly. It only took a glance to see that I was in some kind of basement, and not a well-­kept one. A single halogen light swung on an exposed wire over my table, casting awkward shadows across floor-­to-­ceiling metal shelves all around me. They contained metal instruments with suction cups and pointed ends, chemical phials and vials, some with liquid inside, binders that leaned against each other like a bunch of drunks. All of it was covered in an unbelievable amount of dust. I was grateful once again for the fact that I'd never suffered from allergies. When I moved my head, black sparks skittered across my vision, and I felt my reality begin to slide away . . .

“No, no, none of that now. Quit that.”

A sharp twinge in my left arm dragged me right back, and I found myself staring up at the horror movie mask from the coffee shop. No, I realized. That was no mask. It was a face, one attached to an actual person. Even worse, he was using it to sneer at me. He blocked the lightbulb for a second as it swung in that direction, throwing a ghoulish halo over features that were far from pretty to begin with. His nose was bulbous, his eyebrow thick and slashing over the expanse of his entire forehead. Skin sagged at his jowls; he had yellow, crooked teeth and the breath to match.

This time, I didn't bother to recoil. “Who . . .” My voice cracked and rasped as if I'd been chain-­smoking for twenty years. “Where . . .”

“Who am I?” Satisfied that his victim was awake, Ugly leaned back so that I could see more of him, giving me a reprieve from the halitosis. He wore a lab coat over a flannel shirt, which I took to be a very bad sign—­the lab coat, not the flannel. Mad scientists had been the bane of my existence for a long time, but I could honestly say I'd never had the honor of being kidnapped by a lumberjack before. He rubbed spindly, liver-­spotted hands together. “I, dear girl, am Dr. Mobius. Tell me what's wrong with you.”

My throat hurt, my head was pounding, and I couldn't feel my fingers or toes. “You mean, besides the fact that I'm strapped to a table?”

“Yes, yes.” He waved impatiently. “Besides that. How do you feel?”

“Cold.”

“Interesting.” Dr. Mobius rubbed his chin, looking away so that the light got lost in the crags of his face. Mostly to himself, he said, “Why is that?”

“Probably because I'm strapped to a metal table,” I said. “But I'm just spitballing. I could be wrong. Hey, here's an idea—­untie me so I can get off the table, and I can tell you for sure. Think of it as removing a variable.”

Dr. Mobius's eyes flashed. “Nice try. How do you feel? Any effects? By my calculations, you should be feeling a bit . . . a bit
off.
”

Giving kidnappers information never ended well, so I swallowed down steadily rising nausea and dizziness. There was a persistent throbbing nexus of agony behind my right eye, but I gave him my sunniest, most sarcastic grin. “Feeling great,” I said. “Except for the part where I'm strapped to a metal table.”

“I'm not going to be moving you for a while, so I'm afraid you'll just have to get over that.”

“Look, Dr. Nutball. You have officially broken the eight-­month record I had going for not getting kidnapped. I was
fond
of that record.” Despite the fact that it made my head spin, I sat up as far as the chains on my wrist would let me to glare at him. It ended up being more like doing crunches, which wasn't the worst thing for my abs. “Going along with your plans like a good little hostage is not on the agenda, okay, so save us both time and let me go. It'll end better that way, trust me.”

“Eight-­month record of not getting kidnapped?” Dr. Mobius stared at me as though I'd grown an extra head. Since the idea wasn't entirely outlandish in this situation, I had to check. I still had the same number of craniums. “What do you mean? Have the villains not been doing their job?”

“Villains have other things to do,” I said. “Thankfully.”

“But you're still Blaze's Girl, aren't you?”

“Not anymore.” Since my abs were screaming, I lay back down on the table. “Not since . . .”

I never got to finish my sentence. The black sparks, having been threatening at the edge of my vision all along, came back to finish the job. And even though I felt that pinch on my left arm again, I ignored it for the cool bliss of the unknown.

“O
H, COME OFF IT
.” Jeremy risked a glance away from the TV eating his entire wall to look over at me. His brilliant eyes were incredulous. “You really don't think I'm Blaze?”

“No.” I flicked my index finger, scrolling to the next page of the Domino on my tablet. I hoped they would have a good picture of Blaze this week. He usually flew so fast that it was hard to get a clear shot. So far, the only great pictures had been while Blaze was flying slow enough to carry me. And I never looked good unconscious, I'd discovered.

“Really?” Jeremy returned his gaze to the screen. “I mean, it didn't strike you suspicious at all that Bla—­
I
started rescuing you right before we met?”

“Mm.” There was an excellent profile shot of War Hammer, looking as serious and sober as he always did. I paused to study it. War Hammer had just that touch of sadness in the eyes behind the mask. I wondered what his story was. “Sorry, Jer. I know it hurts your ego, but I don't think you're Blaze.”

“Why not?”

“Well, if you are, why don't you go grab that uniform that you fill up so nicely and show me?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. On-­screen, he obliterated the three Nazis that were guarding the base, while his partner threw a grenade to destroy the rest of the compound. “That ruins the principle of the thing, Girl.” Though we'd been dating six months, he'd picked up the habit of calling me by my nickname. “You have to have faith in these things.”

“Inspire my faith, then. Show me the uniform.”

“That's the exact opposite meaning of faith.”

I smirked and went back to reading the article on War Hammer. It was a Saturday blissfully free of work, so Jeremy and I were taking the opportunity for a little alone time—­just us and
Call
of
War
. Tired of fighting with a video game to spend time with my boyfriend, I'd resorted to browsing social media.

“Why don't you think I'm Blaze?” Jeremy asked.

I shrugged. “Faith?”

“You know, you're a bad girlfriend.”

Purposely, I looked over at the screen, then back to Jeremy. “Says the man who's ignoring his girlfriend on her first full day off in two months . . . to play video games.”

“Oh, did you want attention?” Jeremy's grin turned wolfish. In a flash, he'd clicked pause and was on top of me on his ratty couch, his weight comfortably pressing into me. He grinned and nipped at my neck. “Guess I'm a bad boyfriend then, eh?”

“Eh?” I repeated, and all talking ceased for a bit while our lips were otherwise engaged. I felt Jeremy's fingers moving down the buttons on my shirt and moved to return the favor, but he eased back. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Jeremy clambered off of me, leaving my shirt open. “Stay like that a minute, will you? I've just got to kill some Nazi scum and level up, and then we can pick up right where we left off.” He looked over his shoulder to waggle his eyebrows at me. “Only maybe we should take it into the bedroom?”

“And you wonder why I don't think you're Blaze,” I said, and buttoned up my shirt.

W
HEN
I
WOKE
again, it was because something very insistent was prodding my left elbow. Mostly I awoke to tell whoever it was to knock it the hell off so that I could back to sleep.

Only to find myself staring into the face of my captor, yet again. Oh, joy.

“Is Blaze dead?” Dr. Mobius shoved his face into my line of sight. The halitosis alone was enough to knock away the last vestiges of sleep.

“What?”

“Blaze—­is he dead? I knew he was going to bite it in some stupidly heroic way before I could pull this off. How'd he go? Saving a bus full of orphans? Kittens?” Mobius stroked his chin while he gave the matter some thought. “Puppies?”

“Blaze isn't dead. He's in Miami. You're barking up the wrong tree if you did this to get his attention.” In an attempt to get away from his foul breath—­had he just been
feasting on roadkill
?—­I leaned as far away as I could. Why did I feel so dizzy? What was going on?

“What!” The walls seemed to shake from the rage in Dr. Mobius's voice. “Why didn't you tell me this sooner?”

“I don't communicate well when unconscious. Never was great at multitasking.” I closed my eyes. “Tell you what, you let me go, and I won't even tell the police. I'll just go back to my life and let you live yours. We can forget the past few hours ever happened.”

“Few hours? I've had you here twelve days.”

My eyes shot open. “Tw-­twelve days? You've kept me here
twelve
days? What are you, nuts? I've got work!”

Mobius paused and gave me a peculiar look. Belatedly, I realized my priorities might be a little out of line, but I hunched my shoulders and tried not to throw up. “What?”

Dr. Mobius moved away to pace back and forth across the lab. With every footfall he made, things on the shelf beside him tottered. “So Blaze has decamped for sunnier climes. That does put a wrinkle in my plans.”

“A wrinkle? You? That must be a new one,” I said, glaring at his lined face.

He snorted, unimpressed with my rather lame insult. “You had better hope Blaze discovers that you're missing soon. Or else I might be tempted not to . . . give you your upgrades.”

Upgrades? He had my full attention now. “You turned me into a robot?”

“Don't be foolish, Girl. Do you feel like a robot?”

“How would I know?” I said. “I've never been a robot before.”

“And you're not one now.”

Whew.

“You're just radioactive.”

There went that “whew.”

“
What?
”

“You heard me.” Dr. Mobius moved away to putter at a desk in the corner. “Relax. I've already swallowed a supplement—­of my own design, naturally—­that will prevent me from getting radiation poisoning. You won't contaminate anybody here. I am perfectly safe, my dear Girl.”

He wouldn't be if I could snap out of these damn shackles. “Yeah, because I was
so
worried about that.
Why am I radioactive?”

“Well, why wouldn't you be? I injected you with a solution containing a synthesized isotope of—­well, let's call it Mobium after yours truly—­among other nasty little things. You don't recall? You were awake for it.”

My memories produced nothing but a blank. I remembered the coffee shop and some fever dreams, but that was it. “What are you talking about?”

“I distinctly remember that you were lucid,” Mobius said, turning away from the desk. He did not, thankfully, have a syringe in his hand (I've been suspicious of ­people who keep their backs to me in secret laboratories ever since the incident with Nurse Wretched). The clipboard he held didn't much reassure me. He peered at it. “I'll have to check my records to be sure, but—­hmm. Oh, yes. Yes, you were most definitely conscious and cognizant. I noted several colorful adjectives you chose to employ in the use of describing a certain part of my anatomy.”

That sounded like me, but I still didn't remember any sort of injection. And I tended to remember those things. A lifelong fear of needles had taken care of that long before I had ever been kidnapped.

“Why?” I said. “Why would you inject me with this—­this whatever the hell it was you gave me? What kind of sick game are you playing here?”

“Sick game?” Mobius looked affronted. Or as much as somebody with a face appropriate for the Halloween aisle of a department store could. “My dear Girl—­”

“Don't call me that.”

“—­this is no game.” Mobius sighed to himself. “The plan was simple: I inject you with the solution until your blood would become accustomed to it—­yes, even crave it—­and Blaze shows up and saves. In two months, you'll fall ill without another dose, and Blaze will be forced to come to me to get more. For his precious Girl.”

“Making me the perfect bargaining chip,” I said, dull horror gnawing at my middle.

“A coup de grace, if you will.” Mobius's face twisted back into its scowl. “Only your Blaze does not seem to be following the program.”

I'd been up excrement creek without a paddle before (as the polite saying goes), but this blew every near save to pieces. My only hope of getting out of here alive had no idea I was here. Because he was in Miami. The only way I was going to walk out of here was if I broke through the shackles myself, or if I convinced Dr. Mobius just to let me go. And the likelihood of either of those happening—­I'd better just start gnawing on a limb if I wanted to escape.

I decided to focus on the other reason for panic. “So you injected me with something that's made me dependent upon it?” I demanded. After years of avoiding needles, white powder, and cigarettes, I had nonetheless become a junkie. For a mad scientist's formula. Which I had a feeling I wasn't going to be able to pick up from a shady guy on a street corner.

As if already preparing for the life of an addict, my hands began to shake. They jerked left and right so that the shackles bit into my wrists. I yelped, but the convulsing extended, pushing up my arms and into my shoulders, bouncing my head hard against the metal table. I shouted. With my last waking coherent second before the seizing overtook me, I saw Dr. Mobius reach for what looked suspiciously like a clipboard. He might have said, “Again?”