The rain slams against every roof, every car, and every square inch of concrete, falling so densely and thickly that it’s a flood of white haze in my vision. Visibility is near zero. It looks like the rain in movies, when something really sad is happening, just an absolutely drenching downpour as the air gives up all of its hard-earned water. The raindrops form a staccato rhythm that quickly blurs into a solid wall of sound, occasionally punctuated by the wailing sirens of emergency services, a couple of roads down, waiting for the all-clear.
Bulwark turns away as Mr. T-Rex stumbles backwards and falls, a plume of boiling steam pouring out of his body as he reverts to his more nimble human form. It seems like he can’t create steam clouds without changing shapes – he’d have done so on several occasions if he could’ve. This time, though, there’s no charging, just Mr. T-Rex swiping his hand through the fog, clearing it up, rain turning his green overcoat several shades darker.
“Are you hurt? Does anywhere need bracing?” Bulwark asks, bending down to come close to eye-level with me. I can just barely see his eyes through narrow slits in his armor, same with his nostrils and mouth, tiny vulnerabilities in otherwise impenetrable layers of stone.
“He stepped on my foot. Other than that, nothing I won’t walk off,” I say, looking past Bulwark, watching Mr. T-Rex roll his shoulders, test his ankle, ensure he’s minimally damaged. Bulwark reaches down, and as he touches my leg, wrapping his fingers gingerly around my shin and foot, it becomes encased in a solid layer of stone. The stone feels light as air, but I can tell from the way it’s dragging against the ground that it weighs exactly as much as that much rock should weigh, Bulwark’s ability is simply compensating for the load.
I rest my foot on the ground, and it feels much better, having the stable structure supporting it. “It takes him a couple of seconds to transform. Every time he does, he throws off one of those steam clouds. I’m also pretty sure he can think just fine in dino mode,” I tell Bulwark, taking a couple of steps back.
Bulwark turns towards Mr. T-Rex. He claps his hands together, and a third layer of armor forms, giving him another half inch or so of thick, dense rock around himself. “I have about fifteen minutes of armor. Every layer cuts my time in half. That brace of yours will last an hour. All we need to do is survive, young one. Stand clear.”
Everything Bulwark says is simple matter-of-fact. It’s a tone that brooks no argument, but in a gentle way, not in a forceful way.
I stand clear. Bulwark grabs the bumper of one of the cars that Mr. T-Rex damaged and yanks it off the ground like it’s a paperweight. With some effort, he bends it into a better shape, squeezing the lower-middle of it into a handle, rolling the tip into a ball. A solid layer of granite forms over it, turning it from bent, distorted metal into a mace.
Mr. T-Rex clenches his hands, and then unclenches them, leather creaking. Or at least, I imagine if I could hear anything over the rain, the leather’d be creaking.
I decide now would be a good time to try and scavenge from the wreckage.
Slowly dragging myself to the side, I watch Mr. T-Rex’s eyes flicker from Bulwark to me and back again. Assessing threats, the way a predatory animal might. Is this kill worth the trouble?
He decides “yes”. His grunting and snarling is audible over the storm, and I get the lovely sight of watching the foam pour out from between his chimpanzee-like grimace-grin, pooling at the corners of his mouth, while steam emits from his skin in jets. “He’s transforming!” I shout out to Bulwark, who was already moving before I even said anything.
I’ve never seen two adult superhumans fight before, I’ll be honest. Like, yes, Multiplex has sparred with Bulwark and Belle and, on occasion, himself, as demonstration for us kiddos. And of course I’ve seen videos of cape fights, from knock-out brawls that are basically just your everyday street fight to the spectacular performances of the heroes in New York City and Chicago. But I’ve never seen a cape fight up close like this. I’ve never been the one being defended.
Bulwark takes about six paces forward and swings, his makeshift mace ripping through the air and CRAKing against a half-formed Tyrannosaurus skull, sending the partially-transformed Mr. Tyrannosaur reeling sideways. It was only a glancing blow against his snout, aimed blindly in the steam-fog, but Bulwark’s enhanced strength inside his own armor combined with the enhanced weight of something he was swinging around like a wooden dowel combine to turn that glancing blow into something tremendous. Not enough to break bone, but enough to send reeling.
The way Bulwark’s explained it to me is that he never has any trouble lifting anything his powers enhance. And if he’s armoring a person, that specific person won’t feel the weight of their armor, and nothing else. But to everyone else, everything weighs as much as it would if it really was covered in a half-inch thick layer of granite. I’m so bad at math, but that’s gotta be at least… what, 20, 30 extra pounds on that fender? I’ll have to ask my math teacher later. The momentum carries the mace rightwards, and then the wind rips through Mr. T-Rex’s steam cloud, dispersing it into swirling ribbons.
Mr. T-Rex looks disgusting when not done transforming, a halfway point between man and monster. His human skin has shredded open, swallowing his clothes entirely, bubbling like a baking soda volcano. He doesn’t look solid, like he’s made of goopy foam, the texture of bubble gum. Strands of sinew occasionally peek out from the gaps in his skin as it rapidly regrows over itself, forming layers just like Bulwark, layers that turn quickly into scales, then quills. It only takes another second or two before his stretched out face breaks into the typical T-Rex snarl that I’ve grown uncomfortably accustomed to.
Have you ever read Animorphs? My mom tried to get me to read it about a year ago. I bounced off of it, but I should get back to it. Anyway, it’s kind of like that.
I slowly drag myself behind the stairs that lead up to what used to be my house, eyes protected from the rain by my mask’s lenses. I’m extremely cold, and I just know I’m gonna get sick from being just rained on like this, but there’s stuff I have to get – stuff I have to make sure is still there, still unbroken. Mementos and important objects.
I hide behind the stairs, getting in close to what remains of one of the brick walls, trying to get some shelter from the rain.
Mr. T-Rex, now fully transformed, lunges forward, his feet skidding along the ground while his mouth snaps down. He’s not playing anymore – this has gone from demolition to attempted murder. I have no doubt that if he catches Bulwark in between those monstrous, banana-sized teeth, Bulwark’s losing a limb, or worse. His mouth snaps shut with enough force that I can hear it, and Bulwark slides backwards on the ground, arms raised defensively. He’s taking a sort of modified boxing stance, mace-wielding arm curled horizontally around his face, other hand lifted vertically to block his jaw.
Mr. T-Rex’s teeth snap shut inches from Bulwark’s face. Bulwark turns into his hips and swings, slamming the bumper against Mr. T-Rex’s lower jaw hard enough to send a gigantic dinosaur tooth flying out from his mouth, lodging into the window of a nearby car. A couple of seconds later, it starts dissolving, turning red and ashy before just… falling apart into sludge, into jelly, washed away by the rain.
Weird.
Mr. T-Rex roars, head swinging through with the arc of Bulwark’s swing. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, he swings back, using his head like a mace again and sending Bulwark skidding into a nearby car on the other side of the road. Bulwark plants his feet and barely dents the thing, more of a love-tap than anything else. I can just feel him gritting his teeth from here.
I look away for a moment to scramble in the debris, looking, looking, dredging my hands through bricks and dust and destroyed drywall. Somehow, I find it fast – my cell phone, and I take a second to build a small pyramid of, I don’t know, stuff to guard it from the rain. It’s already wet, and there’s no way I can dry it off with my soaked t-shirt, but I can hope it’s still functional. And if all else fails, I can salvage my SIM card.
It makes sense to me to find my phone, so I hope nobody judges me for it. I’ll need a way to stay in contact with my parents when they return, and Jordan. Last thing I want is them coming home to the wreckage and assuming I got turned into a pink smear on the floor. I mean, I still might be turned into a pink smear, but here’s hoping.
I turn around to keep my eye on the fight. I have a feeling not looking at this for too long is bad for my life expectancy, a feeling that is vindicated when Mr. T-Rex’s latest lunge sends him ripping through a nearby rowhouse’s front door. One of my neighbors, and I can see them wincing and totally freezing up through the windows. Bulwark grabs the door frame, and a layer of stones sprouts from the air – followed by another, and another, and another, forming a tight vice around Mr. T-Rex’s mouth that locks him in place.
Mr. T-Rex’s tail swipes left and right impotently, as Bulwark takes the opportunity to land what I think any reasonable person would consider some “cheap blows”. He aims right for the eyes, swinging his improvised mace with enough force that even the dinosaur seems in pain from it, entire body shaking and shuddering in agony. A second blow lands across Mr. T-Rex’s facial ridge, and then Bulwark lifts up for a third, bringing it vertically down on empty space as Mr. T-Rex manages to yank their face free from the doorway. The granite remains in piles, while Bulwark notices the lack of a third hit and immediately jumps out of the way of a tail swing that misses.
The tail annihilates the railing in front of the rowhome, turning it instantly into a heap of bent, broken metal. Mr. T-Rex is left squinting, either blinded in one eye or at the very least bruised. That plus the rain has to make this a miserable slog for the two combatants – it’s a miserable slog for me, and I’m not even fighting anymore.
I can feel my bones slowly, slowly shifting in my foot. It’s painful and uncomfortable, but the support of the impromptu brace at least makes walking on it less miserable. I have to move gingerly, sliding across the wet carpet, not putting any weight on my broken foot, but it’s better than walking on it in my shoes. Normally, I’d be objecting to being rained on this much, but all the adrenaline pumping through me is making it much easier to ignore.
It turns out, complaining about how wet socks are the worst feeling in the world seems like it takes a little bit of a backseat when you are trying to avoid being killed by a fucking dinosaur.
Mr. T-Rex swings around again, trying to use his tail to knock into Bulwark – but even with all six feet six inches of him available to hit, Bulwark is just too nimble for something so telegraphed. Bulwark ducks under it, watching for Mr. T-Rex to slow down his swipe, and then jumps. He grabs the narrow end of Mr. T-Rex’s tail and hangs on for dear life, holding his mace in the other hand, like trying to get on a the back of a bucking snake. Mr. T-Rex roars, dragging his tail back and forth, while Bulwark collects layers and layers and layers of stone on the bumper, turning it into an anchor that Mr. T-Rex is visibly struggling to pull.
Bulwark lifts it up and slams down. The mace aims true at the narrow tip of Mr. T-Rex’s tail, smashing it hard enough that I’m almost certain something broke, and then the stone falls apart, its time limit consumed. At the same time as Bulwark swings, he rips up with his other hand, tearing out a chunk of feathers just to rub it in.
Mr. T-Rex does not like any of these things, evidently. As soon as he has the opportunity, he turns around on his heel, and then again, and then flings Bulwark into the nearest car, flicking his tail out like a bullwhip. The car crumples inward entirely from the impact, demolished. Bulwark gets back up, dusting off his shoulders. If he’s rattled at all, I certainly can’t tell.
Mr. T-Rex lowers his head to the ground and snorts, his nostrils blowing the fog into tiny vortices (that means, like, a whirlpool). He charges forward, and Bulwark rolls under, letting Mr. T-Rex grind his face into the car’s wreckage, just turning it into iron shavings, smushing it with his snout. Bulwark jams his fingers into the middle of the street, visibly exerts himself, and then yanks a manhole cover free, hefting it over his head.
I hide behind the corner of the ruined front wall of my home. I’ve already stuffed as many family photos as I can find into the same pyramid that my cell phone is hidden under. I get a better idea, and grab a tupperware container from the floor, one that was scattered about by all the destruction, and shove everything into that instead.
Then, I turn back to watch the tail end of what I have to assume was a fantastic shot put. As Bulwark spins around on both feet like a ballerina, the manhole cover takes on consecutive, growing layers of stone, turning it into a massive disk. Already, Bulwark must be pretty damn strong just to lift a manhole cover out the ground at all – I tried pulling at one of those things before and it barely budged. He’s holding it with all the ease of a frisbee, and I don’t know if that’s his natural strength or the enhancement he gets from having the armor on.
Either way, he lets go. His aim is true, flicking it towards Mr. T-Rex’s injured side, where his eyesight is worse.
The armored-up manhole cover careens through the air, cutting a path through the rain, which, thankfully, has begun to let up slightly. I barely even see it at the speeds its moving at, and when it strikes Mr. T-Rex on the side, it makes a tremendous sound almost like a dull thunderclap, bouncing off and up, its armor breaking off and crumbling into small pebbles. Mr. T-Rex stumbles back, a visible dent in his side, and steam begins to pour from his mouth and skin.
I grab some Hannukkah candles and shove them in the tupperware. I don’t know. In case I need candles for some reason. I grab a knife. That one I also might need. I hide behind the bricks and debris, trying to make myself as small as possible, so Mr. T-Rex doesn’t notice that I’m still around.
I can smell both of them, but it’s hard to tell in the rain, constantly trying to wash away the blood and constantly distracting me, playing havoc on my sensory system. Bulwark is bruised up, and bleeding from the nose, coughing up blood, and Mr. T-Rex still has the cuts I inflicted on him, plus a few new bruises from Bulwark. I just keep myself small.
The rain continues to pour. Bulwark’s armor is chipped in places. I haven’t been keeping track of the time, but I can guess he’s got ten minutes left, maybe eight.
I hear the sound of collecting stone. Bulwark adds another layer on, and cuts his remaining time in half again. Mr. T-Rex chuckles, wiping frothy spit from the corner of his mouth against his sleeve. They lock eyes for a moment, and some sort of mutual understanding passes between them, the mutual understanding of combatants.
I think it’s a kind of respect.
Mr. T-Rex grabs a chunk of concrete from the ground, tossing it up and down in his hands like he’s weighing a baseball. He starts running, arm winding back, and pitches it at Bulwark, an 80 mile-per-hour fastball off the streets that cracks off his skull like a ping-pong ball, shattering into pieces. Bulwark doesn’t even seem winded, only recoiling a fraction of a second, charging straight ahead into the developing cloud of steam.
A second later, Bulwark is thrown ten feet back, landing on his butt and sliding against the ground like a stone being skipped on the surface of a lake. Mr. T-Rex keeps charging, and I take a mental note that he doesn’t have to stand still to transform, feeling a bit silly that I even assumed that in the first place. Bulwark grinds his palms into the ground, bringing himself to a halt and sending a small shower of sparks into the air. Bulwark ducks underneath Mr. T-Rex’s body, nimbly squeezing between his legs, and Mr. T-Rex whips around again, pawing at the ground with one foot. Even his adorable little Tyrannosaur arms are visibly trying to clench, like he’s squeezing his fists.
It’s a tiny moment of levity. I’ll take what I can get, cowering in the ruins of the ancestral Small home of fourteen years. Mr. Tyrannosaur lowers his head again, like a bull preparing to charge, and Bulwark, chipped pieces of granite flaking off of him, armors up one more layer.
If I’m doing my math right, he can’t have more than two minutes left. Probably a minute and a half, maybe even less time. But does Mr. T-Rex know that?
Mr. T-Rex charges, zigging and zagging across the wet street, clearly trying to make himself less predictable.
Bulwark stands resolute, arms up, defending himself boxer style.
Mr. T-Rex’s movements are more erratic, but still predictable – a zig-zag only goes one way. Bulwark winds back, grinds his feet into the ground, and takes Mr. T-Rex head-on, swinging his fist with every ounce of muster he has in him. The air is filled with a sound that sounds a lot like thunder as Bulwark’s fist whips into Mr. T-Rex’s damaged eye, and Mr. T-Rex’s snout slams into Bulwark’s torso. Cracks start forming in Bulwark’s armor, starting at his fist and spreading throughout.
Mr. T-Rex and Bulwark both stand still, for a moment or two. A heartbeat passes, followed by another.
Mr. T-Rex lets loose an agonized roar, blood leaking from the corners of his damaged eye. His snout shakes away from Bulwark, and he rears his head back, howling in despair. He looks at me, nostrils flaring, making it clear that not only did he know where I was, but that this was far from over, and he begins to trod off. I notice his uncomfortable gait, taking a small amount of satisfaction in the damage I did to his ankles.
Bulwark’s body heaves with exertion, and his armor plating dissolves off of him, decomposing into small bits of gravel that quickly turn into even smaller bits, then into dust, and then, nothing, leaving him in his construction-equipment-like costume. He smiles in my direction, panting, blood leaking from his nose around his mouth and into his beard.
He lifts his hands up to the sky, knuckles bruised and bloody. As if on queue, the rain, which had been steadily weakening, stops, and the clouds break open, casting a beam of light across Bulwark’s entire body. The entire street begins to shimmer and sparkle with reflected sunlight, bouncing off the wet asphalt. In the distance, I hear the heaviest footsteps in the world, and then a characteristic burst of steam, a loud hiss like some sort of firecracker going off.
Two adult capes. No words, no lip, just one fighting to save my life and the other fighting to kill me.
Bulwark closes his fingers gingerly, bringing them down to his sides. “That was a close one, young one… I am sure we can leave the rest to the police, or other heroes in the area. I had let many of them know before I came here to stand by, so, hopefully, we should be able to catch him on the way out,” he explains breathlessly, answering my unasked question.
I clutch my tupperware container full of odds and ends to my chest like a lifeline, and I drop the knife, glad that I didn’t end up needing it. “Come along, young one. Let us get you some medical attention.”
I swallow, thick and heavy, and nod.
“Well, you’re not dead, which is a lot better, historically, than I think most things that got into a fight with a T-Rex can say,” the paramedic, a dark-skinned woman with colorful dreadlocks tied back, says to me with a smile. “You sure you won’t need a cast? Your, um… All your bones in your right foot are kind of… not in one piece anymore?”
Her hands, gloved and professional, gingerly press against my foot, making me wince. Sharp lines of pain dash up my spine. “Oh, no, not true! Your tarsals seem to be in good shape. Your metatarsals… well, those are the big question. If you were anyone else, I’d say you’re never using this foot again.”
I sit in the back of the ambulance, feet dangling off the edge, thermal blanket wrapped over my shoulders like a shawl, although my clothes are still soaking wet.
The paramedic continues to probe my foot, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “You’re certain you can regenerate? You said it felt like this got ground into dust, but there’s definitely identifiable bones there, and they’re in the right place – just broken.”
I nod. “Yes, it’s one of my abilities. But it takes a bit of time and energy,” I explain, feeling the uncomfortable, unfamiliar domino mask across my eyes. My actual mask sits to my side, with this one mostly for preserving my superhero modesty as a crowd gathers to assess the damage.
Bulwark leans forward, his gaze heavy on my injuries, totally ignoring his own. Even though I’m the one that can regenerate! How is that fair? “Is there something I can do? How can I assist?”
The paramedic looks up at him, considering. “Could you check with any of the neighbors? See if they can lend us some dry clothes for her? Hypothermia can be a serious concern.”
“I will see to it,” Bulwark says and strides off, each step more like a miniature march, as if his body can only express gravitas.
I watch him walk away, then turn back to the paramedic. She starts rummaging through her bag, pulling out what looks like a blood pressure monitor and a pulse oximeter. “We need to get your vitals. Your core temperature’s a little low, and these wet clothes aren’t doing you any favors.”
She wraps the cuff around my arm, and begins to do that little dance of blood pressure. The part I always hate, where it squeezes so hard it hurts for a second, before it lets go.
“Systolic’s a bit high. We’re going to start you on some painkillers,” she announces, fishing out a small vial and a syringe. “Your oxygen levels look decent, though. Considering the circumstances, that’s a miracle. Just a little bit of ketamine to take the edge off.”
I don’t shy away from the injection, although she chuckles a little when she sees the face I make at the word ‘ketamine’. After she injects me, right in the thigh, she scribbles some notes on her clipboard. “We’re looking at multiple fractures and breaks in your right foot, some internal bleeding in your abdomen, and likely a concussion from being thrown around like that. Your scalp shows signs of traction alopecia, though it’s not severe. You’re going to need to get to a hospital for scans and probably surgery for that foot. No concussion, thankfully.”
“Yeah, got punched pretty hard in the gut.”
She places a stethoscope on my abdomen, listening intently. “You might have some internal bruising. You’ll need an X-ray, ultrasound—something to make sure you haven’t ruptured anything.” She moves it up to my chest. I try not to blush. “Lungs sound good, though. I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary.”
My insides churn at the thought of having burst something just from being struck hard enough. Is that even possible? “Uh, okay, got it,” I murmur, as she goes back to examining my bad foot, the whole… appendage(?) having turned an ugly shade of plum purple and red.
“And this foot… I’m feeling some strange lumps, or maybe spurs, under the skin. They might be bone fragments.” She continues to palpate my foot with an increasing frown. “Regeneration or not, we should get this looked at. Especially if the bones are trying to knit together wrong.”
As she speaks, I hear Bulwark returning, carrying a small bundle of clothes in his large hands. “I have procured these,” he announces, his voice tinged with a small, almost imperceptible note of pride.
The paramedic smiles and takes the clothes. “Thank you. Let’s get her into these and to the hospital. Even if you can regenerate, young lady, you need to get properly checked out. There’s too much that could go wrong, and I’m guessing you’ve never tested your powers against T-Rex-inflicted injuries before.”
I laugh a nervous laugh, nodding. “First time for everything.”
Bulwark turns away as the paramedic preserves my modesty with the thermal blanket. “Your courage today was admirable, young one,” he says softly, almost tenderly.
I shrug, the thermal blanket slipping off my shoulders. “They were coming for me anyway. Courage isn’t really a factor when I don’t have a choice. I’d say it’s more duty, or obligation.”
“We are made of the same spirit, then,” he replies, a soft smile touching his lips. “Come. Let us see to it that your duty does not cost you too dearly.”
I take a deep breath and nod. If my injuries are the price of duty, then so be it. I’ve come to a conclusion – I’ll pay it gladly, every time.
I don’t like being in the hospital again, but the circumstances are a lot better than last time. They still have to put me under to re-set my foot, but apparently, from the nurses, there were a bunch of teeth growing off of it – a tooth for each fragment of bone. Scared the shit out of the doctor, evidently, which I wish I could’ve seen.
I have another vial of teeth, now! The last one kind of… melted? The teeth started turning into dust about a week ago and then the next time I checked the vial it was completely empty, so it’s nice to have a tooth vial again. I don’t know, call me weird, but it feels cool. My bones were in a good enough shape that the doctor decided to only splint me, instead of putting me in a full-on cast. Which sucks, because it would’ve been cool to get my cast signed, but, you know, doctor’s orders.
They finally put a number on my regeneration! They said that it’s “Unclear, possibly conditional, shows signs of significant healing in the timespan before arriving at the hospital, but significantly slowed prior to surgery, and accelerated again during surgery,” and when I asked for clarification, they said “Estimated 8x-6x healing factor”, which is cool.
If I had to guess, based on what I know about myself and my pattern of being stabbed, sliced, cut, and otherwise mangled, I think my body tries to heal itself fastest when an injury happens to keep me stable during a fight, and then slows the roll afterwards. Or maybe it goes for the biggest injuries first, or heals me fastest when it feels like I’m in danger, but whatever the options, it’s definitely a slope. I was sore for a lot longer than I think I should’ve been when Safeguard stepped on me, after all.
But, I don’t know. I’m not a superheroologist.
I think a lot about these things in my hospital bed, still wearing borrowed clothes from the neighbors, who I’m sure all know who I am at this point. I mean, a girl who looks an awful lot like Samantha Small just came out of the Small residence to fight a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. But if anyone knows, they’re keeping it hush hush.
I have about a week of healing, maybe two, guesstimated by the medical people, before my foot is walk-on-able again. Which is a lot longer than most of the other injuries I’ve received, but way better than ‘never being able to use that foot again’ or even just ‘eight weeks’. I value running around and being a miscreant too much to want to stay grounded for too long.
I put my phone down, clicking the little red hang-up icon with my thumb. The whole day washes over me in a wave of exhaustion. My parents, still in New Jersey, just sounded happy that I was still alive. I told them about the house, and they said not to worry, everything’s insured. My dad, specifically, apparently got “superhero insurance” on top of the normal home insurance, which I didn’t even know was a thing. I asked him why he’d have done that in the first place, and he said, “Well, I work for the municipal government of Philadelphia. You make a lot of enemies there.”
I asked him if he had ever made a supervillain enemy. He refused to answer, which means ‘yes’. That’s a story I’ll have to pry out of him later.
They said they loved me and that they’re so proud of me and they’re so glad I’m alive. We all cried. It was kind of ugly. My face still hurts. My mom’s voice rings in my ears. I told them that I wanted to stay at Pop-Pop Moe’s for their safety, and they hemmed and hawed, and said okay, but only if you’re sure you can find a place to stay.
“Plus,” my mom said. “You’re gonna have to do something so much harder than fighting a dinosaur man.”
“Yeah?” I replied.
“You’re going to have to keep going to school once your foot is all better,” she said.
“Damnit,” I replied.
I scroll through my contacts. There’s plenty of people I’d gladly couch surf with – all of my friends from middle school, for one – but I don’t want to put them in danger. There’s a target on my head now. The Kingdom tracked me down to my house, and I doubt they’ll be stopping there. Bulwark knocked Mr. T-Rex good, and maybe blinded him, and if there’s anything I know about guys like him – like Mr. T-Rex, like Mudslide, like Aaron McKinley, it’s that they don’t take embarrassment lying down.
I scroll down through my HIRC client to the Young Defenders group chat. There’s a ton of messages of concern, of support, both in individual conversations and from the group. Clearly, someone gave them the low down at some point in the past 8 hours, and I have to wonder if it was Bulwark or someone else. I pop my head into the chat, tell everyone that I’m okay, and pop the question.
I pull up to a tiny little rowhouse on Almond Street, about fifteen minutes by car from my house, but, somehow, closer to my high school. Bridesburg sits comfortably nestled near the Delaware, and a tiny little stream runs across the street, cut over by Bridge Street, near a funeral home and a convenience store. This rowhome isn’t brick and mortar like mine, not old, it has those weird white shingles that kind of feel like plastic, and a front step that just goes right to the sidewalk. A single front step, rather, as opposed to the steps, plural, that my home had.
I ring the doorbell, glancing backwards at a Multiplex, who throws me a respectful salute from inside the car. Apparently, being able to make up to twelve of you means you can chauffeur people around easily – go figure. He watches me, not moving, waiting for the front door to get answered.
The pinkish dyed hair of the girl who answers the door is unmistakable. I know her as Blink, of course, but she’s got a civilian name I’m probably going to find out in less than a couple of minutes. “Hey, Bee! I’m really, really super glad to hear that you’re all okay.”
I glance at my foot, chuckling, and adjust my emergency backpack, so generously bought for me with taxpayer dollars and delivered to my hospital room by another of Multiplex’s duplicates about 6, 7 hours ago. The moon hangs bright in the sky ringing in at around seven thirty, seven forty five. I’ll be honest, the past however-long it was – from Jordan coming over to the fight to the hospital, it’s all kind of turned into a big smudge of time. It doesn’t feel real. Like a bad dream. “Alright enough.”
“Come in, come in! My parents dragged the futon out of the storage room for you. It’s not the best in the world so I got out and got you a mattress topper from the Walmart a couple streets down. I hope you don’t mind?” She asks, fidgeting around as I step inside my temporary abode for the next however-long-it-takes to get my house rebuilt. My dad said with what I described to him, the fastest we could possibly hope for is 16, maybe 14 weeks, depending on if there’s any construction crews with superhumans aboard. Realistically, closer to 20, 24 weeks.
I sure hope Blink doesn’t get tired of me by then!
My parents said that they could arrange a long-stay hotel, which is what they’re going to do when they’re all squared off with Pop-Pop Moe and the coast is clear, but, like… I don’t know. I feel most comfortable knowing I’ve got someone by my side that gets it. What if I’m alone in an Econolodge and Mr. T-Rex comes back and it’s just me?
So. Yeah. Living with Blink for a couple months!
“Bee?” She asks, waving her hand gently in front of my face. I realize that I just had that whole train of thought while spacing out, staring into her home’s kitchen, which is a lot more modest and old looking than ours.
“Sorry, spacing out. And, uh, you can call me Sam when we’re in our civvies like this,” I say, stepping into the rowhouse. I glance back at Multiplex, who, satisfied that I made it inside safely, takes the car out of park and begins pulling down Almond Street. “Honestly, the futon is probably bigger than my normal bed, so, that’s cool.”
It is indeed, the couch unfolded into an uncomfortable looking bed, with a comfortable looking memory foam mattress topper, and then an ill-fitting sheet stretched over it, duct taped at the corners. I sit down, take a deep breath, and flop back onto it.
Blink smiles at me, warm and a little vacant. She always looks a little bit vacant though, so I’m sort of used to it by now. She sits down next to me while I ease my backpack off my back. I take my rescued photos and set them on the plastic table that’s been set aside as my nightstand – just wet polaroids, now. I’ll get a frame for them from the dollar store later, or something.
“If we’re using civ names, you can call me Lily! Lily Chen. My parents will be back in like half an hour with dinner for us. Do you like Chinese food?” Blink – Lily – says, her head clearly trailing from one thought to another in a solid, uninterrupted flow. She leans sideways on the futon, conspiratorially, the sort of leaning someone does at a sleepover. “Like actual Chinese food, not Panda Express. Peking duck and stuff. Do you like duck?”
“‘ve never had it,” I answer, honestly, finding it hard to meet Lily’s gaze. “Food will be nice, but I think I just need to nap. Can you wake me up when it gets here?”
Lily smiles and pulls me into a hug, my face nestled against her. Against all the resistance in my blood, I find myself relaxing. She lets me go and pats me on the head. “You sleep good, okay, Sam? I’ll wake you up. When it gets here, I mean. And I’ll get you my old laptop!”
I smile at her, but it feels more like a grimace, like a chimpanzee’s smile. My teeth lock together. Lily doesn’t mind, but I think anyone else would think the sight is horrifying. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
“That’s my job, silly!” She says, scooting off the futon and bolting up the stairs.
End of Arc 2: Keys
Subject: Unforeseen Circumstances – Temporary Absence from School
To: jfoster@tcahsphilly.com, rstrickland@tcahsphilly.com, lbollinger@tcahsphilly.com, csimmons@tcahsphilly.com
From: samsmall0909@hotmail.com
Dear Teachers,
I hope this email finds you well. Unfortunately, I have some unexpected news to share. Due to a superhero incident in my neighborhood, my home was significantly damaged, and I was also injured. Thankfully, my family and I are safe now, but the circumstances will prevent me from attending school for the next week.
During my absence, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could email me the assignments and material I’ll miss. I’ll do my best to keep up with the coursework from home, despite the ongoing situation.
Thank you for your understanding and assistance during this challenging time.
Sincerely,
Samantha Small
Subject: RE: Unforeseen Circumstances – Temporary Absence from School
To: samsmall0909@hotmail.com
From: jfoster@tcahsphilly.com
Samantha,
I’m sorry to hear about your circumstances. The most important thing is that you and your family are safe. Don’t worry about the assignments for now; life happens, and we can catch up later.
Best wishes for a quick recovery.
Mrs. Foster
Subject: RE: Unforeseen Circumstances – Temporary Absence from School
To: samsmall0909@hotmail.com
From: rstrickland@tcahsphilly.com
Samantha,
That’s quite the ordeal you’ve been through. I hope you’re taking the time to heal, both physically and emotionally. I’ll send you the reading material and assignments you’ll need for the next week.
Take care.
Richard Strickland
Tacony Academy Charter High School
(267) XXX-XXXX
rstrickland@tcahsphilly.com
Subject: RE: Unforeseen Circumstances – Temporary Absence from School
To: samsmall0909@hotmail.com
From: lbollinger@tcahsphilly.com
Hey Samantha,
Wow, that’s intense! Glad you’re okay, though. Take the time you need to get back on your feet. Attached are the materials and assignments for Earth Science this week, and next if you feel you need it.
Stay strong!
Best regards,
Laura Bollinger, M.Sc.
Earth Science/Chemistry/AP Environmental Science Professor
Tacony Academy Charter High School
(215) XXX-XXX
lbollinger@tcahsphilly.com
Subject: RE: Unforeseen Circumstances – Temporary Absence from School
To: samsmall0909@hotmail.com
From: csimmons@tcahsphilly.com
Samantha,
Sorry to hear about what happened. That’s tough. Don’t worry about PE or Home Economics. We’ll get you caught up when you return. Focus on getting better for now.
Sincerely,
Chris Simmons
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Chum 
One response to “29”
“I was sore for a lot longer than I think I should’ve been when Safeguard stepped on me, after all.”
i forgot about their first fight for a moment and bluescreened
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