Superheroes!

stock credit: http://kechake-stock.deviantart.com/art/White-Swan-3-201429155, http://ajk-original-stock.deviantart.com/art/city-stock-1-114758924

Once Upon A Time Two Julys Ago, I wrote this story. It's about superheroes. Critiques are always welcome!

___

I left the window partway open Monday morning. Somebody had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning for the top floors, and I was going to be too busy today to go turn it on myself. There was work to do--letters to proofread and send back, schedules to look over, last-minute minor tweaks to some program or another. Tomorrow was a big day, which meant extra workload now.

I wasn't expecting the security lights to flash on the corner of my computer screen. Something was outside the building--outside my window, to be exact.

If I turned the brightness all the way down on the screen and adjusted the angle, I could see part of what was going on behind me and a little to my left. That trick was useful for someone who worked with his back to the door, and it worked wonderfully now. There was a female shape, red-headed, ponytailed, blue-jeaned and masked, climbing down the wall next to my window like Spiderman, rope tied around her waist and wrapped around her garden-gloved hands. She looked into the room, saw that I was occupied and that the window was open, and inched herself farther down the rope, hooked her knees around the windowsill, and dropped to the floor silently, lightly fingering the pistol sticking out of her pocket. She didn't have any shoes on, only socks. If I hadn't been able to see her, I wouldn't have believed she was there.

I turned around just enough to aim a gust of wind at her with my left hand. The main blast missed hitting her, but it blew her sideways and nearly knocked her into the windowsill. I redirected the wind to slam the window shut. Leaning on the glass for balance, she sent a thin jet of water in my direction. Fortunately, it soaked my shirt and not the computer, and it died down after a few seconds while she recovered, leaving me time to open my desk drawer and grab a pair of handcuffs and a flimsy plastic wristband with a clasp on the end. Before she could let off another one, I used another blast of wind to hold her facefirst against the wall while I forced her hands behind her back and locked the cuffs, and fastened the clasp on the wristband. I took her pistol and went back to my desk, where I flipped the switch that locks the window.

She glared at the back of my head the whole time I was working--glared or stared, I couldn't tell you which. She was obviously trying to make it a glare. She flinched whenever I looked like I might turn around, and her shoulders were tense whether or not I was looking.

Once I finished editing the letter, I opened up the files. Sure enough, her picture was there, and so was her profile. My shirt was still damp, so I released a breeze at it to dry it off.

When I finally turned around to face her, she froze.

"Nightquake." I nodded. "Kind of you to drop in."

She glared at me and nodded back without saying a word.

I went back to my computer screen.

NIGHTQUAKE
Superhero
Age: 20
Hair Color: Red
Eye Color: Brown
Powers: Flight, Water Manipulation
Origin: Unknown. 
Secret Identity: Unknown.

I glanced at her reflection in the screen. She had her tongue between her teeth, and she was working hard at something behind her back. Probably trying to get out of the handcuffs. I turned to look at her again, and she started and tried to muster another glare. She bit her lip at me and looked at me like I was a clump of moldy hair that had come out of the shower drain.

She began to edge toward the door. I pretended not to notice. I pretended to be busy, but really I was opening up the folder of rogue profiles and watching her reflection. She made it to the door, watching me carefully, and stood on her tiptoes to reach the handle.

"It's locked," I said.

She didn't believe me. She still twisted the handle twice before she gave up, leaning back against the door. In the meantime, I found a familiar-looking photo and clicked on it.

SPARROW
Superhero
Age: 17 when last active
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Brown
Powers: Flight
Origin: Unknown.
Secret Identity: Ariel Wymer
    Las Rosas, CA.

Nightquake glanced at my back and then looked at the window, as if she were planning on breaking it. I'd locked the window, of course, and the glass is bullet resistant, but we were seven stories up and she knew it.

I turned around, and she flinched again. "Look," I said. "I understand you're frustrated, but there's no need to jump out the window. You'll only hurt yourself with that wristband on."

She jumped, her face--around her mask, anyway--turning bright pink. "What do you want?" she snapped.

"You sure don't beat around the bush." I crossed my arms. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you."

"What do you want?" she repeated.

I didn't respond.

She gave up and looked over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of it. "What does it do?" she asked suspiciously. "I don't feel anything."

"It's a neutralizer." I pulled the swivel chair out from behind my desk and dragged it over to where she was standing. "Here. Sit down."

She glared at the chair and then at me. "No thanks," she said.

"All right. Nobody's going to make you." I got out one of the folding chairs from next to the window and sat. "So. Are you in school right now?"

"What?" She was so surprised, she forgot to glare.

"School." I nodded toward the computer screen. "I was reading your profile. Are you in school, or are you working?"

"I'm... I'm in college."

"What are you studying?"

"Chemistry." She raised her eyebrows. "Wait. My profile?"

"Let's talk about something else." I stood up, resting my hand on the folding chair back. "What were you doing outside my window?"

She glared at the folding chair. "Nothing."

"With a pistol and fifty feet of rope?"

"I told you. Nothing. What are you doing with information about me?"

"I'll tell you what," I said, leaning on the chair. "If you answer my question, I'll answer yours."

She looked at the floor, chewing on her lip. Probably deciding what was safe to tell. Then she looked sideways at me. "No. You answer two of mine."

"All right." I tilted my hand toward her. "You start."

"Okay." She pressed her lips together and swallowed. "I was looking for Commander Warp and everybody. I wasn't there when the base got demolished." She glared at me. "When you demolished it."

"I see." I met her gaze. It hadn't been me specifically who destroyed their base, but I wasn't going to bother clarifying. "What made you think she'd be here?"

"I--" Her eyes got wider for a fraction of a second, and then she bit her lip. "I didn't--I wasn't sure. This was the address I found in our files."

She was lying. I watched her face a little longer, just to make her nervous. "Well," I said, "I guess it's my turn to answer. Come over here."

She followed me back to the computer. Sparrow's profile was still up, and right before I switched back again I saw Nightquake's reflection on the screen turn pale underneath her mask.

"There." I showed it to her. "That's all we have on you. It isn't much, honestly."

She read the profile twice, her eyebrows furrowing together. "Secret identity?" she said. "Do you usually have that?"

"Most of the time." I shrugged. "It depends. We don't use it for much, if that's what you're wondering."

"What do you use it for?"

"Letters. You can't address a bill to Superman."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Letters."

I brought up Sparrow's profile again. Nightquake's reflection took a deep breath and looked at the bottom corner of the screen. "Where's Commander Warp, then?" she said, adjusting her mask against her shoulder.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at the profile for a while, moving the mouse around only slightly, as if I was thinking. I thought I saw her reflection shudder.

Then I closed both profiles. "I don't know," I said. "We can go ask my father."

"Your father?"

"Shadowstriker."

Her whole frame stiffened. "Shadowstriker? He's your..."

I flipped the window switch back with a loud snap. "I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you again, Sparrow."

"But... I always thought you worked on your own." She looked at the ceiling. "And if you were working for Shadowstriker the whole time, then why would you have been... wait." She looked back at me. "Wait. What did you just--?"

I smirked and watched her stare at me as she realized what I had called her, and she had responded to. "Oh. Oh, crap."

She didn't even move to avoid me as I untied her mask. "I thought so," I said. A crinkled ridge stood out between her eyebrows. "I gave you that scar. Right before my father offered you a job."

Nightquake--Sparrow--took a step backward, her glare returning. "I'm not going to take it this time, either, if that's what you want," she snapped. "What kind of a traitor do you think I am?"

I leaned against the edge of my desk. "This might be your last chance, Sparrow."

"To what? Be like you?" She spat out the words. "I'd rather give up my powers completely."

"You're sure?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

A streak of befuddlement underneath the glare. "Of course I'm sure."

"All right." I went over to the window and unlatched it. "If you come over here, I'll take off those handcuffs for you."

She looked at me sideways. "Why? What are you doing?"

"Letting you go."

"Why?"

I avoided eye contact. "Do you want to leave or not?"

She looked at me, and then at the window. Then, without saying a word, she walked over and turned around, holding out her wrists.

While I returned the cuffs to my desk drawer, she examined the wristband. She found the button that unclasped it, pressed it, and closed and opened it again. "How does this work?" she asked.

I closed my desk drawer and didn't say a word.

She offered the wristband to me, but I didn't take it. "Keep it," I said, handing her back the mask. "Might come in handy."

"Thanks," she said coolly. She put the wristband in her pocket and tied on the mask. "Do I get the gun back?"

"No."

She shrugged and adjusted the mask. After sliding her fingertip under its corner to make sure it was secure, she opened the window and slid out without so much as a backward glance.

I closed it after her and went back to work.

A Thought About Sketches

Have you ever looked back at your old doodles and wondered who on earth would think of something that creepy and dark? Like, seriously, some weirdo must have stolen your sketchbook or something!



 
...I have. It's an awkward moment when you realize that you were that weirdo.

Sorry about the bad quality photos... it's too early in the morning to use a scanner.

First!

An excerpt from something I wrote for Creative Writing class at BYU. I love tadpoles. And mud. :) Why I can't write descriptions for my fantasy stories like this I don't know.

Every spring, my brothers and sister and I put on old shorts, older t-shirts, and rain boots and took some plastic containers down to the deeper parts of the creek to find tadpoles. If we remembered to go before May or June, they were everywhere you scooped—little black squirmy things with string for tails, swarming in the murk and the algae between the cattails. You could never get more than three or four or maybe five at a time, and at least two of them would be too small to tell apart from the swirls of green muck in their plastic containers. None of us ever proved that we had more than six. You couldn't in that water, scummy as it was. It was like looking for gold. You would think you could see sparkles, almost, but when you turned it or you looked too close it was just a rock after all. You can't really own a tadpole, and you can't keep it in one place. Next week's tadpoles would be different—even if they weren't different creatures, they'd be changed.

After we let the tadpoles go, we'd sit on the banks for a minute with weeds poking into our knees and empty the stinking water out of our boots, and on the way home we'd stop in the hollow under the bridge for a minute, just because we couldn't quite stand up there. There was always a piece of trash or two, stowed away like a stray cat—a granola bar wrapper, the plastic from a cafeteria lunch, an ancient drinking straw. It wouldn't make a good hideout unless you cleared out the trash, and found a way to keep more from sprouting.