Hero Stalker

Part Sixteen

The newspaper clippings fluttered in the breeze from the half-open window. I'd read those articles over and over, but I'd never before understood what it felt like to belong in one of them. 'Femme Fatale Foils Ice Queen'. 'Slasher and NSWAT Turn Cracken into Calamari'. 'Black Knives Bust Concocted by Cypher and Precocious Pulse'.  I wondered what my alter-ego's name would be. I wondered what puns the editor of the Clarion would come up with for it.

I felt like a hero. And it was even better than I'd imagined it would be.

My heart still raced as I opened my laptop and loaded The Worldley Fewe. Someone had spotted a Centurion Jet landing on West Street and written a five page polemic on how the Centurions needed to follow traffic laws. I typed up a rebuttal explaining that the Centurions probably had more advanced technology than we did, or they wouldn't do it. Centurions wouldn't risk civilian lives. Their job was to protect people.

I explained to one poor newbie that support class Centurions weren't the weakest members of the group. They were the most versatile team members, as capable of cleaning up natural disasters as throwing villains into buildings. Then, unwisely, I got involved in a flame war over whether or not the League of Liars actually existed. For some reason, people liked the idea that an elite club of supervillains was plotting to take over the world and that the Centurions and the government had created an elaborate ruse to mislead the public.

A moderator warned me around eleven to stop fighting or I'd be banned. I took the hint and exited the thread.

My phone buzzed. I had a text from Amanda Mason saying 'Femme drew this'. She'd attached a photo. A sketch of a black spandex costume with green knee high boots and green elbow-length gloves. Both boots and gloves had blades sticking out of them, and I couldn't help but admire Femme's commitment to detail. I saw a green half-length cape and utility belt, and a green slash tracing the line of the collarbone.

 The mask was like Peregrine's: a plastic helmet covering everything from the nose to the hairline, but it had little cat ears on the side where hers had wings. Femme had even drawn my bun sticking out the top of the mask. She'd written a single word beneath it. 'Alias: Shadowcat'.

"Perfect," I whispered. Shadowcat. Defender of Bayton. Protector of the helpless. Scourge of the criminal underworld. It was a mouthful, but I'd taken the first step, right? I'd saved Laura's rent money, without any formal training or equipment! Why couldn't I become the best Centurion in Bayton's history? All I had to do was catch one lunatic in a robot suit. Heck, I just needed a giant magnet. I was sure the Centurions had one of those lying around somewhere.

I walked down the hall to brush my teeth. Unfortunately, Will had gotten in there before me. Steam rolled out from under the door. His showers averaged forty minutes apiece and tended to use up all the hot water. I pounded on the door. "Hurry up!"

 And then I heard a sharp gasp from downstairs.

I ran down to the living room as fast as I could without using superspeed. Mom sat on the couch, staring at the television with her hands pressed over her mouth. "Oh, honey, it's awful."

On the screen, police surrounded the crumbling bricks of The Wall. Two officers carried a body bag down a stepladder. Someone had written 'Missing Your Poor?' on The Wall in gooey red paint.

 The visuals cut back to Chad Cornsworthy, Bayton's Channel Nine at Nine evening news anchor. You could hardly tell under all his Botox, but he might have been trying to frown. "The Centurions have not yet issued a statement saying which supervillain was responsible . . ."

"Skeletons," Mom croaked. "Someone left seven human skeletons on top of The Wall!"

My heart dropped. "Are you kidding me?"

She shook her head. "I just got a call from an detective in the Psi-Crime Division. He knows we work with the shelters. He wanted to know if any of their regulars had gone missing. I told them about Goldie and they asked if I knew how to . . . get her dental records!" Her voice wavered. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

I stepped backwards. I'd never seen my mom cry. Not even during the divorce. "It's going to be okay. Really."

"Gloria, there's a man out there who's stripping the flesh off people's bones!"

The screen displayed a grainy phone photo of Peregrine standing next to a police officer atop the West Street overpass. So that's what stopped traffic. She'd told me it was vandalism. Technically, she'd been right. But what had these Centurions gone through, that they could joke about something like this? Seven dead bodies, probably homeless people . . .

Trial eight of eight. Harpy had tested out his weapon on other people before me. I'd been saved by a freak accident. The other seven hadn't. That could have been me.

For a second, I couldn't breath.

"Gloria?" Mom said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm going to bed." I turned and fled to the safety of my room.

Hours passed before I finally fell asleep.