FORGERY . . . THE BOYS ! [1]

three.

. . . 1982 . . .

Brooke hated bars. It was her least favorite thing to patrol, but the most popular thing that she had to. Men fucking sucked. It was always them, too, putting something in a woman's drink or trying to take advantage of her in the back alleys.

Brooke didn't even know why she was here. She wanted a moment to be herself, to disconnect from Rose and to remember how it felt to be Brooke, even though every single person in that room knew who she was the second she lifted her hand to wave or even fucking looked at them. Her powers were a dead giveaway. She never despised them. Never. Pink was her favorite color. This was a blessing for her.

But normalcy was a blessing, too, apparently. One that she took for granted and gambled away.

She had a margarita that she didn't even drink. You get a little stir crazy about things when it's your job to monitor them. Even though her eyes haven't left it and she watched the man make it, she is afraid a speedster could have slipped something in it without her knowing. Were there any speedsters in Malibu? It was a risk she was afraid of taking. Who was there to save her if she was choosing to be off the clock right now?

"I'd hate to be that drink there with how you're glaring at it," a masculine voice said from behind her, completely too close for her liking. She looked behind her with that same glare only to find emptiness. An invisible hero? Fingers tapped the wooden bar counter in front of her and she looked to her left, seeing–

America's Son himself.

"Aren't you the prettiest thing in the room?" He asked, his eyes raking over her face. He practically eye fucked her without a bit of consent to it, though what's to be expected of someone idealized as the man of America?

Brooke swirled the little umbrella in her drink around, stirring the settled juice into the alcohol. "I'm sure you want me to ask if that's ever worked."

"A thank you would suffice," he shrugged, propping his elbow up on the counter. "That's usually what they say."

"No," Brooke said, pointing the stick end of the umbrella at him. "What they usually say is, 'does that line ever even work?' and you say something you've already got lined up. The point is to keep me talking."

Soldier Boy leaned closer to her. He was even wearing that stupid mask. No decency to take it off even though they were in public. Forget public, that was fine. They were indoors. It was like wearing a baseball cap inside. "What if I told you, Rose," his mouth wrapped around her name like it was sinful, "that I already have you talking?"

Brooke pretended to think about it. Even put on a little performance at the mention of her hero name. Godolkin's classes had to add up to something, didn't it? "In that case, Soldier Boy," she whispered back, that same low tone that he used, "goodbye."

She shoved the untouched margarita into his hand as she stood up. Soldier Boy may have been wearing his dumb mask but it didn't cover enough of his face for her not to see the flash of surprise cross over his features.

It occurred to her then that this was why she went out that night. For that look. It was all worth it in the end. The fidgeting and the paranoia and unsteadiness despite the fact that she was supposed to be relaxing.

Stepping outside onto the sidewalk, Brooke breathed in the sweet smells of garbage, piss, and the ever-so faint smell of salty oceanwater. She loved her little corner of Malibu. In a moment, she would step closer to the curb to get herself a cab, but firstly, she wanted to breathe it all in for a second. It'd been so long she'd smelt the streets as someone who didn't right after coat them in blood.

"You are a piece of work, you know that?"

Brooke didn't think, just acted. She slammed her open palm into the chest of the person who snuck up on her, registering only after his body flew a few feet back into the brick wall of the bar that the voice belonged to Soldier Boy.

And that he was laughing.

"God!" She exclaimed, holding her hand like it was a loaded gun. "If I'm a piece of work, then you're a piece of shit."

His laughter faded off but it still glittered in his eyes. "You just flung me into a wall and I'm a piece of shit?"

"Sneak up on a girl and she's the piece of shit for acting?"

"Is that what I did?"

Her palms flared. If she wasn't careful, she was going to make a quartz. Then what would she do, hurl it at him? "Do me a favor and go fuck yourself."

"Did you know that usually, people are begging for me to fuck them?" He was on his feet again, walking up to stand next to her. She was not going to tolerate that. She moved to the curb, her thumb stuck out. "Or, let's really make you feel special. Begging for the attention I'm giving you."

"Oh, I'm supposed to feel special that you're harassing me?"

Soldier Boy would not wipe that smile off of his face. She really thought she was going to kill him. Where were the fucking cabs? This was why she had to monitor the streets so heavily, you know. Because cabs never came so people kept trying to hurt other people. Brooke was going to chew the cab driver's head off about it when he finally came.

When he didn't say anything, Brooke snapped her head over to see what the deal was. "What are you so keen on smiling about?"

"I just got you talking. That's all."