Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 4: Sword Fights and Superspeed

It's morning. My hands shake and I can't tell if it's from trauma or a killer lack of sleep, so I sigh and fumble with my comb. In my boxy little mirror, my eyes are baggy, my hair's a mess, and all and all I look like a victim of an atomic blast. "Pull yourself together, Fibbs," I say, dragging the comb through my tangled mane. My shoulders throb, a shooting pain pulsing through them like a miserable heartbeat. "You'll be fine―"

"En garde!" Gats bursts into my room like a human explosion. My heart leaps out of my chest, my eyes scanning every corner of my hospital-white room. I half expect last night's villain to materialize and choke me. Gats throws his head back and cackles like a maniac, and then he stops between the 'mua' and the 'ha,' jerking his head around like he just woke up strapped to a gurney in an underground lair. "Jeez, Angel, paint a wall."

To be frank, my room is so white it gives the White House a run for its money. White, sharp furniture and white, square sheets, every wall empty of posters and stickers and whatever else it is normal, teenage boys use to decorate their normal, teenage boy rooms.

Heaven and Gats have always hated it. They say it's "creepy" I spend so much time in a creative void. I don't disagree, but at least it's clean, unlike Heaven's room. Thoughts of the clothing-padded floor gives me shivers even now.

"Get out!" I chuck my comb at Gats' face. He dodges it, laughing like the supervillain I'm sure he is. Despite my blaze of protests, he swings onto my bed, wielding two rolls of wrapping paper like swords. Bah, ambidextrous punk!

"It's a fight to the death!" he announces, tossing me a weapon stamped with Santa Clauses. The wrapping paper roll smacks into my shoulders and lands at my feet with a 'thunk.' I glare. My smoothed bed transforms into a tangle of white sheets and I almost pull out a dresser drawer to throw at him. Of course, Gats would make extra work for me, because that's just what I need.

"This is stupid."

"You're scared," Gats says with the dumb smirk that never leaves his face. He catapults in front of me, eyes flashing dumbly, and slaps my forearm hard with the roll. It doesn't even sting, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm thinking about the villain from last night. And somewhere else in the back of my mind, I wonder how Gats can play around with me now when just last night he subjected me to the worse experiences of my short life. But I don't dwell on it too much. That's what Gats does; he torments me and I torment him. Isn't friendship beautiful?

Each time Gats hits my arm with the wrapping paper roll he adds a sound effect. SLICE! CHOP! WOOSH! He's like a one-man Kung Fu movie, and I groan an old dude groan. It's too early for this.

"Oh, I'm scared." I let the sarcasm drip, a hand on my hip. He's so little, I practically tower over him. I mean, I tower over everyone, but especially Gats. "I'm scared of what, Gats? Of getting impaled by wrapping paper?" He opens his mouth, but I keep talking, never giving him a chance to speak. "I'm tired, I don't feel like it, and—hate to shatter your delusion, bro—that's not a thing." My body craves caffeine the way a Sith craves the Dark Side, so I toss my hair over my shoulder, flash him a winning smile, and stalk out the door.

"Oh!" He follows me as I weave into the living room and I sigh. Sometimes, Gats reminds me of a puppy. An ego-driven, sadistic puppy out for "the normal teenage experience" and blood. "So you can't fight. You prefer having other people rescue you. Like―"

"That isn't true." I whip around, my voice something of a growl as I glower down at him. I decide he looks ridiculous. Blazer, tie, rolled up cuffs and platinum hair swept neatly to the side. He looks so perfect, when I see him I can only think of a doll that somehow escaped its box. "I don't need supers to rescue me! I can take care of myself fine!