Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 11: Deals With Supers Are Worse Than Deals With The Devil

Color drains from my knuckles. When I'm able to form words, I whisper, "Cat's stalking me. Keeping from her will-"

"--be easier said than done," Galaxy finishes, "so shut up and I'll explain."

I nod, my throat dry from heat and dust. She stands, padding towards a bookcase. My eyes sting from the glow of her armor. There's something mesmerizing about Galaxy; if Amazonian princesses exist, I'm sure she's one of them.

Now, don't peg me wrong. I'm not attracted-not in the way I am to Jaylin-but I can't stop watching the hero. She's, like, a ballerina. A wolfy one that trades pirouettes for roundhouses.

Dang it! I sound like poetry! First Avril Lavigne, then Twilight, and now poetry. I'm losing my originality!

"Fibbs," Gal says, "stop staring."

How in the McDonald's filled world--!

"I'm not," I say, face burning the color of Christmas lights. My hands shake. How...how...stupid shakes!

"I can tell, kid. Everyone knows when someone's watching them," she says with a shrug. I will my cheeks to fade their normal shade of too-tan-for-spring and my hands to steady. Neither of that happens.

The hero spins to face me, clutching a tiny, red box in her palm. Its sheen is almost magical. God, she lives in a dust-mite breeding ground! Why is her stuff so shiny? And...I'm jealous!

"You got the shakes, huh? I heard those were common in energy wielders," Galaxy says, a calculating glint behind her visor. Energy wielder? That sounds...cool. Jedi-like.

Wait. I conduct energy, see variations of the future, strengthen powers and even absorb them. Holy spit! Useful powers! Someone call the police!

Galaxy resumes her sit, stroking the chest as if it contains a lock of Bruce Lee's hair. "Pay attention. No spazzing out on me, okay?"

I nod in return, a sinking feeling in my gut. She seems so serious. She flips the box open with a hurried flourish, a glassy black stone grasped in her fingers. "See this?"

I twist my sleeve. "What--"

"Obsidian." She clears her throat, effectively ignoring me. "A lot of healing stones warp the way your powers work. Some strengthen them, others--"

"Kryptonite?"

She crosses her arms, an expression of 'Shut-Up-or-I'll-Bean-You-to-Death-with-a-Fork' flicking over her shielded face. "Stop cutting people off. Bad habit."

I roll my eyes. "Like you can speak about 'bad habits.' Frankly, the education system isn't fond of you settling disputes with violence."

"Don't backtalk me, Mr. Fibbs," she says, "I don't appreciate your sass."

"My sass?" I say, the glimmer of irony snapping me from all the gloom. "You threatened to tattoo your name on someone's face!"

"Hey!" She crosses her muscled arms. "Heroes are entitled to a little sass when talking to villains."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. "Says who?"

"Says every comic book ever! Don't make me bring Stan Lee up in this joint."

"Whatever," I grin, heart-a-flutter. "Miss Sassafras."

Galaxy stiffens as if I've smacked her. "Don't give me a pet name," she says, "or at least one as terrible as that. You do and I'll--"

"You'll what?" My smile morphs into a smirk. As scary as the super is when she's angry, I'm not motivated an iota to stop tormenting her.

She raises a fist, grinding her boot into the tile. "I'll punch you."