Devious Origins

CHAPTER 2

She seemed to consider my question as we made our way outside to the sidewalk.

"What sort of superhero would I be if I immediately let you in on my secret identity?" she playfully answered.

"OK, so what is your hero name then?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" I responded, "How can you be a superhero and not know your own hero name?"

"Haven't you ever read any comic books?" she asked in mock incredulity, "The hero never comes up with their own name. It is always someone else. Someone they rescued. A reporter. Someone like that. The hero has to earn a name. Society bestows it on them."

"So you haven't earned yours yet?"

"Not yet I guess. But that's OK. It isn't about making a name for yourself. It's not about getting recognition. It has to be all about the mission, or you are not a true hero." She seemed to be totally sincere. "So here we are."

We had arrived at a classic yellow Vespa scooter parked only a block from the court house. My companion plucked a shiny black helmet from the seat. It was small, form fitting, and lacked any sort of eye protection.

"Here, wear this," she said as she handed it to me.

"Shouldn't you wear it?" I answered.

"What sort of hero would I be if I let my passenger go unprotected," she insisted, "Don't worry, I'll keep the stunt driving to a minimum." She then proceeded to take a pair of tennis shoes and a set of aviator goggles out the storage compartment of the Vespa. She changed shoes, put on the goggles, and climbed on the scooter. "Well don't just stand there, get on."

I climbed on and cautiously put my hands on her waist to steady myself.

"Don't be shy," she insisted, "make sure you've got a good grip. I don't want to be scooping you off the pavement." I put my arms around her and laced my fingers together. Suddenly the Vespa roared to life and nearly shot out from under us. We rocketed into traffic, flew down the street, then screeched to a stop at a red light.

"I didn't realize these could go that fast," I commented once the motor had quieted to a idling purr. Somehow I managed to keep the edge of hysteria out of my voice.

"They don't normally," she answered, "I've been doing a bit of tinkering on him."

This got the engineering student in me rather curious, and I was about to ask what sort of modifications she had made, but then the light changed. I was reduced to silence and hanging on for dear life as we again careened down the road. I survived several more minutes of that before we finally screeched to a stop at our destination.

She hopped off the scooter, pulled down the goggles and let them dangle around her neck. I took off the helmet and set it on the seat. She was already walking up to the door of the enormous brick building we had parked in front of. I hurried to catch up.

"So this is it, Barry," she stated, "This is what it was all about."

I took a good look at the building. It appeared to be abandoned. The main door was chained shut. Many of the windows were boarded up. A faded sign over the door declared it to be Chamberlain Textiles, The Home of American Quality. Given the building's dilapidated state, that was not lacking in irony.

"An abandoned factory?"

"My secret lair," she countered, "Every hero needs one. You want to look inside?"