Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Twenty-Two: Power-Harvested

Song Selection: Jolt—Unlike Pluto

???:"You look like shit!"

Max: "Dude, can't you see I'm working on something. Go, I don't know, get yourself something nice."

???: "Uh-huh. Hey guys, this dude's a dork."

Max: Okay okay, Dad. Are you leaving yet?"

???: "I dunno, does it look like it?"

Max: "Bye."

???: "Dork."

Max: Uhhm. Um. Well hello there, people. You may be asking yourself, who's this guy, and the answer is, I can't tell you, which is pretty cool if you ask me, heh-heh. Uhhhh....no, I'm not just some random guy, I'm that guy on the receiving end of your superhero's violence. Yes, you might think it was only a punch, but it's more than that, okay? I was being silenced, and that's just, that's just no bueno. And think about it, would your hero feel like she'd need to do that if she had nothing to hide? I hate to say it like it is, but supers are freaks of nature, anyone can see that. And sure, we prize freedom and tolerance and all that pretty stuff, but you know what? I prize my freedom to be able to talk to you guys without the possibility of being hurt or harassed. If any super has the power to silence or kill you, it doesn't matter whether they use it. They could, and no one should have that power. We didn't elect supers. We didn't choose them to have that much power over other people, and we didn't train them. They are freaks, I mean, sorry to tell it like it is. But they're freaks and they need to be brought to heel. 

"Hey, honey." Gatsby steeples his fingers, his alabaster face illuminated in the blue glow of the grainy footage. "I think we're kind of fucked here."

Galaxy, Heaven Brooks, sighs and puts her hands on his shoulders. She's not messaging him, not exactly, she's just holding him, and occasionally gripping and un-gripping the soft skin and malleable muscle as if he were her personal stress ball. 

She's staring at the screen, at that stupid boy. She hadn't meant to punch him, not really. But when she saw his hands on Angel's throat, she couldn't help it. This boy wanted her and her friends destroyed. Why didn't other people see that? Yeah, Voltaire and all, but this can't be what Voltaire meant. Standing there and listening to someone advocate for the destruction of her friends, her people, and just, just do nothing?

Angel rubs the back of his neck. "You didn't need to do that, protect me like that. I'm sorry that I got you into that situation."

"No, no." Truth was, she'd been 'mingling' that night with the other party-goers. She'd been trying the vodka and listening to them talk about supers. And it wasn't good. Judge, jury, and executioner, they'd said. Unelected, unchosen. All her life, she'd been surrounded by fans, people who saw her as a bastion of justice. She had powers. She could stop criminals, she could save people. So what if no one explicitly told her to become a superhero? She couldn't sleep at night if she didn't use her powers for good. She couldn't just let people die. "What was I supposed to do? Let him choke you?"

Angel blinks at her, his black eye clear and trusting, the purple one misty. "I mean, yeah. Those kinds of people are waiting for you to slip up. Sometimes, you can't do what you think is right in the moment, you know? Because they'll use it to hurt you later."

Galaxy's heart clenches. He's the son of a supervillain, and ever since black wings twisted out of his skinny back and one of his eyes began to glow purple, he's had to adjust. This is what he's had to adjust to. Proving he's not a bad guy by not even fighting back when anyone else could.

"That can't be how it is. We can't live like that."

Angel shrugs and gives her a pat on the back. "It is what it is, Hev'. Thanks for protecting me, though. What can I cook for you? Steak? A bone soup?"