The Good Fight 2: Villains Page 15

  “Skystep.”

  I’m just thinking about him and now I’m imagining his voice, huh? “Skye,” I hear him say again. Slowly I turn, seeing a muscular Hispanic man standing behind me. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “America’s Son” across the chest.

  “I could have sworn America’s Son was a blonde,” I say, tapping my chin. He just looks at me with that “I see what you did there” expression. “I’m just grocery shopping!” I say, raising both my hands in the air. “I’m not here to break the law this time!”

  Okay, there might have been a few little incidents at various grocery stores—a few slight misunderstandings. I’m not perfect—and I swear that the checkout lady started that last one. “Don’t you have more important things to do, Volty?” I ask, grabbing my cart again and starting down an aisle. Just as I expected, he follows me. He’s such an annoying goody-two-boots. “Oh, look, Valentines candy is still on sale!” I wheel away from him to go raid the aisle, barely hearing him as he calls someone.

  “She’s just grocery shopping,” he says. “She will behave herself, I am sure.”

  And he’s gone, leaving me to peacefully continue my shopping spree.

  Wait, why did I come again? Oh, hey, there’s one of those game stations! I look at the ten year old playing and grin. No competition.

  * * *

  Century leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on his desk and rubbing his temple. Skystep going anywhere is a pain in the neck—it’s easier now, of course, since he “accidentally” dropped a credit card last fight. She isn’t nearly as apt to just walk out of the place with her loot this way. He’s positive she takes joy out of the fact he’s “unwittingly” buying all her stuff. Thankfully she’s too ditzy to realize just how much she could get away with spending. As it is, he’s paying less this way than he would if she were on the official South Branch Hall docket. That actually worries him a little when he thinks of it. Is the girl even eating?

  Wait, now’s not the time.

  He looks at the male standing in front of his desk, an even bigger headache threatening to emerge. “So you’d like to join the South Hall,” he says. “Is there a reason you came to my alter-ego’s business to ask me about it? This place has nothing to do with the Hall,” other than that silent “I know who you are” threat. He’s sure the boy is gloating over the fact he knows Century’s secret identity. The boy—who looks about sixteen—is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. It’s a wonder that he even managed to make it into Century’s office. The security at Texan Son Oil is usually good enough to catch things like this.

  “Because I’m going to show you that I’m ready,” the boy says. “You were just talking about Skystep, right? I’ll take her out and prove it.”

  “Now just wait one moment, son,” Century says, trying to hide his reaction to that cockiness, “at least tell me your name and powers—we don’t want to start anything with Skystep—”

  “So you ARE scared of her!” he says, “That’s pathetic! An entire Hall afraid of a single girl—”

  Century groans, running a hand over his face as he tries to keep from yelling at the boy. “You don’t seem to understand, son—”

  “I am NOT your son! I’m Treble Clef!”

  “Trouble Clef,” Century says.

  “TRE-ble,” Treble repeats, “I’m music powered.” Century just stares at him. There’s a long enough pause for Treble to look a little awkward before he shoves his old-fashioned boom box forward. “I get my power from this,” Treble says.

  “And you think you can take out Skystep?” Century asks blankly.

  “Tell me where she is and I’ll prove it!”

  He’s sending the kid to his own butt-kicking, Century thinks. “She should be getting out of Wal-Mart on 75th Street soon,” he says with an inward sigh. “Let me make a few calls and get everything arranged.”

  Well, if the boy survives, he might send him up to Central. They seem to do well with little upstarts like him.

  * * *

  I don’t like any of these milk dates. I’ve been looking through them for several minutes and none of them are good—it should last a month, at least, right? Growing irritated, I step through the milk and shelves to see if they have more milk in the area behind the shelves. The old man working there screams and falls back, grasping his chest as if he’s about to have a heart attack. “Do you have ANY fresh milk?” I demand, completely ignoring his shock.

  He shakily picks up a gallon and holds it out to me. “Thanks,” I say as I take it, phasing both the milk and myself back through the shelves. I put the milk in my cart, along with a ton of candy, some new shirts, new pants, a new pair of PJs, a huge pile of frozen dinners, three boxes of cereal (the stuff with extra sugar and colors not known in nature!) and new underwear in bright neon colors! I’m pretty sure the bra glows in the dark—AWESOME! The best part is that Century is buying it all! I’m practically floating as I head for the checkout line—and then I actually see the lines. “Why are these lines SO FREAKING LONG?” I yell.

  A woman races forward, waving at me. “I’m open over here!”

  “Goody!” I say, starting for her checkout line. Someone steps in front of me. I stare at the back of their head, wondering if cutting a super villain in line is justifiable cause for dismemberment.

  “Sir—I don’t—” the cashier says, looking at me with a worried expression.

  “Don’t what?” he asks, putting his handful of things down.

  “That—that’s—” she whimpers.

  “Skye.”

  I look up and see Voltdrain standing in front of the checkout counter, looking straight at me. I guess I can’t maim a guy for cutting in line when a super hero is watching, huh? Oh well. “I didn’t do anything!” I say. What is he, my babysitter? “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

  “I was getting lunch,” he says as he holds up a Subway sandwich. “Do you want some? There is one for you, as well.”

  “Gimme!” I say, phasing straight through the despicable line-cutter and grabbing the bag he holds up. I hear a crash and turn just in time to see the norm faint into my cart. “You had better not have crushed my eggs!” I tell him as the cart wheels back and he lands on the floor. I’m getting more irritated by the minute—at least I am until Volt hands me a Pepsi.

  “You are checking out now, no?” he prompts as I start to eat my sandwich.

  “Oh, right,” I say, putting the food in the cart and moving the unconscious guy out of my way. “Here, you can have him,” I say as I hand him to Volt and start unloading my cart. He very discreetly (not really, we’ve got a TON of onlookers,) puts the man on a bench up front. I check out.

  The lady looks at the credit card, looks at me, and goes, “Can I—can I see some identification?”

  “I—” I start out, digging through my pockets. I’m so busted. With a mix of triumph and worry, I pull out my SVID—Super Villain Identification card. She looks at it, looks at me, and runs the card. Score! Wait, why did that work?

  “I am here to inform you that you have a job outside,” Volt says as I wheel my fully loaded cart past him.

  “It’s my day off! Wait, is it you?” I ask. It would explain why he’s been following me around! Besides, it should be fun!

  “No,” he says, “it is a teenager that claims to have music enhancement powers. Do not kill him, please.” He stops at a small black bag sitting next to the bench he’d put the norm on. “I have brought you a uniform,” he says, handing me the bag.

  “Really, I’m a super villain,” I tell him irritably, “I don’t need a super hero taking care of me!” But I grab the bag and head into the bathroom, regardless. I head into a stall and pull out the uniform, looking at it blankly for a moment. They made a new one. It’s the weirdest thing, you know? I keep finding uniforms just lying around, usually RIGHT after I tear the last one! I think I have a stalker.

  There, I’m ready! I step out of the stall and look at myself in the mirror, ad
justing my mask and pulling my top down—there’s got to be a bit of cleavage for these things, you know? Bad girls need to look sexy! It’s in the rule book. I step out of the bathroom, seeing Volt sitting there patiently. My stuff is gone. “What did you do with my groceries?” I ask him. “Did you steal them? I had a month’s worth of frozen dinners!”

  “I sent them to your home,” he says. “It is unprofessional to have a super villain worrying over her eggs getting broken.”

  “Well whoever took them had better not robbed me! I don’t trust those black suits of yours—they’re shifty.”

  He sighs and just stands, following me as I make my way out the automatic door. There’s really loud music playing outside. There’s a large area that’s been cleared of people and cars. The norms are watching from a distance with their fingers in their ears. A teenage boy is standing in the middle of the clearing, his boom box at his feet. He looks like one of those cheesy anime fighting guys, wearing ragged jeans and a vest. His fists are wrapped in white bandages and there’s a mask tied (yes, TIED, that is so eighties!) around his head. It sort of reminds me of that turtle cartoon from when I was a kid.

  “SKYSTEP!” he yells over his music, pointing at me, “You’re going DOWN!”

  “I am?” I ask. I look over at Volt, who’s doing his best to look like a norm bystander. He shrugs in silent response to my question. “Well, okay!” I sink through the ground and then head back up, right in front of the teenager. “Hiiii,” I say with a huge grin. I watch in surprise as he flips over onto his hands, kicking out at me in a dramatic fashion. I jump back—more to go along with the drama than anything else.

  “I am Treble Clef!” he declares as he hops back to his feet, bringing his fists up. “I’m here to take you down!”

  “What is this obsession with ‘down’ anyway?” I ask, jumping into the air and floating there as I watch him. He jumps, tackling me to the ground—or trying to, at least. Instead he just goes straight through me as I go intangible, almost falling on his face. I float down, looking at him curiously. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Why aren’t you taking me seriously?” he demands, growling at me.

  “You interrupted my shopping day,” I tell him, smacking him lightly upside the back of the head. “I only go shopping twice a month, you know—it’s a big deal!”

  “You’re a super villain! Super villains don’t go shopping!”

  “Sure we do!” I flip in the air and kick him in the face with my brand new tennis shoes. Yes, the uniform came with boots. I like the tennis shoes better! He falls back, grabbing his nose. “Listen, kid,” I say, landing on the ground with my hands on my hips, “you don’t have a chance against me. Why are you even here? I have groceries to put up!”

  “I want to—” he says, his voice muffled from the broken nose, “join South Hall.”

  “As a super?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you got a problem with that?” It sounds more like “Aah, ooo godda probrem wid dat?” but I’m ignoring that fact—I speak excellent broken nose.

  “If you’re going to join a Hall, there’s one important fact,” I tell him, jumping into the air and flipping. The heel of my new tennis shoe slams into the back of his head, sending him face first into the concrete. I stand over him with my hands on my hips, “you can’t try to fight a super villain until they’re actually committing a crime!” I look at my shoes, pouting. “Now there’s blood on my new tennis shoes,” I complain as he groans and pushes himself up slowly.

  “You’re . . . a known super villain,” he says, his hand shooting out and grabbing my ankle, “if I beat you, I’ll be known.”

  “But you can’t beat me,” I tell him bluntly. “Wasn’t music supposed to make you tougher or something? I can’t tell the difference.”

  He shoves himself to his feet, kicking and punching wildly—which makes it far too easy to avoid. “I’m going to beat you!” he snarls, punching at me. His fist goes straight through my chest.

  “Don’t you know what I am?” I ask him. “I can phase through anything—that means physical attacks don’t do anything to me—especially when they’re slow and obvious. Do some research before picking who to fight, okay?”

  I hop back, bored with this game already. “Maybe you’re tougher than a norm thanks to the music, but you’re not on my level,” I tell him, stepping into the air and patting him on the head. “Come back when you learn a new trick, okay?”

  I hear Voltdrain groan as I race away. I don’t care. I didn’t do anything that would get me in trouble—but Century absolutely DID. If Volt knew to warm me, someone set this all up, right? I stop mid-air and turn, heading for Texan Son Oil. Century has some explaining to do!

  * * *

  “Really, gentlemen, as fascinating as your ‘offer’ is—” Century starts out, looking at the three men standing in front of him, “I’m not interested. Now I really need to get back to work—”

  He should have told his receptionist not to let anyone in, he realizes as he sees a foot sink through the ceiling behind their heads. He’s positive he ordered special boots for Skye’s new uniform—ones that look professional, so why is she wearing neon pink and blue tennis shoes? Well, really, he rebukes himself, why wouldn’t she be? This is Skystep, after all.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve changed my mind,” Century says, standing up and walking around the desk, “I do want to talk to you about your ‘long-term investment’, after all.” He places a hand on their shoulders, one by one, and stops their time. They look like statues, he thinks with amusement as he turns to face the super villain that’s in the middle of—

  Wait, what IS she doing? He just stares at her blankly.

  * * *

  “What? Volt bought it but I didn’t have enough time to finish,” I say, munching on my chips. I’ve stolen his massive leather office chair and spread my food out on the desk while he was busy doing illegal things to norms. Did I mention he was the head of the South Branch Hall? “You, mister, are in biiiiig trouble!” He looks sort of cute in a cowboy hat and suit. Sure he’s an old guy, but I have got to say, he definitely doesn’t look it! Thanks to his time abilities, he still looks like he’s thirty. And that look of confusion on his face—its selfie-worthy. I really need to get a phone. “What do you think you’re doing, interrupting my shopping trip?” I demand, waving a finger—okay, two fingers and a chip—at him.

  “I notice it didn’t take you long to deal with him,” Century says. “How good was he? Was he worth sending up to Cape High?”

  “Do you really think I can tell?” I ask, finishing off my sandwich and taking a long gulp of Pepsi. “He swings wildly and plays heavy music—neither of which do much for me, you know? He didn’t die, if that’s what you’re wondering. But I was shopping! You’d better be certain those black suit guys didn’t rip off all of my new stuff!”

  “My people are extremely trust-worthy, your things will be fine,” he says, letting out a sigh, “but I will admit to sending the boy—you were just going to Wal-Mart, Skye, it’s not that big of a deal.”

  “It’s a big enough reason to defeat you!” I declare, hopping onto his desk—ewww, I stepped in my trash. That was NOT well thought out. I pick up my shoe and look at the sole to make sure nothing got on it. It’s bad enough I got blood on them, earlier!

  “Again?” he asks, looking far too bored for my tastes.

  “AGAIN!” I declare dramatically, hopping off the desk and rushing for him—only to be stopped as he barely touches my hand. I can’t move. He did that stupid time stop thing again! Now he’s just casually walking around me. I hear a button being pushed and him say, “Irene, make sure I don’t get any calls or visitors for—oh, let’s say half an hour, okay?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Benton.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and I hear another click. “Now Skye, honey,” he says, coming back to me and standing right in front of me, “you know better than to attack me in my place of business.” He places both hands on my shoulders a
nd time snaps back into place. “Why don’t we put this off until tonight?”

  “No you don’t! You ruined my shopping trip with that kid!” I say, shoving his hands off and giving him my darkest glare. “I had groceries to put up! And I still need to go bully the water company into turning my water back on! And don’t call me honey!”

  “They turned your water off?” he asks. “I’ll make a few calls—”

  “I AM A SUPER VILLAIN!” I bellow at the top of my lungs. “I DO NOT ACCEPT HELP FROM HEROES!”

  He stares at me. “You took the sandwich from Volt,” he points out, when I just keep glaring.

  “That was different! He—he forced it on me! That’s right!”

  “Sure didn’t look like he was forcing you to eat,” he drawls, just raising one eyebrow at me. “Look, Skye, I know I took a few moments of your day—I should have called you first. Oh wait, I can’t, because you don’t have a phone.”

  He sounds vaguely irritated by that fact, doesn’t he? “What do I need a phone for?” I ask. “I don’t need to talk to people! I’m a super villain!”

  He lets out a sigh, running a hand over his face. I get that reaction a lot, actually. “Go home, Skye,” he says, “go home and look at the book the suits left there—we’re getting you a new base.”

  “HA!” I proclaim, “LIKE I BELIEVE THAT! You’re just luring me into moving into the Cape Cells!” It’d be the ultimate bait and switch—they’d lead me into a fancy room and then lock the door!

  Someone knocks on the door. “Mr. Benton? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Irene,” he says—only to groan as the door bursts open and a rather black and blue Treble storms in.