Twenty Seven
“What happened?” Fox speaks first, because I can’t.
Arielle holds my phone. “I borrowed this to check if Dad called, but Madeline got a voicemail from Phil. Dad’s on it. If we don’t turn ourselves in, Dad’s…”
My knees buckle. It hurts the most because we saw this coming.
What happened after Brynn checked on him last night?
I should have asked Dark Static or Golden Ace to watch out for my dad, but I didn’t.
I was caught up in the thrill of using my powers and secrets and boys, and my dad might die because of it.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
“Get her some water,” Arielle shouts to Fox. In the seconds he’s gone, Arielle wraps me in a hug.
“We have one day,” she whispers, “to come up with a plan and practice your powers. Got it?”
I nod. “I need to find Dark Static.”
Fox rushes back, carrying a full bottle of water, which apparently his basement refrigerator doesn’t stock. I gulp it down. It almost doesn’t settle me, evaporating as soon as I swallow it, but a few drops stick in my system, and I can think again.
I take Arielle’s hand. “Let’s go.”
~
The best way to find Dark Static is to put myself in danger, which is a plan that should come with a “don’t try this at home” label. The best way to put myself in danger? Leave the house.
Arielle is covering for me. While she distracts the Levines—plus Damian—with embarrassing stories about me as a child, I squeeze out the basement window, landing in the yard.
I duck and sprint to the front lawn. To anyone watching, I might look like a turkey trying out for the track team.
For that reason and several others, hopefully no one is.
Three … Two… One.
Nothing. D.S. doesn’t show up.
Uh oh. Chilly November air pelts my skin. Darn, I should have brought a —
“Jacket?” Dark Static’s teasing tone interrupts me. He waits about five feet away, holding a sleek navy windbreaker that I’ve never seen before. Is it his? I accept the jacket—perfect fit. Where did he get this? Does he have a family he borrows clothes from?
In the middle of the afternoon, he’s still dressed in bulletproof black spandex and seems considerably less threatening. Not that I dare underestimate his royal static-ness.
“Why the hell did you wreck all the food?” I yell in a whisper.
“I didn’t.” He holds up his hands where I can see them. “I moved it and then burned the warehouses. Phil wants everyone to think food is scarce, but I would never destroy it.”
I’m not sure if I believe him, but I don’t have a choice.
“I need to go somewhere that’s not Fox’s house or out in the open.”
D.S. hesitates. “Won’t the Levines notice you’re gone?”
“Arielle’s covering for me.” I have total faith in her—I’ve heard Arielle make small talk about hail for an entire afternoon. And if she ran out of embarrassing stories about me, she would never hesitate to make some up.
“Alrighty, I have just the place.” D.S. puts on his gloves, their wispy edges fading into the daylight. Almost as an afterthought, he asks, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“What do you mean? We can’t portal?”
“Not to where we’re going,” he says. “And flying is way more fun.”
I study the cloudless sky. “Isn’t that a little, I don’t know, visible to whoever looks up?”
“No one looks up anymore, Roberts. Everyone’s occupied with staring at a screen or something. You’ll see. Any chance you have your own flight abilities, or will you require a piggyback ride?”
“Not about to test that out without a parachute.”
“Smart.” He turns his back to me. “So, this is incredibly dangerous and there’s a high probability we’ll both die.”
“Hold on tight. Got it.”
He chuckles and I roll my eyes. It’s frustrating that Dark Static and Golden Ace can both fly, but I can’t—as far as I know.
In comic books like the X-Men series, the Avengers, and the Justice League, male Supers usually get more physical-type powers: strength, speed, spiderwebs, etc.
The women get more mental-type powers: telepathy, shielding, or hexes.
They’re sexist stereotypes. For the real-life Supers in Capital City, it’s hard to know if “typical” exists, because so little is known about their identities.
Mostly, I’m annoyed that Dark Static can do something I can’t.
I hold my breath, swallow my nerves and my pride, and climb on Dark Static’s back, forcing myself to pretend this is normal. With tremendous energy, he pushes off the ground and I jolt forward. “Hold on tight” was an understatement. I cling to him like my life depends on it.
Sometimes when I swim in the deep end of the pool, I watch the markers on the bottom. From 4.5 meters above them, I imagine it’s what flying is like, looking down as I soar over everything.
It’s not.
I love swimming.
Flying is the worst.
D.S. reaches skyscraper-altitude, and the air screams at us from every direction.
The pounding in my ears could be D.S. breaking the sound barrier or my heart going ballistic.
He flies so fast the freezing air stings my cheeks and makes it hard to breathe.
The elements must be part of why he wears such a huge mask.
He probably rigged it to break the wind and cold.
Dark Static sails above the clouds, and I clamp my eyes shut for the ride.
I’m not normally afraid of heights, but this isn’t Space Monster, Kristen’s favorite rollercoaster, on the last day of school.
This is “please keep your seat belts buckled until the pilot turns off the seat belt sign.” Don’t panic, I tell myself. You might pass out and fall and die.
Without warning, Dark Static touches down on something flat—the roof of a skyscraper.
My feet land on solid concrete, and I sway, unbalanced.
Bugs stick to my hair and forehead, and my lungs feel like they were vacuumed, but what catches me the most off guard is that D.S. ’s secret hideout isn’t hidden.
We’re somewhere in the middle of Capital City, surrounded by towers. I almost peek over the edge, but decide not to risk it. Who knows where Phil might be spying?
“Where are we?” I ask. Dark Static leads me to a trapdoor on the roof. It whirs open, showing a scanner that he presses his watch against. A second later, the trapdoor shifts to reveal a long ladder. Cool.
“Golden Ace’s training facility,” D.S. explains. “He lets me use it.”
Holy Aces.
After all this time wondering where Golden Ace’s hideout is, I’m finally here.
I’d never have guessed that Dark Static would be the person to show me.
We clamber down the obnoxiously long ladder, then reach a platform wide enough for a concert band.
A small screen is attached to the wall with additional security measures: passcode, fingerprint scanner, and voice recognition.
D.S. submits his code, and the floor whirs. We’re descending the skyscraper.
This is more like it.
“Portalling sets off the alarms,” D.S. explains. “You don’t want to see what happens then. Very medieval. Lots of spikes.”
When the platform halts, a vast chamber that must occupy six floors of the tower appears.
Dark Static claps and long rows of lights flicker on.
Prototypes for everything he might need hang in neat rows: night vision sunglasses, bulletproof boots, utility knife gloves, and so much more.
The place is one giant room with computers, weight machines, and work benches with microscopes.
There are no windows, and off in the end of the room, a massive tank lowers into the floor.
Apparently, D.S. and/or Golden Ace pays attention in science class, which rules out every guy I know.
“Has Phil seen this place?” I ask. Deep pockets clearly funded it.
“No, Golden Ace just has loaded sponsors. Phil’s goons followed me here once, but they unfortunately, somehow—such a shame—got stinging liquid in their eyes and wound up in the hospital.” He shrugs. “They got their eyesight back, but Bridges hasn’t tried to find me since.
If D.S. were ever going to kill me, this would be the time and the place. But… he just had the opportunity to let me fall tragically to my death and didn’t take it. That’s something. Plus, he showed me his top-secret hiding spot. Maybe he’s not lying about saving the food.
D.S. leans against one of the wooden work benches. “May I inquire as to what you wanted to discuss?”
I take a deep breath, which is difficult since my lungs still feel so tight. “Phil kidnapped my dad. We have 24 hours to save him. Then there’s the food situation and the fact that Phil is trying to take over Capital City.”
D.S. opens a mini fridge under his bench, revealing microscope samples and water bottles, and tosses me a drink. “That guy has one move, huh? Bridges didn’t enlist me to kidnap your dad. Bad for us. Without Wilson, he’ll have a new lead goon. Let’s get Golden Ace over here. To plan and such.”
“No. First, I need help with my powers.”
“Madeline Roberts. Almost ready to save the world. That’s why you need me?”
“I’m not asking again.”
D.S. places two more water bottles on his table. “I’m so glad I can be of service. There’s nothing cooler than superpowers, and I bet yours are exceptional.”
“I just want to control at least one, even a bad one.” Something.
“That’s the difficult thing about powers,” says D.S. His computer beeps as he turns it on, and he clacks away on a keyboard. “To use them, you have to not be afraid of the consequences.”
He opens an extremely color-coded spreadsheet.
“Let’s check for the basics first,” he says, “Flight, super speed, super healing, and endurance. Then the obvious water-related ones: breathing underwater, water weapons, water manipulation, and controlling the weather. We can see if anything interesting pops up from there.”
This is going to be awesome. “How do we test them?”
D.S. mocks a bow. “Right this way, Miss Roberts.”
~