Thirty One
Phil Bridges’ evil headquarters is exactly his style: elegant and pretentious. A tower branches off the second floor and overlooks the entire estate, with the door hidden behind a portrait of—get this— Arielle. The door requires two codes just to get through.
How had Arielle lived here for three years and never found this? To his credit, Phil would be paranoid enough to move his secret files regularly. Maybe she never had a chance.
The tower’s furniture is sparse, with only a desk and a skinny ergonomic chair.
A paper-thin laptop lies on the desk, but I doubt Phil would store his files on a hard drive.
While the rest of the mansion is built out of gray and white stones, the tower is made of brick with black-and-white tiles for the floor.
The walls have long windows facing every direction. I run to glimpse the action.
No no no no no.
Materio has successfully nailed Golden Ace in the chest with his gold ball, and Golden Ace lies still on the grass. Mud cakes his yellow spandex, and I can’t tell if he’s conscious.
I search the dusky sky for Dark Static. No no no no.
All the Supers, including Flare, Materio, and Phil, have focused on him, and he flies in a haphazard zigzag that leaves a trail of smoke in its wake.
A hard knot twists in my heart when Flare blasts a fireball at him.
He dodges it just in time, but smoke trails off his costume, blending with the clouds—she must have hit him once already.
Water surges in my veins, ready to boil. I need to protect them.
I open the window to do… something… and point a shaking hand toward the clouds.
I pull on their edges and a light shock ripples into my gloves, which must still have some charge from the vortex.
I focus on one cloud and open it to pour torrential rain on the Supers, which unfortunately includes Dark Static.
Flare cries, “Someone put out that rain. Quickly, I’m losing my powers!”
“Bummer,” I say, steering the raindrops at her.
Flare coughs and sputters, flicking tiny sparks. I doubt that rain is her true weakness, but it could make her fire less effective. As D.S. regains his bearings, she has to dodge his lasers and fly farther away.
Steadier now, I point to Golden Ace and give him all of my concentration, willing my healing power to him.
My pulse roars in my ears and my skin tingles with energy, but Golden Ace doesn’t stir.
My healing power remains non-transferable.
Luckily, Materio and Phil have moved away from him, and the fight now focuses on Dark Static.
With Flare temporarily out of commission, Dark Static has his groove back.
He blasts lasers near the remaining Supers, who, like Materio and me, can’t fly.
Phil watches the commotion, standing his ground.
The other Supers must not have realized that Phil has powers yet.
If they can see his powers, they’d surely see he’s the bad guy after all.
Arielle’s instructions interrupt my thoughts: Quick, quick, Madeline.
Right. D.S. is safe for now, and Phil won’t kill anyone in front of the other Supers. I think.
I allow myself to run back to the desk. The third code from Arielle’s list is for a hidden door in the tower that will reveal the secret storage place Phil uses.
Squares under the desk, she’d written. The tiles are smooth and clean, and the metal desk has an open frame.
I check for a concealed button to press, but there aren’t any compartments or secret openings, so I press the tiles themselves.
Come on, come on.
Seconds later, they click into place. I exhale. A new floor rises from beneath the tiles, presenting a long, silver trunk.
Now we’re in business. A combination dial is on top of the box, bringing me to the next code on Arielle’s list.
I have no idea how much time has passed, and I turn the lock as quickly as I can. The top releases after my first try. Phew.
Phil packed the chest with stacks of precisely placed manila folders. The top folders date September, three years ago, when Capital City elected him.
Here we go. I lift the first folder.
Inside are newspaper clippings about Phil’s campaign, with several lines highlighted in yellow.
Bridges pulls ahead by 50 points.
Bridges captures a crowd of 20,000.
I switch to another folder. This one contains longer articles. In the back, an Opinion Editorial is highlighted, but the quotes don’t glorify Phil .
There’s no denying the power of Bridges’ charisma, but charisma alone is dangerous.
I reach the last article in this folder, headlined, “Super Power.” Bright yellow highlighter smears over almost every line, as if Phil spilled glow-in-the-dark paint over the whole page. I read every word:
In yesterday’s mayoral debate between long-time City Council member Claudia Jane and business-mogul Phil Bridges, Bridges promised the citizens of Capital City “a power that will last.” Bridges pledged to “clean up streets and show justice to those who have wronged.” Phil Bridges wants to convince us that he can do what our Supers do, that his job will serve Capital City in the same way, and that he is committed to and overqualified for this job.
Bridges is dead wrong. Providing justice to Capital City is not about providing a lasting power; justice is providing a lasting peace.
A mayoral candidate should not increase the services that our Supers provide; rather, he should decrease the very need for Supers.
Capital City deserves a mayor who will commit to a future where Supers are no longer needed.
The implications in the article that the mayor would want to stay in power forever are spot on with tonight’s revelations. The journalist had predicted the future. My breath grows heavy as I search for the byline: Meredith Roberts, Capital Chronicle.
It’s dated five days before she died.
An image of Arielle and my mother arguing comes to mind, neither backing down as they debate Phil’s campaign and my mother’s role in free speech. My mom’s job and Arielle’s engagement can’t have been easy for either of them.
I flip the article over and a torn paper falls from the files.
The edges are newly perforated—Phil put it in this folder recently.
I take the paper and recognize it quickly.
It’s my mom, wearing a flannel shirt and posing in front of a lake.
Her arm is around someone who was torn off from the picture: me.
It’s the other half of the photo that Raincoat Guy—Gary—had in his wallet on the night I met Dark Static.
Here is my proof that Phil hired Gary to attack me. Maybe to kill me, or maybe to push me and determine if I have powers. Either way, Phil has been watching me for a long time.
I check who wrote the first few articles that were propaganda for Phil’s campaign. Co-authored by Elaine and Jonathan Levine.
Why did Fox’s parents write propaganda for Phil?
A dark feeling crawls under my skin. Under the newspaper articles lay a pile of discs labeled “tapes.” Jackpot. I grab the most recent one.
Written on Arielle’s set of codes is the password for Phil’s computer. I type it in, but receive a password error message. I try it again extra careful that I’ve typed the right code: 8p%lsH5! but receive the pop-up: password error. 5 attempts remaining.
Crap. My ten minutes must have expired, and Phil’s passwords have changed.
Do I need to hear the CDs? Or can I take as many as I can carry and run with them, without listening?
I peer back at stack, which is about eight CDs tall. If I have to do any more fighting, some of them might break. I could take a maximum of two with me—I need to hear what’s on them.
What would Mom do? Whenever she hit a barrier to accessing information, she would submit an access request to the government, then bake a receptionist some muffins to speed up their bureaucracy.
I don’t have time for that. And I don’t know how to bake muffins.
What would Arielle do? Arielle would use brute force.
Maybe I don’t need the password to play the CD. I could try to fit it into the slot, and it might play automatically. Thanks to Dark Static, I know what I’m looking for. The disc whirls as it slides in, and a voice begins.
Holy Aces. I might get away with this.
Phil begins the tape by nasally acknowledging the date, almost a month ago. Then, another voice talks. “Dark Static is doing well.” It’s the voice of Dr. Milligan, from the tape D.S. had played in my bedroom. “People phone me scared and helpless every day.”
“Arielle suspects nothing,” Phil chimes in, “But Madeline is troubling. There’s no way to prove Arielle faked her test. Arielle wouldn’t lie to me, would she?”
“Well, they can be faked,” says Milligan.
The CD cuts out. The conversation ends there, giving just enough information for Phil to prove Dr. Milligan knows about faking Super tests without implicating himself. These tapes are all he needs for leverage over Capital City’s most influential people.
The CD ejects easily, and I dig through the folders for his first recording. How had this all started?
There.
I insert the CD and Phil confirms the date, three years ago, two weeks before my mother’s death. Phil would have been in the middle of the campaign. This time, the disc recorded a conversation with two other people. “She isn’t buying it,” says Phil’s voice. “You said you’d fix this.”
“We talk to her every day,” a woman on the CD interjects. Her voice hits me like a block of icy betrayal. It’s Elaine Levine, Fox’s mom. “But when Meredith is onto something, she doesn’t quit.”
“Do whatever you need,” says Phil. “You’re her best friend. She trusts you.”
“What happens if she doesn’t listen?” a man asks. Jonathan Levine. “We can’t kill her.”
“If it comes to her or me,” says Phil, “would you honestly choose her?”
I grip the desk for balance. The metal holds sturdy and strong, despite how I want to rip it apart.
Mr. and Mrs. Levine were working for Phil. Actually working for him. Not pretending, like Dark Static. They tried to keep my mom from figuring out the truth: that Phil is a Super.
I remember the autopsy report. My mom was dead before the crash, but the Levines weren’t. I had dismissed the possibility that they’d killed her and the car then hydroplaned, perhaps on purpose; it seemed both impossible and too easy.
Phil could have used his powers on them, I think. It might not be their fault.
We have to take them out.
Fox doesn’t know. This whole time, while he worked against Phil, he thought his parents had too. Arielle couldn’t have known either—she would have told Fox.
An earsplitting scream comes from the grounds and I sprint over to the window. I know that voice. I’ve heard it my whole life.
Arielle splays on the grass, barely sitting up.
A small ring of fire surrounds her and my dad, who lies on his stomach with his legs underneath him.
I crane to see more: Flare and Phil leer over them; Dark Static and Materio are nowhere in sight.
With little wind left from the lightning vortex, the ring of flames seems contained enough that it won’t hurt my family, but tall enough that it will keep them captured.
“Oh no, you don’t.” I lift the window open, forcing its screen as high as it will go.
Dewy humidity spatters the fresh air, spreading like fog over the yard. Perfect.
Phil and Flare, so far, are unaware of my position in the tower. For once, my invisibility is my greatest asset. I need to attack without using the rain clouds, since a little water won’t stop Phil.
Arielle’s garden. Dark Static said irrigation pipes are built under the grass. Maybe…
I don’t have time to think of other options.
My stamina is almost at full strength and imagining the copper pipes below Arielle’s tacky tulips comes easily.
The main issue is that I don’t know how deep the pipes are—not being a sustainable gardening expert like Fox, apparently.
If I underestimate their depth, my plan won’t work. Overestimate, and I could kill someone.
With shaking hands, I point to the grass behind Phil and close my eyes, summoning all my power. Fluid flows under my skin and I let it build until my chest feels like a dam blocking a waterfall. I imagine heat, then steam, until my chest boils. Now for the hard part, containing the destruction.
BOOM.
BOOM.
CRASHHHH.
Like usual, smoke obscures the aftermath of my super-heated explosion and I have to wait for it to clear. Flare’s shrieks ring through the yard, and I quickly pull out a new gel pack so I can be ready for action.
The garden remains a mess of sticks and empty hedges.
Trunks from the trees outlining the garden collapse over flower beds and now-exposed irrigation pipes, except for the willow tree, which is unscathed.
A humongous crater bubbles on one half of the garden, which Phil has fallen into, now lying on his side.
A sharp pipe landed in the space where Flare had just been standing.
Dirt and dust cakes both Arielle and my dad, but with Flare being forced to go on defense, the ring of fire no longer traps them.
Golden Ace still lies near the house, out of commission but alive.
Where is Dark Static? Or Materio?
Someone needs to contain Phil.
As the smoke clears, Phil rolls onto his shoulder and sits up. He glances around to catch his bearings until his menacing gaze lands on me. Uh oh. I gulp and begin to back away, but it’s too late—he’s seen me standing in his secret lair.
In a single swoop, Phil leaps from his smoky crater and shoots upwards, flying to the top of his mansion.
Straight toward my window.
Flare shrieks again, but I can no longer see what’s happening below, as I focus on trying to get the window closed.
Oh, no.
The window won’t budge as I try to force it closed, and with a hard swing, Phil sends me sprawling on the tiles.