It was the sound of chirping birds that startled me awake, because that was something way too peaceful of an alarm for the likes of me. I dragged my head off a pillow and sat upright, feet on the fuzzy red carpet and head still feeling like it was getting massaged by two forceful hands. I groaned and forced my eyes open, using the back of my hand to rub the crust away, stopping it from gluing my eyes shut. Where am I? No, I knew the answer to that. I knew it from the moment the faint smell of home slid down my throat when I swallowed. This was actually my home. My house. The one I’d grown up inside, the same exact room with the large mirror in the corner where I used to pretend, every day after school, that I was some kid superhero getting ready to run up a mess in the city in my red and blue pajamas and a towel for a cape. Fists on hips and my feet shoulder-width apart, chin up, chest puffed, and ready.

  Just so ready to get out there and fly and not stop until the sun rose, not even stopping for that so I could keep chasing it until it dipped back below the horizon. Fast like a bullet, shining like the sun, its Zeus up there, so supervillains, you better run. That was the old jingle for the cartoon they made of him. Didn’t last long. Got a few episodes before it was canned, and even up to now, I still had that silly little theme tune stuck in my head, and I’d always change the words around when I was standing in the mirror, trying to make a song that fit my name instead.

  I couldn’t remember if it ever did, but fast like a bullet, shining like the sun always had a nice ring to it.

  And staring at myself in that same mirror now, still seeing that little version of me standing there…

  She would have looked at me and asked why the hell I looked so beat up and hollow.

  Gods, Ry, you look like shit. I rubbed my eyes and the circles around them. My hair was a rat’s nest that stank like one, too. Filthy clothes so dirty I left a dusty outline on my bed, complete with sweaty smears and all kinds of fluids, some of it blood, not mine hopefully, and the rest of it grime and sweat mixing together into muck.

  But hey, at least that thing held up its end of the deal. It brought me back home.

  Whether bringing me to my actual home was its intention, or it was just screwing with me, I didn’t know. But I appreciated it, even if this didn’t feel like the room I grew up in anymore. Nah, no way. Not by a long shot.

  I was too beat up to belong to this place, anyway. The chick who lived here was happier. Cleaner.

  I was kind of a mess, and I guess that was more than just physically. I figured I needed to admit that to myself eventually, and something inside of me didn’t feel right anymore, like a part of me was just along for the ride now, kind of numb and distant, far away from what was actually around me. Getting hit in the face used to get my blood spiking and heart thundering, but when Olympia hit me, I kind of just didn’t really care about it that much.

  Shit happens, I guess, and that’s just how the cookie crumbled.

  I’ll blow my nose and dab away my tears later. Don’t deserve to cry just yet.

  Saving Bianca might do the trick, but I’ll just have to find out when I get there.

  Look at you, falling for a girl you used to write about in your diary, I thought, massaging my face and looking around my room. Then Harper found it in my backpack at lunch once, and that was the end of that fiasco.

  Gods, I could probably find so much in here from months and years ago. And it looked so…clean.

  My bedroom was embarrassingly colorful, with all kinds of superhero posters stuck on the walls and minifigures dangling from the ceiling fan, poised like they’re flying off into the distance. Some of the posers were old and torn up from the night mom kicked me out, and someone had gone through the hassle of taping them back together and sticking them on the walls beside my sports medals and picture frames that I’d smashed on my way out of the house. Now, though, they were fine. The glass was new and the frames had been replaced, not even a single scratch. Stacks of comic books sat on my desk, all a little worn and colorless. My Cleopatra nightlight was still plugged into the socket beside my dresser, and when I crouched beside it and turned on the switch, it lit up, its tiny golden light flickering and fading and forcing itself into existence. Thought you would’ve burnt out by now. I sat on the carpet, my back against my bed, head turning, eyes searching, because this had to be some kind of cruel way of It showing me what my life could’ve been if it hadn’t turned to shit the moment I graduated, but…no, this was it.

  This really was my bedroom, and there wasn’t a speck of dust or tuft of lint anywhere to be found. I smiled to myself, because the thought of mom, the same lady who could create a billion-dollar pharmaceutical miracle drug, who also never managed to really figure out how to work the oven, would come in here and keep making my old bed, dusting off my comics, rewashing my clothes and opening my window to let the breeze inside, and all before she went to work, was just insane. She probably hired a cleaning lady to come in here and get things done.

  Because…come on, this was my mother we were talking about. She wanted me out of her house so badly she threw my clothes in handfuls onto the grass and told me, screaming, waking up half the neighbourhood, to go.

  To get the fuck out of her life, because she swears that nothing has made sense since I arrived.

  I figured it was time to get out of here. She’d probably hate the idea of me being here.

  I guess It just wanted to spit in my face one last time before I had to go off and save mom, anyway. I sighed under my breath and stood, my muscles aching and my head pulsing. Needed to get to work. I’ll head home and get a bite to eat and shower, make sure Ava and her uncle haven’t given Dennie a heart attack by stressing him out, then I’ll… I’ll go and… I put my hands on my hips and stared at the carpet, the tiny singed hairs from when I first found out about my powers and were trying them out, to the scuffed floor from when I’d nearly smashed right through the ceiling when mum knocked on my door, asking me what was taking me so long. If you really wanna know what I had been doing that day, and why we’d been so late for church that morning, it was because I’d been trying not to get killed by some octopus that had a grudge against me. Gods, it was so stupid. Bastard nearly choked me out until I bit off a chunk of its head. He called foul. I called bullshit, because he was the one who’d been hiding in my fish tank, which was now empty, dry, because Cooper the goldfish probably died a few months ago just after I had left.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the window, at the drizzle of snow pelting the grass and the picket fences, the houses beyond and the cars parked in driveways. Silent, happy, kids playing in the white tufts, throwing the stuff and chasing each other. Normal, like everything was normal, and all I could notice was the worn down paint from the amount of times I’d climbed out of that window at the dead of night, at the old, squeaky hinge that was probably happy I left because of how many times I used to have to force the thing open with Vaseline all over it.

  An idea crossed my mind, and listen, I know I was meant to get a move on, but I just needed this.

  Please, Gods, just let me have this one thing.

  If mom really did hire a cleaning lady, then this would be dirty and dusty, moth-eaten and old.

  There was a cubby hole under my bed, behind the drawers I used to keep my socks and underwear in. You’d have to go pretty deep inside the bed, practically und it to find the space, and that’s where I kept my…

  No way.

  I’d had to pull my drawers out of the bed and onto the floor around me. Wasn’t the size I used to be, and my arms are bigger than they were when I last kept my first high school backpack stuffed deep, deep under the bed.

  I unzipped the thing, a pink bag with lots of sparkles and fairies and yeah, so what? I liked it.

  What I liked—no, loved—even more, was the costume still inside of it.

  Not dirty, not filthy, and not moth-eaten.

  It smelt like detergent. Like mom’s clothes.

  I stopped myself before I could choke on my own tongue. I didn’t have it in me to fully take the clothes out of the backpack, but I smelt them, held them between my fingers, feeling their tattered cloth and oh, Gods, she’d even gone through the trouble of sewing up the holes I’d burnt through the fabric years ago. Or someone else had. A part of me was holding onto the hope that it really was her doing all of this, because a part of my mind needed to be soothed, calmed, massaged and made into putty for at least five minutes before I went to make sure she was safe.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  I know this silence wouldn’t last forever, and I held my old costume top like it wouldn’t. I gripped it, almost like I was angry at the thing, but all I wanted to do was keep holding it, keep it close to my chest and not stop smelling it, but I had to go, had to leave, mom wouldn’t be happy, and her fancy security system would tell her someone was in the house, which would send the police down here in a heartbeat. I wasn’t gonna deal with that. Not today. Not yet. So I put everything back where I found it and stood at the door, hand on the worn bronze knob, not turning to look over my shoulder, but instead shutting my eyes and trying not to move, because for a split second, I almost thought I was gonna cry. Can you imagine? Me, crying? Yeah, right, that’s for people who’ve got the time.

  I swallowed the emotion and squared my shoulders, then opened my bedroom door.

  It was very, very clear that something was wrong in a heartbeat.

  Coming down the stairs, each of them creaked loudly, announcing themselves to the shadows sitting on every chair, spread on every surface, and lingering in the air that they weren’t alone. But I was. The police tape and the dry spattering of blood on the kitchen floor made that obvious. No chalk outlines. No stink of death or body parts and that was nearly the moment I stumbled, standing completely still, I nearly stumbled on my own feet. I stood frozen, breathing getting heavier and harder with each passing second, there in the empty living room with the couches draped in plastic and the kitchen fucking empty, the fridge switched off and blood on the fucking floor.

  I shut my eyes and swayed, then sat on what used to be dad’s armchair, face in my hands.

  I wasn’t jumping to conclusions. I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. I couldn’t jump to conclusions.

  My head was pounding. My foot bounced on the floor, faster and faster like a drum.

  It wasn’t supposed to be her.

  The thought came so suddenly it felt like a shard of ice in my gut, but…it wasn’t. I could tolerate my life getting blown to bits by people who wanted me gone. I could stomach that. But my friends? The only family I’ve got? Mom and I don’t see eye to eye on anything, we’re just too different, too traveled on different paths to even hope of ever coming to a consensus about anything in our life times, but that’s all I’ve got. She’s all I’ve got. I hated that a part of me still clung to her, still loved her, and if I’d been raised on Arkath through and through until I was old enough to register for the Expansion Effort, then I wouldn’t have cared at all what she meant to me. She would have been a vessel for my birth and that would have been about it. Dad didn’t care about the feelings I had for him because he wasn’t meant to. Where he’s from, your offspring are your bloodline and your future, so you make damn sure they’re strong, they’re fast, and they’re smarter than you’ll ever be or have ever been so you aren’t forgotten.

  So the historians and the teachers can trace their fingers through history and still find you generations after your death, but the fact is I didn’t grow up there, and I grew up here, knowing that mom was my shield to all of this.

  Hell, a part of me understood why she hated the idea of me even being a superhero in the first place.

  Being one meant someone could save her, though.

  Being one means she’s always been in danger.

  “Gods, I fucking hate you,” I whispered, standing up so suddenly a gust of wind threw the plastic sheets off the furniture. “And we need an honest to God conversation when I find you, because I swear, you’re one hell of a—”

  The main door rattled, then opened. I heard swearing and headed into the foyer, finding a woman standing in the doorway. Bright green eyes, crows feet around them, freckled cheeks and pale skin. She stared at me with a confused smile on her face, tugging off her balaclava and untying her heavy black boots, leaving them wet and snow covered on the welcome mat. She’s got a key? I don’t even have one of those anymore. Who the hell is she?

  And why did I just notice the suitcases that’ve been sitting in the kitchen, and the two extra bags with her just now? But the bloodstains threw me off, and I haven’t slept properly in months, I’m hungry, I’m kinda angry, and now I’ve got a complete stranger shedding off her heavy black winter coat as she kicked the door shut behind her, muttering under her breath about how cold it was before she passed me, tried to work the thermostat, but gets nothing in return. Then she goes searching through the kitchen, cabinet after cabinet, finding nothing, nothing, and finally finding an old sachet of coffee that she tears open and pours into her mouth raw. She chews on it, making her nose wrinkle, because even without my nose I know that thing is probably expired. She spits out a wad of coffee in the trash can and runs the tap, which at least has some water left in it. She drinks for a while, and I fold my arms, waiting for her to finish. I catch a glimpse of dog tags hanging from her neck, clicking against the marble sink.

  She turned it off, wiped her mouth using her compression shirt, then said, “Can I help you?”

  She sounded British, the very heavy kind I’d make fun of back in school with Emelia and Grant.

  “Yeah,” I said. “This is my house, and I’d kinda like to know what you’re doing here.”

  She raised an eyebrow and walked closer, folding her arms, too. She was tall, well-built, strong shoulders and stronger jaw. Intense eyes that I’d seen somewhere before but couldn’t place. Cropped blonde hair tinted a slight silver, curly and messy and sweaty. British leaned a little closer, squinting her eyes at me, then started to smile again as she snapped her fingers. “Fuck me, you look exactly like your mother! Last time I saw you, she’d sent me a cute little picture of you in the kitchen sink sneezing on bubbles!” She laughed. I didn’t find that funny, only hated that my cheeks might have started burning a little more. “Now look at you, all grown up. Don’t really know about the filthy clothes and the dirty hair, but I don’t really understand young folk and their trends these days.” Nudging my arm, which doesn’t move, she heads into the living room. “You can tell me all about them in the next few days.”

  I grabbed her shirt and pulled her back so she was standing in front of me. “Who are you?”

  “Stronger now, too,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders. “What do they feed you Yanks with?”

  “Superheroes and diabetes-filled cereal,” I said. “Now answer the question, lady.”

  “If I must,” she said, rolling her hand through the air. “Name’s Rebecca. Worked in the special forces for a while, you know ‘em, all those fancy seal teams and green hatted boys and the rest. Got bored and figured I should find something more fulfilling to do with my life, like move to England, start speaking proper English, appreciate a good breakfast and get out of this crazy mess of a city and its superhero shenanigans.” She smiled. “Europe has got a much better handle on this crap. Their laws are healthier, but I guess the government is in a race with purely just itself in trying to get you guys into the military or act as their strong arm however they want, but damn those pesky United Nations, I’m sure the White House always says, because they’re stopping them from going international.”

  An international Olympiad would probably be the death of me. Adam’s face on the Eiffel tower?

  I’d rather fight Cadaver for a month straight.

  “What’re you even getting at?” I asked.

  Rebecca shrugged again, almost like it was a tick of hers. “I’m just saying that if you ever want to get out of this country, you better do it before anything hits the fan, especially in this city, which is covered in fan deposit.”

  “I think it’s time you get out of my freaking house,” I said. “My mom—”

  “Called for my help a week or so ago,” she said, silencing me. “Ronnie is in trouble.”

  Suddenly, the peppy little performance she was putting on came to an end.

  “Where is she?” I asked, throat dry. “Where’s my mom?”

  Rebecca squeezed my shoulder. “You know why I left this city, Rylee?”

  “You’re not answering my question!”

  “It’s ‘cause kids like you, barely out of school, have the world on your shoulders the moment that some freak in a costume sees you’ve got powers they like,” she said. She sounds like him. Exactly like him. It’s her voice.

  It was the eyes, too. Those damn green eyes.

  “And I just don’t like that very much,” she said. “Especially when you get taken advantage of, too. The kids in this city aren’t taken care of enough and nobody seems to bat an eyelid. It’s mental, right mental, y’know?”

  I stepped out of her grip. “Hey, by any chance, do you have a—”

  “Don’t even get me started on that bloody training program they’re legally obligated to say that it is when in reality, all those Supes ever do is get tested week-in, week-out in classrooms for a few months and then get a badge telling them they can go wherever the fuck they please and fix the issue however they want, because Uncle Sam said that it was completely fine, since they’re ‘certified’ because a piece of flimsy office paper says so! Crazy!”

  “Lady,” I said, speaking over her before she could keep rambling. “Do you, or do you not, have a—”

  “Brother?” Rebecca said, sighing. “Sadly. I should’ve eaten him in the womb, but alas, I faltered.”

  “Your last name,” I said quietly. “It’s Freeman.”

  “Not until two years ago,” she said, holding up her hand and showing off a ring. “Gardener, now.”

  We were out of the house in a heartbeat, her throat in my hand.

  I wasn’t gonna take any chances.

  Not because someone else speaking all high and mighty, someone else who’s known me since I was barely old enough to stay up past seven at night, came to me thinking they were everything I needed to fix my life.

  I personally think enough of that has happened, and I’ve kind of got places to be.

  Usually, I’d let them air out their bullshit.

  Not anymore.

  Not this time.