We Could Be Heroes Page 3
No.
This memory had to stay.
Jamie lowered his hand.
There was a knock at the door, jolting him to his feet.
He closed his eyes and stretched out with his mind, sensing the ghostly silhouette of a single form at his door.
No one ever came to his door.
“San Delgado police. Is anyone home?”
The very idea of having law enforcement at his door caused Jamie’s hands to tremble and a thin layer of sweat to form on his forehead. He could brain-stun the officer and run. He could dive into the officer’s memories, see what happened, why he was here—maybe it was just a fundraiser for the Police Athletic League.
Another knock rattled the door.
If he brain-stunned the officer, that wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous. You couldn’t just leave gawking, unresponsive police on your doorstep. And the officer’s location was probably tracked by SDPD, which meant that lifting memories and sending him on his way would only lead to more trouble.
No, the only way out of this was through it.
Jamie took a deep breath, put on a baseball cap with a logo of the local San Delgado Barons hockey team, then marched to the door. He opened it halfway to find the very serious, very professional face of a plainclothes officer. Despite the fact that he stood shorter than Jamie, his sturdy build made him far more intimidating.
“May I help you?” Jamie held the door ajar. “Sorry,” he said, native English accent in full display, “I have a cat that tries to get out if I open the door all the way.” As if on cue, mews came from behind him and Jamie scooped up the pudgy feline. Mental note: she deserved extra coconut water tonight. “Be nice, Normal.”
The detective tilted his head at the name, then chuckled, sunlight gleaming off the light brown skin of his shaven bald dome. “No problem. Sorry to bother you this evening. Detective Patrick Chesterton. I’m the lead on the Mind Robber case.”
No reaction rippled through Jamie. Which was probably a reaction in itself. He waited, seconds stretching into vast chunks of time, and though he somehow managed to keep a polite expression on his face, the pounding in his chest might have given him away.
“We get anonymous tips all the time about the Mind Robber. Some people even claim to be him. But this one was very specific. And since we know he left on a train heading eastbound about ninety minutes ago, I thought I’d check it out.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes tracking past the courtyard and toward the parking lot. “Traffic is going to be hell getting back to the station.”
Jamie told himself to laugh, though in a completely different way from the forced maniacal display of the Mind Robber. Calm, quiet, a little nervous—the natural kind of nervous anyone got when questioned by law enforcement. Normal must have agreed, as she continued mewing in his arms.
“Well, aren’t you a nice cat?” the detective said, his voice softening. He reached up to pet Normal’s round head, but the cat replied with a hiss. Before Jamie could stop her, she swatted at Chesterton. The cat kicked out of his arms, and Jamie turned to see a streak of pudgy fur dashing for the bedroom.
“Oh, I’m so—” Jamie stopped himself at the realization that the detective nursed a fresh scratch across the knuckles.
If they weren’t going to get him for being the Mind Robber, what about assault via cat scratch?
“I’m so, so sorry. Normal usually loves strangers.” That was a lie, or it might have been a lie. Normal never met anyone, regular or stranger, so the sample size on that remained small. “But she gets weird occasionally.” That part was true. Jamie held up his hand, palm out. “See this scar across my palm? Normal got me good one time.”
Flat-out lie: Jamie had no idea where that scar came from, though whenever he focused on it for too long, a strange mix of nausea and embarrassment would flood over him.
“It’s okay,” Chesterton said. “I had a cat growing up. They can be temperamental. I should know better than to do that. Anyway, the tip said that someone who fit the build and look of the Mind Robber was in this area. This block, actually.” He looked Jamie up and down. If Jamie decided to risk it, he probably could have poked into the detective’s memories and seen specifically what he was thinking, even the source of the tip. “Have you seen anyone who fits that profile?”
In the courtyard, Jamie caught sight of the old couple across the way trying to get their mini schnauzer puppy to obey commands. They looked over at Chesterton, then Jamie, and Jamie offered a reassuring wave. Despite being a theoretical villain, he still wanted to be a good neighbor. “I, um, actually don’t watch the news much. I find it triggering.”
“Ah, got it. He’s Caucasian. Around six feet tall. Thin build. Strong chin. That’s about it, really, though. His hood and mask obscure everything else.”
“Well,” Jamie said. A response came to mind, and he debated whether or not he was being too clever. His arms extended and a wry smile came over his face a little too easily. Maybe learning to play a villain had turned the gesture into muscle memory. “That sounds like me.” The words came out smooth, just enough of a joking lilt that they threaded the needle between bullshit and levity. It came naturally, almost uncannily so.
For a moment, nothing happened. Neither man blinked, and even Normal stayed quiet. The only noise came from squeaking brakes as a car pulled into the adjacent parking lot.
Then the detective burst out laughing. “I like you,” he said, before reaching into his back pocket. Jamie’s hand moved into position, a subtle gesture that only he could detect should he need to brain-stun. His fingers rose ever so slightly in preparation when a buzz in his back pocket caused both men to stand at attention.
“Sorry, just my reminder,” Jamie said after pulling out his phone. The device’s blinking screen gave him an idea. “My weekly support group. I, uh, need to get going.”
“Oh, of course. Good for you,” he said. “It takes a strong person to seek out help.” Jamie’s head bobbed at the compliment, and the detective finished reaching in his back pocket. He held up a business card. “Do me a favor and call if you see or hear anything that strikes you as suspicious. About him or the Throwing Star. We’re no fan of vigilantes, extraordinary or not. You can’t just run around in a suit beating up people. I don’t care if they’re good or bad. You know, if either of them just called us first and said, ‘Hey, we’ve got these abilities,’ you can bet we’d have found a job for them.” Chesterton glanced at the cat scratch on his hand before letting out a short laugh. “I heard she tripped in the Metro station and let the Mind Robber get away,” he said with a headshake. “I guess ‘extraordinary’ comes in many forms.”
All forms. That skepticism, if not admirable, at least provided some cover. “Right,” Jamie said, taking the card. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Even if you hear anything about weird crimes in Hartnell City. Their PD asked us about the Mind Robber. Guess they’re seeing some strange activity too.”
“Of course, Detective.”
Jamie’s exhale was nearly as loud as the slamming of the door. He’d never been that close to getting caught before.
Who could have possibly tipped the police? He’d wiped the memories of any OmegaCars driver that took him close by, and even then, he’d always walked the last few blocks, taking different routes each time. Could the Throwing Star have tracked him? Possibly, but she seemed more like the “punch in the teeth” than “call the cops” type.
Questions circled as Jamie heard the roar of the detective’s car coming to life. Through the blinds, Jamie watched a dark blue sedan pull halfway across the parking lot before pausing for a handful of seconds and then finally rolling away. Chesterton was gone for now, but if he suspected anything, the best course of action would be for Jamie to act as any normal civilian would. In this case, it meant going exactly where the detective expected him to be.
Normal
meowed a farewell as Jamie grabbed a jacket—not his black hoodie—and locked the door behind him.
It was almost time for the support group. Even if he didn’t want to go.
4
THIS WAS NOT GOOD.
Zoe knew that. She hadn’t showered since sprinting back to her apartment building, scaling up to the roof, changing back into normal clothes and crashing through the door. Even she wasn’t delusional enough to count that as self-care. And she’d never recovered her FoodFast shirt.
So much for her five-star rating.
The cheap futon frame in her living room creaked as she shifted her weight, the thin pad not making things more comfortable for her hip and shoulder. She looked past the coffee table with three empty beer cans—two from last night and one that she figured she deserved after the Metro station fiasco—and over to her wall.
No photos of people she knew or pretty sunsets. No decorations other than a small poster of a kitten clinging to a branch next to the words HANG IN THERE. All around that print, though, hung everything she could dig up over the past two years about her identity. Scribbled notes about her blurry early memories. Anything about the mystery company on her apartment lease—and the one-year renewal letter that just arrived a few months back. Rumors of strange incidents in Hartnell City, possibly other people with extraordinary powers, including news clippings and notes about the Mind Robber, though she originally never had any ambitions to track him down.
And an image. One single image in pencil, drawn from memory, though her artistic abilities failed to capture the moment. When she closed her eyes, she felt it—the cold night temperature, the hard cement under her, stars littering the sky above and a harsh breeze from being on a rooftop. Her hands pressed flat against gravel and chipped cement, and the whir of ventilation units all around, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of boots. Then across the rooftop, a light from a door opening, and the silhouette of soldiers or armed guards or something marching out in formation.
Then nothing.
A wall of maddening details, puzzle pieces without a frame.
Pinned at the center of the wall was a rectangular name tag, the top part stating “Hello, my name is:” in blue printed letters and the name Zoe Wong written neatly under it. Pin holes scattered across the top border for every time she’d torn it all down in frustration before reassembling it the following morning.
That first day, after waking up in this very apartment lacking recollection of who she was or how she got there, the name tag was the first thing she saw. It sat on top of two sheets of paper and a single key on an otherwise empty key ring; the first sheet was a one-year apartment lease fully paid for by 2D Industries LLC, and the second page held only a small scribble:
You are stronger than you think. Push yourself.
The space itself wasn’t exactly quiet. Every layer around and above her was paper-thin, reverberating noises from all over. And from outside too, it was as if the city’s car horns and shouts funneled straight into her brain, an unnaturally loud soundtrack turned all the way up. And the note, was that to be taken literally? Who even had written it?
That day, she’d paced in her apartment, mind waffling between staying in the space for further explanation or getting the hell out of there.
The former never came. The latter became the only option, especially after she found an envelope filled with a thousand dollars in cash stashed in a drawer. By then, she’d become consumed with Zoe Wong. Was she Zoe Wong? Or did she break into mystery Zoe’s apartment? The mailbox gave no clues, and the apartment itself contained only bare essential toiletries and some bottles of water.
That night, she walked the streets of San Delgado, a quest without a goal, like she was meant for something more but didn’t know what. The feeling gnawed at her, which made buying a cheap bottle of tequila seem quite sensible. Drinking it in the adjacent alley made even further sense, especially when a light rain began sprinkling down.
She’d sat, nothing but the stench of the city surfacing from the rain and the poison-like taste of the five-dollar bottle in her hand. An entire day of seeing things, listening to people, trying to understand the colors she later figured out to be thermal vision, and it all led nowhere. Frustration boiled up, pressurizing at the pointlessness of it all, and fueled by the buzz of half a bottle, she curled her hand into a fist and punched a dumpster.
She watched it lift several feet above the pavement to fly down the alley, moving faster than some of the cars passing behind her.
Her inebriated stumble made catching up with it a chore, but her eyes locked onto the dent in its side. As she approached, the note from the apartment echoed in her mind, now a mission statement more than anything else.
She wound up and punched again.
Again, the dumpster skidded away, the echoey thud of fist on hollow metal ringing through the air.
One thought dawned on her, the only thing that synced up with both her mind and body.
Fuck it, she decided in that moment. She was just going to take the name Zoe Wong until the truth proved otherwise or a better idea came along.
And the name stayed, just like the name tag at the center of her detective board. After the papers had dubbed her the Throwing Star—another name she hadn’t chosen for herself—she’d pinned a crude folded-paper throwing star next to the name tag, and wondered if she should try rebranding as Shuriken, the Japanese word for throwing star. Even though she was pretty sure she was of Chinese heritage rather than Japanese. But whatever. It sounded cool, which took higher precedence than accuracy.
Her eyes trailed over to the lump of wrinkled black leather pieces lying on the floor, the silver zipper tracks reflecting overhead light. At some point, she’d have to get it dry-cleaned, but how could she possibly explain the odd construction of a leather bodysuit in six pieces—two arms, two legs, a torso and a cowl with a mask, each with zippers at odd angles that when fully fastened, apparently formed a rough starlike shape. It was never intended to seem cool or, as one of her early rescuees told the media, like a throwing star flying across the alley after she’d sprinted in with her extraordinary speed. It wasn’t even meant for hero shenanigans; she’d chopped up pieces of torn motorcycle suits recovered from the dumpster behind the Cycle Pro a few blocks down. She wore the leather under her FoodFast polo simply because it just held up better than street clothes for rooftop jumping and sprinting, and the cowl kept her ears and nose warm.
But sometimes she’d hear screams and yells at night, before or after picking up her delivery, and she’d make a choice. She wanted to be more, and the potential ached deep in her bones. She’d choose to take off her FoodFast shirt and hide her delivery bag. Choose to run off and make a difference. Choose to finally fulfill that constant nagging desire without fucking up again.
Then her legend grew. And the name stuck. She supposed it was better than just “Zoe, the crime-fighting semi-loser and sometimes food delivery person.”
Her phone pinged the familiar chime of an available FoodFast gig, though she couldn’t accept it, not with her shirt lost on some random rooftop between here and the bank.
A new thought arrived, the idea of suiting up and going out intentionally, without any FoodFast commitments. But the one time she tried living up to the Throwing Star image had ended with her tripping over her own feet in a Metro station. She never even got to say the cool tagline she’d practiced on her way to the bank.
Zoe stood up, her bare foot knocking over an open can at the base of the futon. “Oh, goddamn it,” she said, scrambling to get paper towels. Mental note: as someone who probably enjoyed alcohol a little too much, solid flooring was preferable to carpeting. If she ever saved enough to move out of this mysteriously rent-free place, that’d be the first thing she looked for. She pressed down into the mess, which was inches from similar stains from a few weeks back, skunky odor wafting up. The paper towels flew
into the plastic garbage bin by the sink, and while warm water ran over her hands, she looked at the kitchen window. As she stood silent, the lights in her place dimmed, though the power fluctuation didn’t seem to affect surrounding buildings. She watched across the way, spying on a neighboring family eating pizza, a cluster of children from small to nearly adult, and a smiling but clearly tired man.
The lamps flickered back on, blinking off and on until her eyes adjusted to the illumination, and in the glass, a different face watched her.
Not any of the neighbors, who blissfully ignored her regardless of whether she was an extraordinary or a troubled woman with a drinking problem. But her own deep brown eyes in the reflection, the strands of tangled black hair, and the barely present face around it, lines etched all around from fatigue and worry and sheer lack of care.
Her phone chimed, not FoodFast, but HorrorDomain, the free movie app that only had free “classic” horror films in the public domain, blasting a notification for their pick of the week, Lo-Bot: Samurai Cyborg. She’d seen the first half of that 1970s sci-fi slasher flick before, and it sounded enticing enough to sit on a beer-stained carpet and finish the movie, but then a different chime rang out, a single bell while words flashed across the screen.
Reminder: San Delgado Memory Loss & Dementia Support Group
She’d lurked at that support group a few times, kept the time in her phone just in case. It didn’t make it onto her detective board because looking for clues felt easier than listening to people talk about losing their memories. Was her condition a form of dementia? Did amnesia and extraordinary strength go hand in hand? It’s not like she could show up and open up. The memory loss. The day drinking. The crime fighting/getting her anger out. None of it.
But maybe it was something. Just to go and listen.
Or maybe more than just listen.
It wasn’t like her life was exactly working.
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