Is it so hard for supervillains not to be terrible people first thing on a Saturday morning? All I need is five minutes to shovel my bowl of Guardian Flakes into my mouth and mindlessly scroll through my phone, but here comes today’s evil genius and his cunning, never before seen plan to rob a bank.

  I drop my spoon and groan into the bowl of saturated milk and sugar, watching my phone vibrate as VillainWatch.net floods my notifications with urgent scarlet messages. I hang my head and flip my phone upside down, because man this hangover sucks. My head keeps pounding and the back of my throat is scratchy and dry, almost so bad I want to use a fork to fix it.

  But that’s what I get for thinking evil takes breaks…and also my fault for partying a lot harder than I probably should have, especially on a day like this.

  Special days only come around once in a while, but of course, a supervillain is there to ruin it.

  “Goddamned supervillains,” I mutter, pushing away from the table.

  I’m still in my pajamas, the baggy kind that hangs loose and swish whenever I walk. I grab the remote and turn on the TV. Mom must’ve left it on the news last night, because the first thing I see are black-clad gunmen opening fire on a group of police officers trying to get closer to Liberty Bank, one of the biggest banks on the East Coast—at least, according to the woman wearing a bullet proof vest and helmet too big for her head is reporting. I fold my arms and tap my finger against my bicep, then quietly whistle when a gunman shoots two cops back-to-back right in the head. The camera swivels, catching the moment when their bodies slump over and their brain matter slides across the concrete. Then the live feed cuts, and we’re back to the shocked faces in the studio.

  “Lame,” I sigh, muting the TV. “What ever happened to actually trying? A bank? Seriously? What’s next, one of them is gonna snatch a purse on their way out of there?” I shake my head and head back to my cereal. "I'll let some sidekick get his round of applause."

  What? Don’t look at me that way. I am not wasting the first solid food I’ve had in three days just because some loser group of gang-bangers and thugs are desperate for quick cash. This three day bender is gonna hurt me more than those gunmen will if I stay hungry. I scoop two big mouthfuls of cereal into my throat, groggily fly up the stairs, into my bedroom, and fish through my piles of dirty laundry until I find my costume. It reeks of alcohol and sweat, mostly because I’ve been sweating alcohol. I think. The last few days are a noisy, fast, sweaty blur, and as I sling my suit over my shoulder and begin searching for my boots, I hear the front door slowly groan open and quietly shut.

  I freeze mid-air, going so stiff it’s like I’m a corpse dangling from invisible wire. I hear mom throw her cape onto the couch, kick off her boots, pause in front of the TV, quietly mutter, then say, “Sam, I know you’re up there.”

  I choose not to say anything, because I’m very intelligent that way, even though my mom can probably see through the floorboards and spot me trying to be quiet, or, you know, look at the mess I made in the kitchen when I was trying to find the cereal when I was still half-drunk.

  It’s nearly impossible sneaking out of this house these days.

  Because there’s no better security system than Earth’s greatest superhero.

  And the biggest thorn in my side. Can a girl go on a bender in peace for once? Jeez.

  “Sam,” she sighs. “Don’t make me come up there. My back is killing me, so get down here, please.”

  I peek outside my room. She’s at the bottom of the stairs, facing the muted TV. Mom glances at me, puts on a thin, weary smile, the kind she wears when reporters shove microphones in her face and scream questions at her. “It’s great that you’re finally back home, sweetheart, and I really appreciate the crater you left in the back yard”—Crater in the back yard? Huh. So that’s why I woke up with soil in my mouth. Note to self: never fly drunk. Again. Never fly drunk again—“but I think you’ve got a problem to solve out there that needs your attention.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna ground me?”

  “Oh, I am definitely grounding you.” She puts her hands on her hips. “After you save those people.”

  “Does saving those people reduce the grounding?”

  “Saving those people means I don’t reconsider you staying on campus than here at home with me.”

  I’m in my costume, wearing my boots, and fixing the folds in the spandex the very next second, jumping around my room as the skin-tight suit clings to sweat and grime and a series of lipstick kisses that trail up the side of my thigh and across my chest. Must’ve been a fun party. Shame I can’t remember anything.

  Maybe that’s for the better.

  I pointedly ignore the phone number someone scribbled near my collarbone in lipstick, right beside a tiny red love heart and the dozens of hickeys at the base of my throat. I lick my thumb and rub the number off my skin, then shoulder the costume up to my jaw, crack open my window, and explode high into the sky. My short, curly blonde hair snaps against my cheeks as the wind flushes remnants of sleep out of my skull, like I’ve just dunked my entire head in ice water. Liberty City begins to sparkle as I get closer and closer, the ocean glimmering like it swallowed last night’s stars. I watch a stream of police cars gun down an avenue, bounce off curbs and rush toward Liberty Bank, and all I’ve got to do now is get there before anyone else can steal my thunder. It’s the twilight hours of this summer’s recruiting drive. I’ve already got my scholarship in my back pocket, tucked into where it’s been since I was ten and first lifted a car over my head. But I'm not taking chances. The industry is super crowded right now with younger capes looking for a lucky break. I technically don't even need to do this right now.

  But I do anyway, because I kinda just love this gig.

  I stretch mid-flight, work my shoulders, massage my jaw—the last thing I need is to cramp up halfway through the stupid speech I usually have to give to the endangered civilians. Couldn’t have picked a worse time.

  In all fairness, I don’t actually want to stop this robbery. Why? Simple: who fucking cares?

  It’s a bank. They get blown up all the time. Or crushed. Or portals appear beneath their vaults and swallow tons of traceable cash. Public service announcement to any wannabe villain reading this: be creative. Let’s drop the bank shtick, because it’s not the Golden Age anymore. Destroy a space shuttle. Blow up the White House…if you’ve got the balls to get into New Washington, anyway. And come on, I’ve stopped eight bank robberies in the past six months. Eight. That’s tied for the Junior Cape record and the highest in Liberty City for a Cape my age.

  Which means I’ve gotten kinda bored with the whole thing by now. I’d literally rather eat concrete.

  And besides, evil really, really reeks. It’s pretty hard to describe this to a regular person, but in the simplest way of describing it, it’s kinda like sulfur and excrement had a bastard love child and let it rot a little. I sometimes see scarlet vapor of it trailing in the air, snaking toward the idiots shooting at the cops outside of the bank. I stop above it all, listening to the thunderous pop, echo, and bang of assault rifles tearing through police cars and pinging off nearby concrete, shattering store windows and leaving the civilians stupid enough to stand around and watch running for cover. Dozens of cops, trying to shoot their pistols, only to get forced down to the ground by a barrage of gunfire that shatters their cop car windows. Man, these guys really suck. I almost feel bad for them, too.

  But I’m not here to share my sympathy with Liberty City’s finest, or whatever. I’m here to stop this.

  And stat-pad, because it looks better on my transcript. A couple of headlines wouldn’t hurt today.

  It makes me look better than I already am.

  “Alright, here we go,” I say, massaging my face and fixing a smile onto my lips. I fucking hate this. But there’s people filming this on their phones and their cameras, and now a news helicopter is in the sky, throwing my hair into a violent nest as a camera zooms in on me and a reporter bellows into a microphone tightly held in his hand. I flash whoever’s watching a thumb’s up, then dive toward the ground and clothesline the pack of gunmen into a groaning, aching pile. I slide across the stairs in the grand, swooping way my performance coach taught me to do, straighten up, and shout to the cops: “Hey, I’ve got this covered! You guys get out of here and make sure nobody else is hurt. Thanks for helping!” As if. All these morons did was stand around and get shot. Now look at them, nodding at me, all brave and proud, like we’re on the same team. I swallow my scoff and fight the urge to crush the pile of gunmen groaning beside me. I zip across the stairs, sweeping their rifles into my arms, and bend them one by one into a grotesque metallic art project that I toss over my shoulder onto the pile of hired goons.

  Because that’s what I’m doing now, fighting hired goons trying to rob a bank on a Saturday morning.

  And suddenly, I’m the cartoon a kid somewhere is watching, filling them with hopes and dreams, and maybe, just maybe, a kid will think they, too, can do what I do and save the day! As if. They'd be lucky to make it out of the Pee-Wee Cape training camps that parents in this city love to spend thousands of dollars on.

  Besides, there's only ever gonna be one Samantha Luck.

  “You’ve got this Sentry!” a woman behind a police barrier yells. “You’re my hero!”

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  I grin and wink at her. She blushes hard and keeps shouting my name, just like the dozens more hollering at me like the pack of hairless human monkeys that they're starting to resemble. Fill a human up with enough superhero poses and flashy entrances, and they'll be jumping around and losing their minds like animals in a zoo.

  And then I turn my back and drop the smile.

  Jesus, stop screaming already.

  This hangover isn’t gonna heal itself with all that chanting and screaming the crowd is doing.

  Well, it will, but you get what I mean.

  Slowly, I hover over shards of glass, bullet casings sparkling in the sunlight and bits and pieces of chewed up concrete. Liberty Bank is massive. A cathedral of a limestone and marble lobby gaping wide open, with sparkly glass chandeliers hanging above me and high-tech floating screens flashing warning, please evacuate! The tellers are cowering behind their counters and civilians, shell-shocked and terrified, are all on the floor, so petrified they can't even move. I frown and look around, because nobody looks like they’re hurt. Heck, they’re not even zip-tied. They're all just hanging out. Scared, sure, some of them even wet themselves, but they're just...here. This, people, is what we like to call: amateur hour. It must be some group of kids trying to make a name for themselves, but they’ve barely got the basics down. You usually zip-tie your hostages, beat ‘em up a little, and then you make demands to the cops before you start trying to mow them down. I swear, the quality of villains varies so wildly in this city. Some days, you’ll be on your hands and knees, coughing up blood because KillDozer nearly just broke your back and tore out one of your limbs. And the next day, you’re running after Zambozo the Clown as he throws bubble bombs at you.

  “Well,” I tell everyone loudly, spreading my arms, “looks like you’re all free to go. You’re safe now.”

  None of them move. Hell, none of them even look at me. They’re cowering so badly a couple of them even ease themselves in their pants and on their skirts, covering the floor with urine. I hover slightly above the floor, because I’m not soaking my boots in human waste, thank you very much. Spandex is pretty damned hard to clean.

  I fly over to a security guard shivering himself to bits in a corner, face so pale he’s almost see through. Well, they’re all see through. X-ray vision, and all. “Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of him. “You OK?”

  No response. He’s staring past me, barely blinking as a silent, choking cry clogs his throat.

  I follow his gaze and—gasp!—a man covered in shadows appears in the middle of the lobby. Darkness lashes around him, cracking the limestone pillars and cutting a meaty gash across someone’s leg. The woman he cut screams, holding her leg as blood surges through her fingers. More people wail and scuttle away. Oh, the horror, the fear, it’s all bubbling inside of me! What will I ever do in the face of such terrifying, shadow-controlling power?! I'll be lucky to get out of this one. All the darkness inside of him must've manifsted as his powers. God, I can't even imagine what he must've been through. Maybe...maybe I can get through to him. Maybe I can save everyone today.

  God, lame!

  So fucking lame!

  What’s with these freaks! Pick a new superpower! Boil my blood. Melt my brain. Turn my bones into water, put me in a bucket, freeze me, and then smash me to bits with a rusty old hammer!

  Just something original for once would be nice, but this is Liberty City. Nothing is new here.

  But the news crews are outside, and there’s also security cameras recording in here, so…fine. Whatever.

  Looks like my Saturday morning supervillain today is Shadow-Supervillain number thirty.

  I quickly stand up and put out my hand. “Stop!” I shout. “These people are innocent!”

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn't even twitch. I frown, because they usually do something by now. Maybe break out into laughter. Maybe tell me that they've finally found out my weakness, or whatever bullshit they come up with to make thesmelves sound scarier than they actually are. I slowly lower my arm and stare at him, just as hard as he’s staring at me. He’s wearing a motorcycle helmet and a cloak that sweeps the floor, wearing white gloves and an even whiter tie. Haven’t seen you before, I think. I look around, then move a little closer toward him.

  “Hey, evil-doer,” I say loudly. The civilians are cowering even more, rocking back and forth and squeezing their eyes shut so hard tears spill down their cheeks. I feel like they're overreacting a little, but hey, I'd lose my mind too if yet another shadow-villain ruined my morning. He reeks of evil. Hate and rage and bad fucking intent. It oozes off him, curdling with the shadows licking his feet. “I said these people are innocent, now give yourself up before I send you to Black-Gate, and trust me, the only thing scarier than you in there is their roach-filled gruel.”

  I know, I know, I hate that line, too. But my agent says I’ve got to work on my delivery more, so…

  He flings his hand at me. Shadows explode from his palm and violently wash over me.

  And…nothing happens. I open my eyes and check my body, and sure enough, I’m totally fine. And then my nose twitches, and I smell it again, the sulfur and the rot, the human waste and meaty decay of hate and evil. I turn around and find the guard on his feet, staring at me, eyes red, teeth grinding and fists shaking so hard that he draws blood from his own palms with his fingernails. Now it’s getting interesting. I roll my shoulders, then turn away, because I’m not stupid—this isn’t gonna turn into one of those: haha, now what’ll you do, superhero? Kill an innocent man, or let me escape? It’s your fight to lose! I don’t do that crap. I don’t have the second highest Civilian Safety rating of any Junior Cape in the nation because bozos like this think I’m gonna fall for the basics.

  I also don’t have the highest Worldwide Supervillain Neutralizer rating for Junior Capes for no reason.

  “Go!” the man in the helmet bellows. Suddenly, all the civilians stand, twitching with anger. “Kill her!”

  Since I am hungry, and I also wanna get a nap in before I’ve got to leave for college today, I decide to wrap this up pretty quickly.

  The second the tide of civilians moves, roaring and screaming and raging, I bind them all together with the rifles I left outside, leaving them kicking and squirming and frothing violently on the ground. When I’m done, I hit shadow-helmet like a semi-truck, shoulder-checking him so hard his visor cracks and he goes flying out through the bank’s double doors and smashes into the hood of a police car. He groans and lies there, in my shadow this time as I float above his bent and broken body. Ouch. Too much juice. I lower through the sky after I’ve made sure the news cameras catch a good angle of me in the sunlight, glaring down at the supervillain on the cop car. See, it’s all about the right angle, the front page and the headlines. That’s what gets people going. The picture of a superhero looking down at a supervillain, as the supervillain lies half-unconscious on the hood of a police car? Now that is golden.

  It might finally get me back on Junior Cape Monthly’s front page for September’s special issue.

  My agent’s gonna love that.

  For a second, nobody moves a muscle, nobody breathes or speaks or so much as blinks.

  Then, grinning, I descend from the sky, and they erupt in cheers.

  I flip him over, then gesture for the nearest cop to hand me a set of power-cuffs. “I’ll deal with him myself,” I say, even though, yes, I’m still seventeen and don’t have my license to officially arrest someone, but are they really gonna tell me no? “He’s hurt too many people today for me to leave him in your hands. You boys have done enough. Let me help you for once.”

  Bullshit, straight out of my lips, eaten up by these monkeys in their sweat-stained blue uniforms and the journalists shouting questions and the crowd filming this on their phones. I jam the power cuffs onto his wrists, and almost immediately his entire body goes limp. I squint and scan his body. A couple of organs got ruptured when he hit the car, which sucks, because he seemed kinda durable. Broken leg. Fractured ribs. Must be wearing some kind of bullet proof vest. His skull has a hairline fracture, and one of his lungs has a gash right in the center of its mass.

  I bodily put him on my shoulder anyway, then say to the oldest looking cop: “Evil Never Wins. Ever.”

  Mom’s saying, but it has the crowd going crazy.

  Just Like Mama Bear, they’ll say in the news soon.

  Barf.

  I thunder into the sky, leaving a dent in the concrete and a whirlwind of wind that leaves the police stumbling and the crowd shading their eyes so they can see me crest one building and then the next. When I pass the helicopters, my smile drops. By the time I’m in Old-Port, right in the bay where the military dumped their old industrial tankers and Techies trashed their War Mechs after New America wiped Moscow off the map, I’m pissed off, kinda hungry, and have nothing good to say about my hostage. I stop in the sky, several hundred meters above solid ground, and then drop him. He screams as he falls, then slams into the concrete with a wet crunch. I softly land beside his broken body, crouch next to him, and flick open his visor. Still alive. I whistle and flip it back down.

  “So,” I say, standing up and cracking my knuckles. “Here’s how this is gonna work.”

  He makes a nasty choking sound. Must be his tongue trying to scoop gooey blood out of his throat.

  “I’m gonna burn you alive, starting from your toes, and then you’re gonna get swept into the wind and never seen again, because dude, come on,” I say, spreading my arms. “It’s a Saturday! Do you not have anything better to do? Literally anything? I’m nursing a hangover right now, and here you are, trying to rob a damn bank.”

  His hand shakes. Fingers extend. Shadows begin curling around my feet—

  I step on his hand. He screams when I crush it under my heel, fingers broken and separated from his palm. I grind my foot until there’s nothing left. Just meat and blood and bony gristle. Now he’s crying, gasping and wailing and trying to thrash around on the ground, but I’m pretty sure his back is broken, because his legs aren’t moving.

  Shame. I like it when they run. It’s a lot more fun.

  But being a superhero is all about getting it done, and that’s just the industry for you.

  So, let’s get it done.

  My eyes burn red. Heat, scalding and horrible, builds just in front of my nose.

  He shrieks something I can’t hear, not through all the blood he’s choking on.

  And then I begin turning him into ash, starting with his toes, up his legs, and then I split him in half with a more intense beam, and then lessen it when I get to his head, which is a bad decision, because I end up boiling his brains into spitting, oily soup. Woops. I crank up the energy in my skull until nothing’s left and I’m standing on a vague, ashy outline of a human being. I shut my eyes, killing the hum of scarlet light, then massage my temples as my ears ring and I suddenly feel so dizzy I drop to one knee. I fight the urge to puke, but I do, vomiting so hard my ribs hurt and I’m left choking on my own tongue by the time the heat in the air dissipates. I knuckle away the saliva on my lips, spit, then slowly stand up. Job done. Shadow-Helmet: defeated. Hopefully my cereal isn’t soggy now.

  Goddamned supervillains. Where is there freaking humanity, leaving my cereal to get all weird?

  Someone’s gonna have to deal with these guys one day. Permanently.

  Until then, I’ve got a bedroom to pack and nerves to swallow.

  Because baby, I’m going to college.