How to Save the World (2 page)

He hit the floor a little too hard.

“You might want to call 911,” I said, panting. I looked at the rip in my jacket and frowned. “He needs medical attention.”

While we waited for the police to show up, we left him crumpled up on the kitchen floor and I collected my food, carefully stacking the three bulging bags so that I could trot them back to my apartment. They were heavy, but that was the least of my worries.

“So . . . who are you really? What's your mask?” Mr. Shen asked as I pushed a generous tip in the jar. He wouldn't actually let me pay for the food itself.

I shook my head as we heard the wail of a siren and red and blue lights splashed along the walls. “No mask. Just . . . a local picking up dinner from the place down the street.”

Mr. Shen gave me a skeptical look, which I supposed was fair.

“Sorry?” I said. “Good luck. And sorry about the bamboo plants.”

“See you next time, Gail,” Mr. Shen said.

“Looking forward to it.”

A noise made me whirl, my arms laden with the bags of food, to see the robber groaning and pushing himself to his feet. Mr. Shen and the rest of the kitchen staff scrambled back in fear. I moved to drop the food, but even I wasn't fast enough to stop him before he snatched up a knife from the counter and flung it.

I saw it arc through the air, heard it rotate in slow motion, tumbling end over end toward my face—­and then I was sitting on my couch with a headache.

“Oh, hey!” My very own superhero trainer and roommate, Angélica Rocha, looked up from her book as I let out a gasp and reeled backward. “You're back! That was fast. Did you do that on purpose?”

The man on my other side frowned, pausing in the middle of peeling out of his new uniform's gauntlets. “Gail?” Guy Bookman asked. “What happened?” He finished tugging off his War Hammer glove.

“Why do you smell like that?” Angélica asked.

I groaned and set the bags on the coffee table to rub my temples. “It's a long story, and you're going to yell.”

“Why would I yell?” Angélica dove into the bag nearest her. “Whatever happened, you got the food here in record time. This is a miracle. Definitely—­” This was said around a mouthful of lo mein noodles. “—­something to celebrate.”

“You say that now, but wait until I tell you about the robber,” I said. “And the dumpster.”

Guy wrapped an arm around my shoulders and kissed the side of my head. “I knew I should've picked up the food on my way over.”

A
n hour later, very little remained of the Chinese food and Guy and I were left alone in the living room, Angélica having ducked into her room after receiving a text message. I stretched out, bones popping in a way that made Guy wince.

“Is that healthy?” he asked, looking up from his tablet.

“I have no idea.”

“I don't think it's healthy. It doesn't sound healthy.” He set the tablet on the coffee table, which was only a little dented from the time Angélica had thrown me into it while wrestling over who had to go grocery shopping. “Maybe you should go to Davenport and get a checkup.”

I popped my shoulders again. It wasn't to spite him—­precisely. “Nope,” I said. “I feel great. There's nothing to worry about. In fact, I think everything's finally calming down.”

“You got in two fights and teleported nearly two miles,” Guy said. “How does your head feel?”

In truth, it felt fine. Applying food to the injury, as Angélica liked to say, was usually the quickest cure for overextending myself and my new abilities. Now all I needed was a little sleep, and I'd be fine. Or I would be if I could stay out of trouble, a forecast that never looked promising.

But Guy, bless his kind and considerate soul, would always be a worrywart. He wasn't overly pushy about it, so I didn't mind. Besides, he was really easy to distract. Which I did now by putting down my magazine and crawling straight into his lap.

He leaned his head against the back of the couch. “I know what you're doing,” he said as I settled on his thighs.

I pushed his hair back so that the forelock wasn't falling into his eyes the way it usually did. “Mm-­hmm. I'm not subtle. It's something everybody loves about me. Is it working?”

Guy lifted his hand and wiggled it in a so-­so gesture, but I could hear the way his heartbeat had picked up and I could see a smile twitching at the edges of his lips. He had the barest hint of a five o'clock shadow going on and his skin was a little gray with exhaustion, but even tired from a long day in the office and foiling a few bank robberies, he was still pretty gorgeous.

I laughed when he finally broke, grinning and tugging me closer. “Thought so,” I said, kissing him.

His hand slid under the back of my shirt as the other tangled in my hair, which was still messy from my Chinese food encounters. He kissed me like we hadn't just seen each other the night before, like we might never see each other again—­

Or he did until we both heard thumping on the wall. I sighed, my head dropping onto Guy's shoulder. “What is it this time?” I called through the wall.

“I have an early meeting tomorrow and have no interest in listening to your sexual shenanigans. Take it to his place!”

Which would involve going downtown. Granted, his place was a
lot
nicer than mine, closer to work, and he loved cooking so there would be breakfast, but it would also require moving and I was perfectly happy to remain right where I was. “Just put some headphones on,” I said back, not bothering to raise my voice. Angélica could hear me perfectly.

Just like I could hear her muttered Portuguese insult in reply perfectly as well.

I left my forehead resting against Guy's shoulder. “Why did I agree to move in with the bossiest woman on the planet?”

“Because you can't afford both food and rent,” he said. “What's her deal right now?”

“She's got investors coming in tomorrow,” I said. “I normally
wouldn't care
,” I said, raising my voice for emphasis, “but since I know it's a big day for her, I'll be nice this once.”

“You can have the apartment to yourself this weekend,” Angélica said.

I turned to Guy. “See? She's being nice in return.”

He shook his head, his eyes amused behind the glasses. “You know I can't hear her when you guys talk through walls at regular volume like that's something normal ­people do.”

“She says we've got this place for the weekend,” I said, and dropped next to Guy on the couch. “She's probably spending it with that mystery boyfriend of hers that she refuses to tell me anything about. And I heard you call me that, Angélica.”

Guy put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “I guess we could watch the news,” he said.

Watching the news invariably meant that he'd get alerted about some catastrophe in progress and feel obligated to rush off and defend against it. Or there would be another story wondering what had happened to Blaze, which would only make Guy frown. His brother Sam had quit being War Hammer and had driven into the sunset on a motorcycle. Not that I blamed him: discovering that his ex-­girlfriend—­originally thought to be dead—­had instead been experimented on and tortured for years had to weigh heavily on the soul. With Sam off on his spiritual journey, it had made sense for Guy to take over the identity and the Chicago territory. Heroes went on hiatus and switched masks more than even I knew, so all of us were surprised when the media had latched on. As far as the rest of the world knew, Blaze, Guy's previous superhero identity, had simply vanished from Miami. And his whereabouts were the biggest mystery apart from the identity of the villain who had turned the Statute of Liberty into a disco mirror ball.
Where's Blaze?
had become a catchphrase tossed around by media pundits everywhere. They refused to let it die, so the last thing I wanted to do was watch the news right now. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Or . . . I could fly us to my place?” he offered.

I grinned. “Let me get my stuff.”

 

CHAPTER 2

E
very superhero has an origin story. Every supervillain, too, but that's not as important since I don't hang out with as many of those these days.

Take my roommate, Angélica. Her bus to a soccer game had crashed outside of her hometown and she'd woken up with the ability to hurtle herself across distances in the blink of an eye. Her soccer career was over before it had started, but she'd found work as a trainer at Davenport—­the umbrella corporation that secretly controlled all superhero interests. Guy and his siblings had gotten their powers from an explosion. For my friend Vicki Burroughs—­yes,
that
Victoria Burroughs—­well, I didn't actually know her origin story because it changed every time she told it.

Only three ­people on the planet could claim they were given their powers intentionally. Two of them lived in my apartment (Angélica's origin story hadn't ended on the soccer field—­she was later dosed with the same superpower-­inducing serum I had been hit with, in order to save her life after she'd been poisoned). The third was in prison. Synthetic superheroes, which made us pretty interesting in our own right. The fact that Angélica and I had cut ties with Davenport made life a little difficult. The corporation and I were still on vague speaking terms, but Davenport had been responsible for throwing me in prison for a crime I hadn't committed. Now I wanted nothing to do with them, even though they were primarily responsible for helping those with new powers acclimate. It made finding a balance and trying to live my life very difficult, as I was no longer normal.

The new powers were pretty cool, though. All of the carbon in my body had been replaced by a synthetic isotope called Mobium, named after the scientist who had invented it. My metabolism had sped up to ridiculous levels, and I'd been enhanced: stronger than the average human, faster, theoretically more intelligent, with the ability to absorb superpowers from others. Which was why I could involuntarily teleport and why I technically could use Angélica's original powers to shift my momentum and cross distances faster than the eye could follow. We had no idea how the Mobium worked or why I picked up the new powers that I did, considering that I spent a lot of time with Guy and he had a passel of intriguing abilities I wouldn't mind having for myself, and I had nothing to show for it.

Judge all you like, but flight would be a useful ability.

Unfortunately, there were downsides. Dr. Mobius had been inadvertently killed when I'd blown up a Lodi Corp building, which meant that Angélica and I had no idea how any of our powers actually worked. And cutting myself off from Davenport meant I had fewer resources. It led to a lot of nights sitting up in my room, wondering what I had become. Mad scientists rarely wrote instruction manuals for their crazy inventions, even when those inventions were actual ­people.

But still, being kidnapped by Dr. Mobius and changed into a superhero had almost been a blessing. My life before getting superpowers wasn't all that enviable. But the thing I'd hated the most had been my job at
Mirror Reality
magazine, which was why I couldn't explain to my friends now why I'd chosen to go back.

The main office for all of Angus P. Vanderfeld's many magazines hadn't changed much in the ­couple of months I'd been away in Detmer supervillain prison and on the run from the law. It was still in the Shrewsbury building downtown, and thanks to my history of being taken hostage, it still had a great deal more security than the surrounding buildings. Several of the same workers were even still present, though there was a rotating roster of pretty faces hoping for a break—­that one day Angus might declare them perfect for a modeling gig. I estimated about seven ­people actually kept the office functional, and even then, not well.

When I had come and asked for my job back, I'd almost seen something like relief in Angus's patrician, closed-­off face. For a man who prided himself on getting as many Botox shots as possible, it was rare to see an actual expression from him. He'd jetted off to Fashion Week the next day, leaving me with a gigantic docket of backlogged work the wannabe models had left undone.

Two months later, I had things under control. When the call from security buzzed up to my desk, I was between tasks, debating what to eat for my seventh morning snack.

“Ms. Godwin, there's a Ms. Gunn requesting access.”

Naomi was here? That was interesting. I checked my phone, which apparently had been set on
SILENT
, and scrolled through the text messages that I'd missed.

u there?

gail cmon

gail gail gail

plz be there need to talk to u

whatever dropping by anyway

tell security to buzz me up already

For somebody who wrote prize-­winning articles for the Domino and other respected publications, she certainly believed strongly in text-­speak. “It's okay,” I said to Roland the security guard. “Can you give her a guest pass? She should be on my okay list from now on.”

“Got it.”

Roland and I went way back, given how many times we'd nodded tiredly to each other getting off too late. I tugged my shoes on from where I'd kicked them off and peeked into the cubicle next to me. I had to stand on my tiptoes. “Your favorite reporter's here,” I said.

Portia McPeak grumbled and didn't look up from her solitaire game. “She keeps turning me down for coffee. She's missed her chance.”

“Her loss.”

I headed for the elevator to wait for Naomi, figuring she'd be a minute chatting with the guard. She talked to
everybody
if she could get a chance. It made her a good reporter, but it also made going anywhere with her a little annoying.

I was wrong this time. She stepped off the elevator almost immediately, which meant whatever she was dropping by for had to be important.

“That was you at the Chinese food place on the news, wasn't it?” she asked right away, skipping greetings.

“No comment.”

“So, yes?”

“I hear the guy's going to make a full recovery. I didn't even hit him that—­I mean, the woman in the video didn't hit him that hard, and he still had the strength to throw a knife at her afterward.”

Naomi grinned. Her hair, which had been in dreads the last time I'd seen her, was now crimped and gathered in a twist at the back of her neck. “You need better media management skills.”

“Or not to talk to the media, but she keeps texting me. You're not actually here about the Chinese food robber, are you?”

“Luckily for you, nope. Got a spare office or something? We need to talk.”

We went to one of the glass-­walled conference rooms. It didn't afford that much privacy, but at least none of my coworkers could listen in. They weren't used to me having visitors, so I spotted a ­couple curious looks as we walked past the cubicle farm. Luckily, only Portia knew who Naomi was, as she'd helped me break Naomi out of a Davenport facility a few months back.

“What's so urgent?” I asked, digging in the cabinet for snacks. “Is something literally on fire? New threat of apocalypse?”

“Only in San Francisco, and I bet Shark-­Man has that under control.”

I raised my eyebrows. Shark-­Man never had anything under control.

“There aren't any listening devices in here, are there? I would have told you to come to my office, but—­” She waved a hand in my general direction, which was fair. Hostage Girl walking into the Domino headquarters would have raised a few eyebrows. “And I'm pretty sure they've got the place bugged. Part of the gag order.”

“Yes, how's life as a shill?” I asked. As part of Naomi learning the identities of several of its major superheroes, Davenport had pulled a few strings to get her a better job. Unfortunately, she had to follow a certain set of rules. She chafed at them constantly. Usually through long text message screeds sent to my phone at two a.m.

“It sucks, but what can you do?” Naomi pulled a battered red file folder from her hipster messenger bag and dropped it on the table. “This isn't going to be pleasant for you.”

“Is it about Jeremy?” My ex of over a year had been electrocuted while saving the day. It had been heroic and downright stupid on his part, but it had led to powers. I hoped. Jeremy's situation was a new definition of limbo for me, and I didn't like it.

“No,” Naomi said, shaking her head. “This is something else.”

Armed with some of the fancy crackers we kept stocked for meetings and peanut butter that I hoped wasn't expired—­not that it would matter against my own special biology—­I sat down at the conference room table. Naomi flipped the file open. It only took one glance at the top page for me to grimace.

“You look like you smelled something awful,” Naomi said.

“It's not that far out of the realm of possibility, not with him.” The top page was photocopied from what looked like some kind of official dossier.
Christoph Mobius
, it read across the top, and it showed a picture of what could either be a man's face or a Halloween mask that had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Since I'd met the man, I knew it was the former, but some days I still had my doubts. I scowled at the picture. “Where did you g—­wait, what are you doing?”

“What are you talking about?” Naomi began spreading out pages.

“Are you supposed to be looking into this? I thought Davenport cut you a very specific deal, and that deal included no snooping on Lodi Corp.” Lodi had once been a competitor of Davenport's, but when I'd blown up their building and revealed they had a mole inside one of Davenport's offices, Davenport had dismantled Lodi Corp with frightening efficiency. I got the feeling they wanted all of this buried quietly and deeply, which meant Naomi was treading on dangerous ground.

She proved it by nodding. “I'm not supposed to be looking into this, duh.”

“Naomi.”

“Gail.” Naomi stole a cracker and popped the whole thing in her mouth.

“This is why we're both always in trouble,” I said, rubbing my forehead.

“It's not like Davenport would ever tell you any of this. And this has everything to do with you.”

Well, when she put it that way. I looked at the cornucopia of information she'd spread all over the conference table. It shouldn't have surprised me that she would look hard into Lodi, considering how closely she was connected to it. Lodi had—­via Mobius and his serum—­created Brooklyn, alias Chelsea, the superpowered woman who'd hired Naomi to find Guy's and his brother Sam's weaknesses. When Naomi had discovered her new boss was a supervillain, she'd refused to turn over the information she found, and Brook had then tried to kidnap her. The circumstances behind Mobius's involvement with Lodi, however, were still a mystery. And Naomi, with her nose for information, would never rest until she had answers.

Given that her hunt for answers had dragged me into trouble before, though, I didn't feel like the caution on my part was overrated.

“All right, all right, fine,” I said.

Naomi grinned. “You cave too easily.”

“Shut up. What's so important that you had to blow up my phone and then race over, anyway? And, ugh, get this thing out of my face. I hate that guy.” I turned the page with Mobius's face on it over. I'd spent long enough staring at his ugly mug when he'd strapped me to a table and dosed me with his serum. “Where's the fire, anyway? And is it literal?”

“Not literal. This—­” Naomi tapped a page “—­is where the fire is.”

I picked up the page and skimmed the page. “Lodi's lab results for Mobium? Davenport will want that.”

“They can get it the same place I did, if they really want it. But here, take a look at this one, and this one.” She shoved two more pages over, and I read those just as quickly. “Chels—­Brook's lab work. Some of it.”

“This means nothing to me,” I said, frowning. “Lodi was experimenting on her for years. So there are test results, so what?”

“Look at the notes section at the bottom of the page.”

“What about it?”

Naomi reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a little leather-­bound notebook. Somebody's personal journal, I realized, and then the smell of it hit my nostrils. Mobius's personal journal. “Add the notes to this,” Naomi said, waving the journal at me, “and it says some things.”

I took it warily. “Where did you get this?”

Naomi waved a hand. That was fine; I hadn't actually expected her to tell me.

I flipped through the journal. Mobius's handwriting wasn't easy to read: spiky and cramped like he'd been thinking faster than he could write, it filled every page to the very edge. “Do you want me to read all of this?” I asked, feeling a little sick. Apparently my issues over what he'd done to me hadn't vanished. Oh, joy. “Is there a CliffsNotes or something?”

“Once you get through the science and ravings about the Bears, it boils down to him ranting about the thing he hated.”

“Lodi?” I asked, since they'd kind of kept him captive and used him for his giant brain.

Naomi shook her head. “Superheroes.”

I scrunched my nose up. “What?”

“I know, I thought it was strange, too. If the man hated superheroes so much, why make more?”

“Lodi made him do it?”

“I don't think even Lodi could get past this level of mania, Gail.” Naomi took the journal and flipped through the pages, a frown etched into her features. “He really hated you supertypes. On a deep, visceral level.”

“And yet he created a serum that's added three of us to the population,” I said. “I still say Lodi made him do it.”

Naomi groaned. “You'd think you of all ­people would embrace conspiracy theories.”