That’s the problem with being an ordinary in the world of heroes—it’s impossible not to feel less all of the time.
It won’t always be like this, I promise myself. Mom might be working on a way to neutralize villain powers and amplify hero ones, but I’m working on a way to create them.
If my research is successful, if I can get the chemical sequencing right, then I won’t be ordinary forever. I’ll be powerful, and more important, I’ll matter.
To everyone.
Chapter 4
The elevator doors glide open and I step inside, away from the chaos of the heroes and the Cleaners and the aftermath of the security breach on sub-level one. Walking away from the lab feels strange. Everything is different now, and not because of the breakin or the explosion. It’s because of him. Draven.
For a second the image of his face pops into my head—all high cheekbones and sculpted jaw—but I refuse to acknowledge it. Refuse to acknowledge him. If I don’t think about what he said, what he did, what he didn’t do, then I don’t have to think about how confusing it all is.
Villains are bad. I know this. I have always known this. I’ve seen them blow shit up on the news a million times. Seen the aftermath of the earthquakes and fires and devastation they’ve caused around the world. One of them killed my dad in cold blood while another—
I stop myself. I’ve worked too hard to put that behind me. The fact that I’m even thinking these thoughts now is just more proof that Draven and his friends are bad news. Just because they didn’t kill me doesn’t mean they aren’t bad—and bad for me.
After all, it’s not like I ran into them while getting a milkshake at Sonic or hanging at the mall with Rebel. They were breaking into a top-secret superhero lab to steal…something. I don’t know what, but they were really pissed that they couldn’t find it.
Not pissed enough to take it out on me, but they were distracted. And in a hurry. Thinking, even for a minute, that they might not be evil simply because they let me live is stupid. Worse, it’s suicidal.
Draven might have stuck up for me once, but I doubt he’d do it again. Besides, my wrists still hurt. Which means if I’m around the next time he catches on fire, there’s no way I’m putting it out.
With that promise to myself, I turn the corner into the ESH lobby. The face we present to the public is all very normal looking. Shiny chrome, gleaming leather, and sparkling glass. Just what you would expect from a company that designs innovative technology.
There’s no indication that the ESH has anything to do with superheroes, which is how they’ve managed to keep their power and influence out of the limelight for more than sixty years.
I’m almost to the exit when men start streaming through the front door. It’s the middle of the night and even Mr. Malone, who doesn’t normally have a hair out of place, was dressed down. Not these men. Each is dressed in a perfectly pressed suit in some shade of gray—heather, slate, asphalt, ash… And they’re all wearing sunglasses. Aviator Ray-Bans, it looks like. They spread out in pairs, fanning across the lobby like an army. Or a plague of locusts.
“Let me see your ID,” one says as he and his partner approach me.
Who are these guys? I mean, they look like top secret government agents, but that doesn’t make sense. SHPD has already taken over this investigation. Besides, it’s not like we have a superhero version of the CIA or FBI. We’ve never needed one. Superheroes take care of their own trouble.
“I’m just leaving.” I try to step around the one who addressed me.
“Your ID,” the second one insists, blocking my way. If possible, he sounds even more obnoxious—and determined—than his partner.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Your ID,” the first one repeats. There’s no emotion behind his voice. No threat. No rage. Just the assurance that I am not getting out of here until I give them what they want.
I’ve had enough. I took enough crap from the villains tonight. I’m not taking it from these guys too. Where do they get off?
I go nose to nose with Suit 1. “Do you have a badge?”
He reaches into his jacket, produces a small leather wallet, and flashes a shiny gold badge and ID at me. I can only make out the initials NTF before he stuffs it back in his chest pocket.
“What did that say?” I ask. “I couldn’t even—”
“If you don’t produce your ID,” Suit 2 says, “we will take you into custody until your identity can be confirmed.”
“Are you kidding?” I’m not the one who doesn’t belong here.
“Counterfeit IDs were used to access the facility,” Suit 1 says. “All personnel IDs must be tested for authenticity.”
When I don’t immediately reach for my badge, he steps toward me and clamps a big, beefy hand around my forearm.
“Don’t touch me!” I yank at my arm, but he won’t let go.