80.
Sienna
The problem with Jamie Barton was that she was just so gosh-darned earnest. She looked at me and said I was a hero, and I kinda wanted to cry a little. People didn’t tend to call me that, or when they did, it was on some internet discussion forum where several other people called me a freak, a hippo, a menace to society and worse. I’d even concede that there were more complimentary things said about me than uncharitable ones, but it’s hard to pay attention to people praising your graces ten times when someone comes in below them and rails against your faults. I have an eye for the negative, a mind that wallows in my own failings, and a tendency—in spite of the stoic mask I project to the public—to lace up brick boxing gloves and trash myself at the end of the day as a failure, a fraud, and a murderer.
So naturally, when a real, honest-to-goodness hero said something truly kind about me, I swallowed my tears, changed the subject and swooped down to help save the day. As one does.
I wanted to believe the best in myself, that I could be a better me—my best possible self, I heard it called—but I had a lot of baggage weighing me down. I swung around the building once, trying to lay eyes on the interior, which was dimly visible through shattered windows and lengthening shadows. I could see the glint of guns within.
Eve, I said in my head, and felt the reluctant German grunt. You too, Bjorn. Let’s mess with some minds up in this bizznatch.
What is … bizznatch? Bjorn asked. I could feel his befuddlement in my head.
You are a bizznatch, Eve said snidely.
“Working together here, team,” I said, trying to pull them back in line before the bickering started. “We have a limited amount of time, after all.” I almost flew past a window, and then I saw a guy. I zipped around, shot low, and then came surging up like Iron Man or something, right in front of his face when he’d just seen me fly right.
His face didn’t even have a chance to completely show his shock before I blasted him with a light web, encircling him utterly with it, trussing him up like I’d bound him in duct tape. His mouth was covered over, but I could see his eyes, wide and fearful, underneath the light mesh. He had a SCAR assault rifle, but the way I’d bound him, the barrel was shoved hard into his thigh. He fell back with a light thump, rolling slightly, a little like a turtle on its back.
“I’d safety that if I were you,” I said, dodging around him so that I wasn’t in the line of fire. His eyes followed me, frightened. “I mean, you could try and shoot to warn your buddies I’m coming, but it looks to me like your barrel is butted up against your femoral artery, and there’s no way an ambulance would get here in time to save you from bleeding to death, so …” I shrugged. “The choice is yours, mercenary, but if I were you, I’d wait it out and let the cops come get you, because bleeding out is—”
The rifle cracked, and I heard the merc’s agonized grunt as the bullet ripped through his leg, followed by two more. The idiot had held down the trigger, like a moron, and now he was gushing blood all over the place.
“Thanks for nothing,” I said and kicked him unconscious. I probably should have done that to begin with, but unfortunately, my strength is not a thing I have full control over, so he went flying, right over the edge of the open window.
“No killing,” Jamie said, slipping in, lifting the merc back in as she entered. She did a double take at the geyser of blood shooting out from his leg, and her mouth fell open as she looked at me accusingly.
“I did not do that,” I said in mild protest, “he shot himself to warn his buddies we’re coming, so—” I waved a hand behind me, toward a nearby staircase, where the sound of pounding boots was audible as bad guys were coming our way. “Might want to get ready to defend against an onslaught of bullets.”
No sooner did I get the words out than three guys with SCAR rifles came pounding down the stairs. I was all set to net the rifles out of their hands, but I was a trace too slow, because their rifles went flying, and then the men themselves came together in one giant crunch, like they were trying to create a rugby scrum, but they did it at top speed. I heard the clunk of heads and the groans of pain as their noggins met, and then all three slumped to the ground, their hands tight to their sides and their backs anchored to one another.
I stared at the bizarre spectacle of their little unconscious huddle. “Did you just—”
“Let’s go,” Jamie said, hurrying across the room and stepping over them.
There was graffiti everywhere in this place. Shattered walls collapsing all around, turn of the last century architecture gone to seed, brick crumbling, creepy old medical equipment left out like whoever had been here hadn’t needed it anymore. The writing on the walls made me think of the most ragged-ass parts of cities I’d been to. We hoofed it down the stairs toward where we’d heard these guys come from, but silently, our feet a little off the ground by mutual, unspoken accord. This was a stealth mission, in spite of the screw-ups that had already happened.
We came quietly out of the stairs on the landing below and Jamie peeked around the corner, drawing a sharp breath. “She’s here,” she said so quietly only a meta could have heard her, and then I listened hard, and heard a below-the-breath cry as a young lady far down the hall tried to hold in a sob.
Captured by armed mercenaries, scared for your life, trying not to show fear or weakness to them? Yeah, that sounded about right.
“What do you think is going to be waiting for us?” Jamie asked, breathing quietly.
“I don’t know, but probably more than just mercs,” I said. “I don’t think they want you walking away from this alive.” It was something that had been bothering me all along, probably because I’d had a few martyr fantasies last year when it seemed to me like everyone—including my own brother—hated me. “It’s not enough that your enemies destroy your reputation and your life. They have to bring you down while you’re ruined and can’t fight back. That way you die in darkest despair, believing the worst of everybody, and uh …” I tried to moderate my tone, “… you know. That you’ll never be vindicated, that they’ll all have taken you for granted, and …” I decided to stop before I outed myself. “It’s the ultimate way to bring down a hero. Tarnish their rep so people think they’re not a hero anymore, kill them while they’re down so there’s no hope of redemption.”
She blinked a couple times, slowly. “I never cared what people thought of me. I just wanted to do the right thing, whether anyone appreciated it or not.”
I felt a certain tightness in my chest. “However this ends, you won’t be remembered like they’re painting you. I promise.”
She smiled faintly, but she didn’t ask the obvious question—How can you, Sienna Nealon, do anything about that? Instead, she said, “I believe you.”
And then she ducked low around the corner, and I heard men scream.
I dodged around behind her, following close, hands up, nets at the ready. I wasn’t at my best, but I was still wicked fast, and I peeled off two guys with guns that she missed, coming out of a room below the staircase while Jamie rammed three guys together with gusto like she had on the floor above. They crumpled together, and she sent them flying into the concrete staircase with a thump—but not too hard. I trussed up my two and we swept forward like a tactical team. Well, I walked like a tactical team.
Jamie broke into a run, hurrying toward her daughter like she hadn’t seen her in a year.
“Kyra,” she hissed in a whisper as she hurried through the shadowy darkness of the crumbling hospital. Outside I could see the light of day shining down, but in here, it was like being under the shade of a great pavilion.
“Mom?” Kyra called back. She was bound to a chair, like every hostage in every movie I’d ever seen. She rattled the damned chair anxiously, the disbelief spreading over her face as she took in the fact that her mother was dressed as Gravity Gal. “Mom?” she said again.
“It’s me,” Jamie said, ducking low behind her. I heard a snap, and the ropes that anchored Kyra to the chair ripped as Jamie pulled her daughter to her feet. She wasn’t exactly like a miniature Jamie—the nose was rounder, her hair a darker shade of blond. I didn’t see much resemblance, honestly. Kyra gave me a once-over.
“Is—is that Sienna Nealon?” she asked her mom, staring at Jamie in confusion as her mom grabbed her by the arm in preparation to launch her out the window.
“Literally standing right here where you could ask me,” I said, then looked at Jamie. “Let’s vamoose before this thing goes sidewa—”
“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” The shout rattled the walls of the near empty building, and I felt my best possible self take a hit.
Scott Byerly was standing right at the window we were about to fly out of, streams of water propelling him into the building. I looked behind us to try another avenue, and found Guy Friday bulging up, ready to block our exit on the opposite side, and then a final sweep found—dammit—
“Frost!” Jamie shouted as Captain Effing Frost walled up the exit with a solid wall of ice at the far end of the room, where we entered, blocking the staircase and cutting off our retreat. “You—”
“It’s all over,” Scott said, and I was pretty damned sure he was right as I looked back and saw, under the chair—naturally—a bomb, with the requisite timer, counting down from two minutes.