“How?” the woman said softly. “How do you know you’re right?”
Blushing, Celia squirmed inside her jacket. The woman was looking at her like she was part of some conspiracy, some criminal mastermind in the midst of a nefarious plot. Paranoia seemed to be an inherent part of the crime-fighting lifestyle.
It was like finding another member of a secret club; Celia had to show that she knew the handshake.
“I sort of grew up learning to recognize people under their masks. I guess I have a knack for it. I’m Celia West.” She offered her hand.
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “The Celia West? Damn, I guess you would have a knack for it. Look, there’s a freighter sinking in the harbor so I have to run. But we’re going to talk later, okay? I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, sure,” Celia said, but the woman had already started running across the quad.
The call came at 10:00 P.M., and at eleven they were at Pee Wee’s, the all-night coffee shop near campus, trading war stories. Her name was Analise Baker. Celia liked her. She was brash and outspoken, impulsive and generous—the kind of personality that might lead one to become a vigilante crime fighter.
She had no problem asking the questions that everyone was thinking, but few ever found the courage to voice. “God, you’re the daughter of West Corp’s CEO; what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you have a limo and a penthouse somewhere?”
“I wanted to get away from that for a while.” As if she might actually go back to it someday.
“So what was it like? You had half the Olympiad as parents—what was it like growing up with them?”
It sucked like a starving lamprey. But no one wanted to hear that. She had a well-practiced answer. “It was interesting. Really, though, they tried to keep me out of things as much as possible.”
Which wasn’t all that possible, in the end. But Analise stared back with stars in her eyes and let out a sigh.
Celia kept her mouth shut. Let them imagine whatever they wanted. It was all water under the bridge.
* * *
“I can’t believe you’re working today,” Analise had gushed on the phone. “Couldn’t you call in sick or something?”
“I prefer things get back to normal as quickly as possible.” That was always how she’d handled it when she was younger. Pretend like nothing had happened. Pretend like you didn’t need to be coddled. Pretend like you weren’t helpless.
Celia relented to being ranted at in person at Analise’s favorite diner, a block from the building that housed Smith and Kurchanski.
Analise, it seemed, had called in sick after last night’s excitement. She was waiting for Celia in a corner booth, and she’d already ordered salads for them both.
“Tell me all about it. Tell me everything,” she said, before Celia had even sat. Analise was hipper than Celia. Her hair, braided in cornrows, was pulled back in a ponytail. She dressed like she was still in college, in jeans and faded concert T-shirt for an old punk band. She worked at an independent record store, of course, lived in a not-so-great part of town, and yet was never afraid to walk home after dark. Her round brown eyes sparkled.
“Don’t you read the papers?” Celia said. She was sure Analise had, but that didn’t matter. She told the story, again, and she had to admit, with Analise as an eager audience the e
pisode sounded much more adventurous than it had felt.
When she got to the part where Mentis incapacitated the room, Analise shivered. “You can actually feel him in your mind? Ugh. That guy makes me nervous.”
“He’s not so bad. For someone who can read minds, he’s really nonjudgmental. You know; you’ve met him.”
“Briefly,” she said. “Professionally. And I kept my distance. Besides, I’m incredibly jealous. He always gets much better press than I do. I mean, look at this.” Her voice dropped in volume.
She pulled a rolled-up paper out of her backpack and spread it out on the table, facing Celia. The Commerce Eye, the city’s tabloid rag. The headline blared: “Typhoon and Breezeway: On Again?”
Celia didn’t know for certain, but she was sure Analise kept a scrapbook of these headlines. “You know better than to read that crap.”
“They’ve spent months inventing this whole sordid affair, and then just because we both show up at the same place at the same time and happen to do a little tag-teaming, they think there’s something going on. Like I would ever go out with that jerk.” A blurry photo showed the city’s two hippest superhuman fighters: Breezeway was a tall, lithe man wearing a silver skin suit and a mask, hovering a dozen feet above the ground as he surveyed a tidal wave rising from a fountain, where Typhoon stood. She also went masked, and wore a blue costume of shimmering silk, but some of her features remained clear: dark skin, and a cascade of braided hair.
“You could call them and complain,” Celia said.
“What, and validate everything they’ve said? No. I’m just venting, you know that.” She rolled up the newspaper and started to put it back in her bag.
“Wait, can I see that again?” Celia gestured for her to hand over the paper. Analise spread the tabloid back on the table.