It was a dark, foggy night on the mean streets of the city, the kind of night that keeps most sensible, law-abiding citizens home, tucked safely in their beds. A night for villains. Maybe even a night for heroes, if the price is right.
An orange streetlamp flickered dolefully through the mist outside the diner where I sat sipping a coffee and attempting to use my largely decorative turquoise cape for warmth. Turquoise isn’t really my color, but the fabric was on sale and anyway, none of the other superheroes were wearing that color. It made me distinctive. The Turquoise Teleporter–or the Turquoise Terror, depending who you ask.
If you ask me, alliteration is an overused literary device.
The hunched form of an old woman scurried along the sidewalk just outside the window. She was there and gone in seconds, but those seconds were long enough for me and any villain in the city to see that she was loaded. She wore a long, elegant fur coat and had her hair coiffed in one of those styles that required a team of hair surgeons to pull off. I could have sworn I’d seen something flashing at her ears, too–diamonds, maybe. And even if all of that was fake, she was still making herself a target. Rich twit begging to be mugged: news at eleven.
My cue, in other words.
In a flash, I was on the sidewalk outside the diner, peering into the gloom for some sign of the woman. It was cold out here, too cold to be wearing what amounted to a swimsuit and cape, but I’d learned the hard way that no one takes you seriously in this business if you wear sensible shoes and an overcoat.
The fog was too thick to see the woman, so I flashed down the sidewalk in roughly the direction the woman had been going. With visibility so low, it was the muffled cries that told me I’d found the right place: a few feet ahead where an alley intersected the main road.
Please tell me she got dragged into that alley, because if she was stupid enough to try a shortcut, I don’t think I can help her.
It wasn’t true, of course. I would help her. It’s what I did. But sometimes I wished I could do it for people who were just a little bit worthier. Where was my hot, objectified boy toy with a heart of gold whom I could rescue from a crashing plane? The closest I’d ever gotten was this marketing manager who swore he could help me improve my image but who mostly seemed to want a cover to tell me I’d look prettier if I smiled.
Don’t you dare picture me with a smile. It’s not happening. Not even for a fur-lined cape. Okay, maybe for a fur-lined cape.
When I rounded the corner to the alley, all I could see was two silhouettes struggling against one another. The larger figure finally broke free and ran in my direction, skidding to a halt when he realized he had company. This put him about three feet from me, so I did what I do: I closed the distance, flashed us both to the top of the nearest tall building, and told him I’d leave him there if he didn’t hand back the purse and whatever else he’d stolen. The whole business took about thirty seconds, then I dropped him at the nearest police station and flashed back to the alley.
Now came the hard part.
“Give me back my purse,” the woman said, stiffly. Not so much as a cursory thank you here. Well, that did make things easier.
Reaching inside the top of my swimsuit, I pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her. “My bill.”
“Your what?” She snatched the piece of paper from me and scowled. “I can’t read this in the dark!”
“It’s all in order, an itemized list of services and fees. There’s the interception, the recovery of goods, the delivery to the police station, and an after-hours surcharge. Altogether, that’s two thousand dollars.”
“Two thousand dollars! I didn’t agree to any of this.”
“Would you like me to retrieve the mugger and hand him back the purse?”
“No!”
“Well, then, I’ve got to make a living.”
“You’re no hero. Heroes don’t charge for their services.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor, a surgeon.”
“Do real surgeons charge for their services?”
She spluttered, which I assumed meant I’d made my point.
“I tell you what. I’ll hold the purse as collateral. When I get your check at the address on the sheet, you get this back.”
She spluttered some more, but I flashed away. Back to the diner, to my office, to my cup of coffee and my inadequate clothing. Outside the window, the fog was beginning to lift. Businesses were closing, lights going out. The night belonged to the villains now; I was clocking out.
Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series. In addition to writing, she is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.