There was no response in words, but the street took on an unusual stillness. No pedestrians were nearby. Malcolm let his eyes scan over the shadows in alleyways and behind parked cars. He couldn’t even guess at where she’d be hiding.
“I just…” He spoke in a quiet voice, not really sure what he had to say. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to run away from me.”
“Then don’t show up with the king of the champions as your wingman next time,” came a whisper.
Malcolm grinned. He tried to pinpoint where her voice had come from, but it was impossible with the ambient noise of the bar behind him.
“Stay safe,” he said. “Please.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” whispered Rose.
“Point taken.” Malcolm took a breath and slowly exhaled.
I miss her. But would it matter if I told her that?
“Cutter!” came Savior’s booming voice from inside. “Where’d you run off to?”
Malcolm frowned, taking one last look at the darkness outside.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said. “I’m your friend. Don’t forget that, okay?”
There was no response, but somehow, Malcolm knew that she’d heard him. He reminded himself that she was strong and capable. She knew where to find him, if she wanted to continue the conversation. And she was smart enough to pick a good time.
He headed back inside the tavern. Savior had two shots set in front of him at the bar and was grinning like a madman. He pushed one toward Malcolm and slapped a hand on the counter.
“Vodka,” said Savior. “It’s good for the soul. Cleanses pesky thoughts from the mind with just a sip.”
“I’m pretty sure it does exactly the opposite of that, more often than not,” said Malcolm.
“You’re a card, Cutter!” said Savior. “Ready? One, two, and down!”
Malcolm drank the shot, the taste of it burning his throat as it went down. As much as he hated to admit it, the slight buzz it gave him was preferable to the mood he’d been in prior.
Savior ordered them another round of beers, and then more shots. Somewhere in between really drunk and absolutely sloshing, Malcolm found himself recalling the man’s words from earlier.
“Do you ever… give out pardons?” mumbled Malcolm. “On behalf of other people?”
“Huh…?” Savior let out a burp and banged his shot glass on the bar counter, signaling for Scribe to bring him another. “Pardons…? You know a monster that deserves one?”
Malcolm didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure of how much he was willing to disclose. Savior seemed to be relatively good natured, but he was still the leader of an organization designed to hunt and kill sprytes and demons. For Malcolm to disclose his relationship with one to him, of all people, would be foolhardy.
“Let me tell you what,” said Savior, slurring his words. “You do good work for me here while I’m in town, and we’ll talk about it. I like monsters, you know? They aren’t all bad… well, sometimes they are. But…”
Savior sighed. Scribe had set a new shot in front of him, and he poured it down his throat.
“Cutter, killing doesn’t get easier the more you do it,” said Savior. “That’s just a myth. First few times, maybe. But then… there’s a smell to it. It just gets more unpleasant as time passes. It’s like a smell sealed into your memories, and it never goes away. And so you do what you must.”
He laughed and waved to Scribe again, who was starting to look a little annoyed.
“No,” said Savior, as she went to refill his shot glass. “Just… give me the bottle.”
Malcolm had one arm under Savior’s shoulder as they left Terri’s Tavern. He headed toward his apartment, fearing what Tapestry’s reaction would be if the two of them showed up on her doorstep after midnight, completely plastered.
“Let’s just… fly there!” mumbled Savior.
“You are tanked,” said Malcolm. “Drinking and flying sounds like…”
Savior took a bounding step and leapt in the air.
Well, I was about to say it sounds like a bad idea. But I guess we’re doing it.
Steadying his senses and balance, Malcolm reached out, feeling for the wind. His power was a constant, always there, always waiting for him. Using it was less like magic and more like flexing a muscle.
He coaxed the wind into a powerful gust behind him, taking a few long strides before springing upward. Malcolm used more force than he needed to, fearing that the alcohol might suppress the strength of his abilities. In fact, it was the opposite.
“Whoa!” he shouted.
He flew down the street and over the buildings at the end of it. He could just barely make out Savior’s figure ahead of him. The moon was peeking out through the night’s dark cloud cover, and every couple of seconds, the silhouette of a super powered champion would appear in front of it.
“Let’s fly to the moon!” shouted Savior. “The ground cannot hold us!”
I honestly think he’d try to, after a few more shots.
“We should take it easy, for tonight,” shouted Malcolm. “You’re a little bit wild, right now.”
“Onward, Cutter!” screamed Savior. “We’re champions!”
Savior flew higher into the air. Malcolm had his own method, slightly less elegant than the champion leader’s effortless, physics defying gliding. He used the wind in bursts, boosting himself upward as though he was bouncing off the air.
Malcolm was all too aware of the danger of the seductive, confusing euphoria, part of the body load that came with abusing superpowers. The metal stabilizer around his wrist would help keep his mood significantly more mediated than otherwise, but he could still feel that familiar excited rush, even on top of being drunk.
“Savior!” shouted Malcolm. “Hold on!”
They were several hundred feet in the air already, high enough up for the wind to take on a harsh chill. Malcolm lost sight of Savior for a moment and hesitated in between upward bursts, spinning in a slow circle to try to catch sight of him.
“Surprise!” Savior slammed into him from above, both of them spinning as they hurtled toward the ground.
Malcolm screamed, both out of terror and exhilaration. He was twisted around and unable to see the ground beneath them, though he could feel their descent. Savior’s hand was clutching his wrist. Malcolm suddenly felt the strange, tingling sensation that he recognized as the signal that he’d absorbed a superpower using his power mimicry ability.
Wait… I just copied Savior’s powers?
The two of them landed in the middle of a grassy park. Savior stumbled and let go of Malcolm on impact, who tumbled head over heels and eventually came to a rest in front of a sleeping homeless man on a park bench. The homeless man blinked open his eyes, grumbled something, and then went back to sleep.
Malcolm slowly pulled himself up, standing on drunken feet. He flexed his hand, considering what had just happened, and what it meant. He looked at Savior. The leader of the Champion Authority was huddled next to a bush, vomiting onto the grass behind it.
“Time to call it a night,” said Malcolm.
CHAPTER 9
Malcolm woke up with the worst hangover of his life. He sat up in bed, groaning as his body announced its aches.
Savior was already awake, sitting on the couch, playing PS4 and muttering at the screen. Malcolm poured himself a glass of water and took stock of the ingredients in his meager kitchen.
Probably better if we just head to Tapestry’s and beg her to make us breakfast.
“It keeps telling me to press R1,” said Savior. “Is that the bottom button, or the top?”
“Top,” said Malcolm. “How are you feeling?”
Savior paused the game and looked over his shoulder at Malcolm, smiling and looking far less ragged than Malcolm felt.