Chapter Thirty: When I Ruled The World

Song Selection: Viva La Vida— Cover By Future Idiots (That's right, like chapter one)

Percy's pretty sure she's screwed. Looking at those streets, trying to find a route where she won't encounter a van, it all seems impossible. She doesn't have her phone on her; there's no one she can call for backup. Just her, the notebook, and the night sky.

She tries to think of all her skills. Martial arts is a bit of a no-go. The whole punching people generally doesn't go her way, what with her being 5'1, lean on the muscle mass side, and really not into the whole shoving her knuckles into someone's face shtick. Even if she was none of those, being human and not super did kind of have a tempering effect on her getting-into-fights-with-strangers enthusiasm

But there's something she is good at: convincing people to like her. Kind of runs in the family.

She steels herself. "You don't need powers, Percy."

She's wearing Monet's hoodie, it smells like Monet, for one; coffee, dried ink, and heavy athletic deodorant, and it's so big on her, she feels like she can hide in it. Sort of dive deep into the fleecy insides and pretend the world doesn't exist, just her and coffee and Lady Axe. She throws the hood over her head, shoves the damned notebook between her bra and her chest.

What would Monet do? It's not a question she always asks her, because usually Monet's approach to anything is a little...blunt. But it's evidence Monet got, so its evidence she has to consider what Monet would want her to do with. Monet didn't go to the police with this information; she didn't trust them.

The name hits her like a punch.

Mayweather.

It may not look like much, but I swear the journalism office is knee-deep in some illegal, you know, employee practices. Which, you know, I can let slide for the Journal, because what else are they gonna do? Not exist? Yeah, I'm sure corporations and politicans would love that. I mean, there's usually someone in there burning the midnight oil, way into the wee hours of the morning. And say what you will about Mayweather, it's usually her.

Van #1: Percy knocks on the door. Bangs right on the passenger window, says in the sweetest voice she can muster: I'm lost, and I can't find my way back home from this dumb party. Could you point me in the direction of The Journal?

The man squints, and she offers him a pleading look. He points his thumb toward Elward Street. She says her thanks and slips into the night, undectected. That's what she does. She plays Snow White to their Huntsmen. Slinking past vans, crawling through clover patches and grass on her stomach like the world's daintiest soldier, when people notice her, she gives pleading looks with big eyes and sob-stories with her honey-sweet voice.

Some buy it, some don't. But by the time those that don't decide that she's dangerous, she's already scampering off, fast on her feet. And through ducking, weaving, begging, lying, she makes it to the dilipidated building that . "The Journal" is written on a tarp hanging from the front brick exterior. There's grime where mortar should be, it's long and dark and smells like mildew from the outside, the door thick and dungeon-esque to Percy.

Percy slams her fists on the metal frame. It's loud. She doesn't want to be loud, not right now, not with all these big white vans and people watching, waiting to wrench her into the back of their vehicles. A cool breeze blows against her skin through Monet's hoodie, the moon flitting out from the dark sky while she howls for help.

"Ms. Mayweather! Ms. Mayweather! Help, it's Percy!"

The door flies open. Virginia Mayweather is a small woman with very big hair, puffed up with hairspray, shiny with mousse. She has dark circles under her almond eyes, and her green dress is pressed to her body, damp with what has to be sweat. "What." It's not a question from her. Just a cold, tired word.

Percy yanks the journal out from her shirt, causing a few bewildered blinks and a mouth startled open from Mayweather. "Monet has evidence that the mayor's who paid for the supers getting their powers taken away. People are looking for it. I need your help."

"Well then, don't just stand there!" Mayweather pulls Percy into the thin little building that smells of incense and old, damp carpet. Mayweather drags her past the couple of plastic chairs that make up the waiting room, drags her into the cubicles, all carpet walls and old blocky computers.. Percy winces, The Journal's office is more of a cemetery for journalism than a place fit for justice-seekers and truth-tellers.

The room Mayweather pulls her into seems like a breakroom, no bigger than a hallway, with a folding table, cabinets, mini-fridge, microwave and a coffee pot that's currently steaming. Mayweather pours coffee into a "#1 BOSS" mug and hands it to Percy, waving for her to sit down. There's an open Chromebook on the folding table, the screen flickering, and a Styrofoam cup steaming beside it. The two women sit to the sound of scraping chairs in the otherwise eerily stark quiet.

"What do you know?" Mayweather spins the computer around and shows her that it's recording. Mayweather was always a scary figure when Monet spoke about her; might as well have been the goddess of truth or something. But Percy likes her, likes the fiery dark eyes and clunky jewelry that glitters against her chest. "Hon, it's okay. You can trust me. Do I need to call for superheroes? To protect us?"

Percy takes a sip of the bitter liquid that Monet could never quit. Percy fights the urge to spit it out; it tastes like shit. She nods, taking in a big gulp of air to steady herself. Something's shifting, Percy can feel it. This is what Monet would want, if Monet had to die, this is how she would want to go out; a piece in the fight for the truth.

Percy opens her mouth. No supers come exploding through the windows, no Max shoots a dart through her chest. The words finally come out, small and whispery from her, like they migh evaporate once they touch the air. "The mayor tried to kill Monet because he's why the heroes lost their powers..."

And so comes the awful truth, in long, gangly paragraphs between short, gasping breaths. Books of the stuff, really. She speaks to the woman, a kind of hero in her own right, and to the angry red light beside the computer's pin-point camera. When Percy's finished, she takes another sip of the bitter coffee. Her heart beats a little faster. She gets the appeal of the stuff Monet goes on and on about.

"This—this—" Mayweather finally finishes recording. Her eyes are glowing; it looks superhuman to Percy, but she knows better, Mayweather isn't a super, but she's about to break the world apart and raise justice in another, human way. "We're going to take him down. You came to the right person."

Percy nods absently, thinking of her mother and Mr. Jackson. "Can I use your phone?"

"Of course." Mayweather puts her cellphone on the table. She pats Percy on the hand, her voice suddenly soft. "And tell Monet when she wakes up that she most definitely has her job back."

Percy smiles for the first time since she heard Monet was in the hospital.

***

The five boys don't fit that easily in the car, especially since after some arguing, they decide not to shove Max into the trunk this time. Galaxy says she'll shadow them, just to make sure the breaking into the hospital shtick doesn't backfire, but she's somewhere up in the air, no-help with the seat assignments or torturous car ride ahead. Gideon takes shotgun, Chip's idea, that way he won't have to sit beside Max. So Max is wedged between Finn and Chip, sleeping off his sins, Kai determined to drive this leg of the journey. And Max looks peaceful to Finn; this pretty face, the smile frozen on even in sleep. But he's twitching.

Chip grabs his guitar. "What do you want me to play, Finn?"

It's really fucking weird, listening to Chip speak, unprompted. Not begging them for help or grunting something under his breath. And it's good. Finn's smiling, he can't help it. The relief of having what's essential a mystical being in the front, of having the person that had turned their lives upside down beside them, no longer a threat, someone who they're going to bring to justice. It's, well, it's good.

Finn opens his mouth to make a suggestion along the lines of anything as long as it isn't Billie Eilish. But Max stirs.

"Viva La Vida." The ex super-villain never opens his eyes. "That'll make things go down a lot earlier."

Chip looks at Finn, and Finn shrugs. "That, if you wanna. It's not Billie Eilish, so."

Chip lays the guitar delicately across his lap, giving it a loving pat along its base before gripping the neck and strumming. It's a song Chip must've known by heart, and his voice is softer when he sings it. His eyes are closed, his fingers precise on the chords. But Finn shifts his eyes away from Chip, watching Max's face. The teen keeps his eyes squeezed shut, but a flushed color rushes to his face. The ex-supervillain trembles.

Finn offers his shoulder a pat. Did Max try to bash his skull in a little less than a month ago? Yes. But there's pain in the face, and Finn can't help the touch.

"...But that was when I ruled the world."

It's just a couple of tears that escape down his shirt. "I'm sorry, I mean it this time. I do."

It's hard to believe him. Max is an expert liar, probably speaks more lies than the truth. And Finn is far from immune, the first time he saw Max, he only saw a rich little brat who Monet went all googly eyes for. He never saw what lay behind the designer clothes and goofy smiles. He never saw the monster.

"I guess I thought I was fated to do this. I can't, can't keep doing this, pretending it was all someone else's doing, when I know now."

"....For some reason I can't explain, I know St. Peter won't call my name..."

Finn isn't a comforter, and Gideon and Kai are blathering to each other in the front sets. They both just love to fucking talk. Each injustice they've suffered at Max's hands, parred down and dissected, analyzed. Their voices overlap and bounce off each other, forming a background rumble like the roar of the sea to Finn's tired ears. And the singing is soothing, this quiet, pretty thing. It's just Max, Finn, sound, song.

"Now you don't have to bash people's skulls in?" Finn offers. "Maybe, who knows, you can become a good guy?"

"Is that even possible?" It's genuine, Finn decides, because there isn't any reason for the villain to lie anymore. Max is looking at him now, through half-lidded sleepy eyes. "I tried to kill you."

"Yeah, well...." Finn looks out the window, and into the reflection of himself in glowing glasses. His heart hurts, hurts for this near killer, for a stupid reason: Finn's human, he can't help that the tears make him tense up and feel a little pang in his chest. "..,there's something you can do."

"Hmm." It's a dry sound; Max doesn't believe him, Finn can tell.

"You can confess. That'll put your dad in jail."

Max's eyes open, wide now. "I-I can't."

"It's your choice." Finn shrugs.

"...But that was when I ruled the world." Chip finishes the song and Max leans back against the seat. But Finn knows he's sent the villain's gears turning, he can see it in the stormy look on his face where the unreadable, cool one usually sits.

***

Where am I. What's going on. Why was there barrel of a gun pointed to my stomach in the mayor's house, why was there pain, and why am I not there anymore? Am I dead? Is this what happens to you when I die?

A white room, a gray bed-frame. Cold that seeps through the thin sheet over me and a kind of cold that gnaws on the bone. There's a monitor over my head, plastic tubes running from my wrists to hanging bags. For a second, I figure that I'm in purgatory. But that can't be it, because I'm not in pain, which is kind of a new phenomena for me? The not hurting?

There's a stranger looking down at me, a wiry, handsome guy, with curly black hair and white tattoos glowing on his arm. His hand's on my shoulder and he's smiling. An angel. So maybe this is heaven?

Where. What. Why. Who.

"Who are you?"

And like that, there's a purple form beside him. Just a streak that manifests into a person. A superhero, one I've never seen, all glittering purple armor. "Your friends really love you," she says. The angel takes his hand off my shoulder and grips her by the glove, and they're both gone. I blink. Just a purple streak, out the window.

The hospital. I'm in the hospital. Nurses in blue scrubs and operating masks burst into the room, an army of them. I shrink back against the pillows, because being mobbed is a terrifying experience even by people who are trying to keep you alive. "Where's my dad? Where's my friends? Where's Percy, is she okay?" There isn't any reason for Percy not to be okay, but I ask anyway.

They talk excitedly over me, words like 'miracle' and 'impossible' buzz buzzing from their mouth. "Ms. Onyx," says a nurse, "you were in a coma." They're boosting me up, taking my blood pressure, talking, talking fast. It's all spiraling in my head, the bullets, the mayor. But the words don't come out, not thank you or holy fuck I'm alive.

"Oh," I say, and, "Not to be rude, but do you think I could get a cup of coffee?"

***

Whoa, what's this? A double update? Yuppers. One more coming tonight, the last chapter, just figured I better finish this in case  I go into an unannounced hiatus again, whichiswearididn'tmeantodo.   Just, wow, roommate gets her own place and my life becomes a goddamn Wattpad novel in itself (like a coming of age ha-ha-funny-the-protagonist-is-a-doofus one, not like one of my own Wattpad novels, thank God, if I got superpowers I'd...be a bad super), so life's flattened me like a pancake, but uh, I thinnnk I'm back? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

xDamian