Chapter Seven: The Nature of Villainy

Late into the night, Gideon scrambles two eggs and a handful of tortilla chips together for me. It's a trick to fill up your stomach and add a little crunch to your meal, he tells me, especially if you're on the cheap. He sprinkles crushed Lays chips over his dish, which is unorthodox, sure, but he assures me he likes a little salt-and-potato-kick with everything he eats. And it works; I'm full. And when we finish, he unravels a padded bedroll and I collapse in the sturdy cushion, hands clasped behind my head.

"Tell me about yourself," he says as I stare at the ceiling. Starlight wends splashes on the old stucco, and I watch the glints shift and disappear behind patches of cloud. A half-hour has passed and neither of us is asleep. As the darkness spreads its inky fingers into the apartment, Gideon's breathing quickens, quick and ragged like it was in the alley. And my eyes are pinned open wide. Everyman? I think. Everyman. It had to be Everyman. Of course, they want to take away his powers, and of course, they're in the right. No power like his should belong to any single person; he could create monsters. And besides, he's hoarding it all to himself. Millions are dying, all of which he could save, millions are suffering while he lies in bed, quiet and calm except for those long, gasping breaths. I pitch myself on my side and stare out past the balcony window. These same stars see over Silver Dollar, but they're different here, colder.

"I'm a bad person," I say. "I made a lot of mistakes, a lot of them I don't regret."

He shifts on his mattress, and the scream under his weight. His shadow spreads, long and thin, pointing at me like the spindly hand of some judging thing. "Edgy," he repeats. I like his voice like this, hoarse and quiet. A quivery laugh bubbles up from the back of his throat. It's a soft, muted series of sounds. Like the plink-plink of falling rain.

"I'm not edgy."

"Mmm-hmm. Says the boy who wears all black, beats people up, and mopes about being a bad person while he's a superhero."

"I'm not a superhero."

"Then what are you?" His voice falls into a whisper. "Aside from being a bad person?"

"A good actor."

"And?"

"Unemployed."

"And?"

"Scared."

We play this for a few more minutes. He feeds me 'and's until I have no more answers left to trade him. Lonely, self-hating, evil, violent, angry. Scared. I repeat 'scared' until he falls into a contemplative quiet and I twist the cracks in the ceiling into words. Loner. Loser. Lost. He turns over, the mattress giving one more squeal and the sheets shuffling against his body. "Night, Edge-Lord."

"Good night, Gideon."

His quick breathing has finally slowed. I watch his shadow ballon and fall, listen to that even, calm sound of the evidence he exists. It should soothe me. It doesn't. I stumble to a stand over the pad, arms crossed over a bare chest. The vanilla smell of Gideon's apartment fills me with a feeling that's gotta be the opposite of what it's meant to summon: coldness. The distinct notion that everything which is supposed to calm and confort in this world is as synthetic as what comes out of an aerosol can.

I take an experimental step toward the window, staring at that chain of glowing steel on the horizon. Somewhere, hidden under swells of city glitter, is the organization I seek. This organization out to steal the one person I promised to protect. I turn my back to the city, haul a long, dirty breath into my lungs, and let my eyes glide over Gideon's sleeping form. He looks young like this, with the sheets pulled up to his nose, his face hidden by a head full of curls. Here, unconcious and still, he's about as helpless as he was in that alley when he had his head pressed to the pavement.

I stand there, thinking of Chip. Chip's blue eyes, growing bigger and bigger in my head until they swallow up the rest of his face. A horrible image I put to the horrible things I did to him. He didn't make a sound. The only change came to him in the colors blossoming across his skin and the roundness of his eyes, how they grew wider and wider, like he didn't understand what he'd done to deserve this from me, like he trusted me, like he was scared.

I can still remember Finn, passing out in Kai's lap after I'd promised to kill him, his suit all covered in blood. This is what I am. This is what I do.

Gideon groans in his sleep, nestling his head deeper into the pillows. Some precious thing, some gift to the world, helpless and in need of protection in a city full of the vicious and the blood-thirsty.

I drift back to my mat on the floor, knowing I'll destroy him. Like every soft thing that breaks in my hands, Gideon will be sorry he met me. Will be sorry I even saved his life.

And as I burrow into a dark, uneasy sleep, my chest pinches with pain. I don't want to hurt him. I won't find joy in draining the light from those warm eyes. Won't find happiness in his suffering. "But this is what I am," I whisper against the clicking of the AC unit. "This is what I'm meant to be."

This is fate.

***

When Gideon wakes and stumbles up to his desk with a cigarette lighter in hand, I'm already in the kitchen, peeling cheese and grease off dishes with a soapy sponge over a steel sink.

"Mornin' EdgeLord."

"Gideon." I don't look at him. I scrub at the dishes until my knuckles pinken. "Work today?"

"Yeah." The room takes on a smoky, charred smell, like burning paper. I only offer him a quick glance. His hair is unbrushed and he looks pale. Kind of what happens after a near kidnapping. Flame wavers on black candles, and I duck my head, focusing on the rim of scum at the drain of the sink. Silence lingers in the little room for several minutes, and then he sighs, blowing out the flame. He runs red and black beads through his fingers, over his fingertips, round his wrists, then back into a pile in his palm. "Another day, another dollar."

"Good." I stare at my warped reflection in the dishwater. "I'll walk you there, pick you up. And in between, I'll get a real job."

"Hmmph." I hear him more than see him approach—the rattle of dashes, the thump of his bare heels on the waxy floor. And then he's running a hand through my hair, ruffling at it at the tips, scalp. A blush of heat strains at my cheeks. "You're sweet."

My fists curl underwater, popping suds in a rush of bubbles. "For all you know, it could be a front. I might kill you."

Gideon is silent for a heartbeat. And then, he laughs. It's a quiet sound, soft and hoarse. It makes a tickle run under my skin. "Edgelord." And then he's back to humming and dressing, and I'm trying to still the tremors of my hands, sending up splashes that run cold down my skin.

"Yeah." My heart is pressed against my ribs. "Sure."

***

Even with his long, galloping strides, Gideon's walk to work lasts twenty minutes. The darkness of the crumbling row houses lifts as the streets widen and the lights in the windows flicker and flare like amber flame. It's a nice coffee shop, a little hipster brewery near the college where the patrons are bright-eyed and sport expensive bags, designer jeans, and jackets made of every skin and fur of every animal. Five days ago I was one of them. Closet full of clothes that ran more than a hundred dollars a piece, clothes I didn't even think about except when matching which garment went with which. For the first time, I think about that, imagine what Gideon must feel to see that. Him, dead parents, dogged by violence, while kids his same age are living it up in the university. A sudden guilt wells in my chest about the future I threw away.

But Gideon smiles as he ties the apron strings tight around his waist. In the moments I watch him, he's always smiling, always laughing. Like the world is his carnival, and it makes him strange in my eyes, because the world is my hell.

When the door slams shut, I'm left with about eight hours to learn who the Everyman cult is and how to find them. I could've asked Gideon about them last night, but he was shaken. His heartbeat pounded through his ribs so loudly I heard it as I tousled the sheets. I didn't want to bring that fear to the surface and to this moment I don't understand why, why I care so much, so suddenly, about protecting this poor kid whom I'll surely crush.

I spend the morning with my hands stuffed into my pockets, walking down the sidewalks, counting each stare and familiarizing myself with the strange architecture and the zags of the streets. How the old, rotting homes melt into the new 'scrapers, all glitter and steel. The day is warm, the sky a bright blue that reminds me of the ocean under a summer sun; a good day for a stroll.

I don't know what I expect, for some man to put a gun to my head and shout something like "This is for Everyman!", maybe, but I'm drawn to the alleyways. I walk them until my breath burns, and then I buy an encyclopedia on southeastern philosophy at a bookstore that smells like damp cardboard and burnt coffee because I'm drawn to the Ying-Yang on the cover. Sit on a pile of old crates with my boots kicking up gutter water behind the store until I'm chased away.

There is no mugging. There's no one screaming for help. No sign of this Everyman. I circle back through the alleys, searching for the one where the men tried to kidnap Gideon. Maybe if I wait long enough, then I can be almost-kidnapped too. But even that doesn't work. I'm standing there, with the book crushed to my chest, the sun bringing beads of sweat down my upper lip and base of my neck. Minutes later, I dump out a steel trash can and make garbage angels on the gutter floor. I read the book upside down. 'Nature appreciates balance. And for every singular force, there comes a force of opposing traits. A constant, ebb and flow, ebb and flow, like the sea battering ancient rock.' I buy a ham and swiss sandwich and return to that alley, eating and reading with my feet pressed to the wall and my back rubbing against the street.

"A new vigilante, eh?" It's an hour, give or take, before I finally hear the blessed words. Someone noticed me. A figure, thin but small, leans against the mouth of the alley with their fingers buried into the vinyl house beside. My heart skips.

I sigh, levitating an inch off the ground, digging my heels into the wall so deeply I leave foot-sized dents and crumbling brick.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, shutting my book. I even finish with a smirk.

A woman in a band tee and pants that sag around the hips slinks around the corner and rests her elbow against the man's side. Her movement blots the sunlight with shadow. "I think I can help you remember."

"Everyman, huh? The power harvesters?" I say with a lazy flick of my head. I don't know why I'm taunting them. I should fall on my knees and beg them for asylum. But I am and I will not. The twitch of movement the man's fingers give and the glint of green on his blade sends a trickle of cold sweat between my shoulders and the sadistic thrill of a good fight. "Come and get 'em."