After the Golden Age

Suzanne suddenly pointed at Arthur. “Don’t you go trying to convince me this is all right!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthur said softly. He looked at Celia.

They could run away, she thought, staring back at him. Flee the city. If her parents couldn’t handle it, then they could leave Commerce City altogether.

—And what of the city?—

He was one of its protectors. He couldn’t leave. Neither could she, or she’d have done it already.

Suzanne continued. “It’s just … it’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“I understand,” Arthur said. “What if we promise not to get caught snogging on the sofa like a couple of teenagers?”

Warren sputtered; Suzanne hiccupped. She put her hand over her mouth. Then, she was giggling, and she wiped tears from her eyes.

“Okay,” Suzanne said finally, recovering to a point.

“Bah!” Warren rolled his eyes and stalked out of the room.

Celia couldn’t have hoped for better than that, really.

Arthur had known what to say to calm them down, or at least to diffuse the situation a touch. He said to Suzanne, “Did you have any luck with Breezeway?”

“No. The police are charging him with breaking curfew. No bail’s been set.”

“Damn. That means the rest of us are targets.”

“Not until nightfall. I’m going to make some breakfast.” She crossed her arms as she left, as if she were still holding something back.

Arthur let out a sigh. “That went well.”

Celia giggled, and returned to the sofa and his arms, giddy with … something.

* * *

“JUSTIN RAYLEN IS BREEZEWAY!” shouted the front page of the morning paper, alongside a mug shot of a surly man in his twenties, with a flop of sandy hair above a slim face. Celia recognized that face, but only if she imagined a mask over the top half of it, and a broad, cocky grin. In the mug-shot photo, he still had some of that brash air. But he glared like he wanted to hit someone. Like maybe the person standing behind the camera.

The police had released his secret identity, apparently out of spite. She imagined the scene at the police station. How many officers had it taken to hold him down before they could take off his mask? How much weight did they hang on him to keep him from going airborne? Had his winds scoured the police station, sending papers and debris flying? Had anyone gotten hurt, so they could lay those charges on him as well? So far, the police had charged him with breaking curfew and resisting arrest.

The morning news shows were worse. They’d tracked down Justin Raylen’s girlfriend, Marjorie Adams, a waitress at a downtown diner—Analise’s favorite diner, in fact, and wasn’t it a small world? Cameras chased her—a familiar scene that gave Celia a dose of déjà vu—as she fled to what looked like an apartment. They focused intrusively on her tear-streaked face; over and over again, she told them she had no comment, she didn’t want to talk to anyone, just leave her alone.

One intrepid reporter found Marjorie’s mother. “No, she had no idea what he was. He always told her he worked nights, that he was on call at his job, and that was why he disappeared all the time. She never guessed he was Breezeway. How could she?”

Celia had an urge to call Marjorie, to tell her it wasn’t so bad having a superhero in your life. She wasn’t sure the young woman would appreciate it.

She found herself hoping her parents would sit this one out. Maybe they’d take to heart what happened to Breezeway and Typhoon, and not get involved this time. But they wouldn’t stop. They’d been doing this for long enough; that ought to at least reassure her that they knew what they were doing.

After the newspaper and a cup of coffee, and after changing into jeans and a sweater, Celia went to the guest room where Analise slept. She knocked, listened, heard nothing. Softly, she opened the door. Inside, the lights were off, the curtains drawn.

She crept into the room, opened the curtains, and put a chair by the bed, to sit and wait.

Once the room grew light, Analise turned, stretched, and hissed in pain. She touched her bandaged shoulder and opened her eyes.

“Hi,” Celia said.

Analise rubbed her face, then pulled off her mask and threw it aside. She lay back on the pillows, staring past Celia’s shoulder to the far wall.

Celia could sit there all day, watching her friend, waiting for her to say something, but Analise didn’t look like she was ready to talk.

“I brought you some clothes to change into. There’s coffee and bagels in the kitchen,” Celia said. “I can clear the place out, if you don’t want to see anyone. Or you can sleep all day. Or something.”

Analise was stubborn. She was just as capable of lying there, silent, as Celia was of sitting there. More than anything, though, Celia hadn’t wanted her to wake up alone in a strange place after all that had happened. Typhoon didn’t have a team like the Olympiad to back her up, or to pick up the pieces.

“Mentis,” Analise said finally. “I could feel him in my mind, shutting me down.”

“He thought it was best. He didn’t want you to panic.”

“He had no right.”