Softstone

Sender: Darcy
Brook, tomorrow stop by printers on the way in and pick up the wedding invitation proposals. Thx.



Brook rolled her shoulders back slowly, trying not to wince when bones along her back popped. She hated that sound! It felt good though, after an evening of bending over a design table and going through what had to be hundreds of pages of period photos and fairy costumes. And she hadn’t even started her reading for her Thursday morning class yet. It was going to be a long, long night before she finally went to bed.

It was cooler outside than it usually was in the middle of September, since it had been raining earlier. Oily water pooled in the gutters and clouds covered the moon—if there was a moon tonight. It felt like autumn already.

Good—that meant she could wear boots tomorrow. Autumn was the best time, fashion-wise, to live in Minnesota. It was a chance to wear cute stiletto boots and sweet little coats, without having to worry about whether the clothes were functional or warm enough to fight off frostbite.

What time was it? 9:00? 9:10? Brook pulled out her cellphone, but instead of listing the time it told her that she had one new text message. “Stupid reception,” she muttered, opening the message. The whole theatre building was a black hole—not only did it eat time, it also ate phone service, too.

The message was from Darcy, and it had arrived… phew, just five minutes ago. But that meant it was already 9:10, so Brook was running late to meet Ira. Not that Ira was going anywhere. If he was in a bad mood he might complain that Brook had kept him waiting, but a big smile and an effusive apology from Brook would make it all better, even if he was angry. She had learned that convenient fact about Ira last year when they worked on their “group” project in economics.

Brook shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder before she pushed the button to respond to Darcy’s message. Since Brook was late already and there was no reason to try to get on Ira’s nerves, she started walking at the same time.

It was a fairly quiet evening, even though it was still early. That was probably because of the rain. There weren’t many people or cars out, and no campus security types either, so Brook crossed at the middle of the block to speed along her way.

There was a puddle that she didn’t see until after she splashed into it. Brook winced and shook her foot, as the cold wet feeling seeped in through her strappy sandal. Boots tomorrow, definitely. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a motion that she had practiced so many times in high school that she didn’t even have to think about it anymore, turned back to writing her text message and kept walking.

A car horn blared somewhere nearby, too close and too loud, and then there was a screeching of tires against wet blacktop. Brook saw the car coming toward her, could see the driver’s face, scrunched up and yelling, but then the headlights were shining on her, like spotlights on a stage, blocking out the rest of the world. Brook didn’t move. The only thing she thought was, Who will pick up the invitations for Darcy if I die? The headlights were getting brighter and time had slowed down, but even though she knew she was supposed to do something she couldn’t remember what that something was.

At the last possible second, some little voice told Brook that if she stayed there she would be crushed under the car, so she jumped. Not to the side, not away—just up, so that at least the car wouldn’t drive on top of her.

She went up but then she kept going, above the car that had still barely slowed down, above all the parked cars on the side of the street. At first there was pressure against her armpits, but then her feet flew up and there was something pressed against her side, and then the car honked again and time seemed to go back to normal.

“Are you okay?” someone asked, the voice right next to Brook’s ear. That same someone was holding her, and her feet were dangling and she was pressed against that someone’s flat, muscled stomach.

There was also a face looking down at her, but Brook could only see the bottom half. There was a chin, pronounced cheekbones and soft, curved lips, but after that a cloth covered the rest of his face, with holes punched out for his eyes.

Brook groaned and leaned her head back. A supe. Just perfect.

“Miss, can you hear me? Are you all right? Did the car hit you?”

“I can hear you just fine,” Brook said, letting the irritation she was feeling bleed into her words. “And I’m also okay. Could you please let me down?”

From what Brook could make out of her environment, around the big hulking head of the supe with his face bandana’ed over, the ground was farther away than Brook wanted it to be. The guy was probably a flier—and a show-off.

“Don’t worry—I won’t let you fall. You’re perfectly safe with me.” His lips turned up in a smile that might have been cute if he weren’t laughing at her.

“Yeah, and I’d be perfectly safe on the ground, too,” Brook said. She had to angle her head around to see that they were somewhere around the second storey of an academic building, with Mr. Supe standing on the edge of a stone outcropping.

The guy in the mask laughed, like Brook had just said something really funny, and then he readjusted his hold on Brook so she was cupped against his side almost like an overgrown baby cradled in his arm. His superhuman strength allowed him to hold her against his side tightly enough that she couldn’t fall, and he didn’t even have to lean to the side to compensate for the extra weight. For a second all she could think about were the news stories back when she was in middle school, about innocent bystanders crushed to pulp by the Fireshield Maestro’s lackeys during the siege. The helplessness of knowing that her life was literally in the hands of someone else who could easily crush her made Brook feel cold. Still, as soon as she could see how he was holding her she reached to wrap her arms around his shoulder, to give herself at least some sense of balance.

The supe started moving, walking carefully—though even the most careful movements made Brook tilt and jolt uncomfortably in his arm—down the stairs toward the sidewalk.

“Really, ‘perfectly safe on the ground’?” the supe asked. “The driver of that car would say otherwise, miss.”

At that moment, Brook was too busy paying attention to what the guy was doing to notice much of what he was saying. There were no stairs on the side of the building, or at least there hadn’t been, but he kept his free hand running along the wall and brick outcroppings shot out, evenly spaced, below and a little ahead of him. It was kind of cool.

And, of course, really bad news to the rest of the world if a guy with powers like that ever decided to go the self-employed route. Or set out on a personal vendetta.

They were near the ground before Brook realized that the supe was talking to her. “…with the wet streets in particular, but of course it will be worse in winter. And texting on top of jaywalking? That’s just asking for trouble. Where do you think you are, New York City?”

“Sometimes,” Brook muttered. She all but shoved the guy away the second his feet hit the sidewalk. She looked around for her bag and found it—wet, of course, half in a puddle—between two parked cars. She picked it up very carefully, so the wet part wouldn’t touch her, and turned back around just in time to see the supe—who was wearing full-body spandex, in maroon and gold—fix the wall.

He had placed both palms against the side of the building, and all the brick steps that had popped out were now retracting with a dry, rubbing sound. A few seconds later the building looked the way it had before he messed it up in the first place.

Then Brook turned around and—“My phone!” It was in the middle of the street, still open but dark. She darted for it, forgetting about the still-wet bag that thumped against her side when she moved.

“Hey, hey! Wait!”

She was crouching in the street to pick up her phone, which was at least still in one piece, and a second later the supe was standing beside her, his hands resting too heroically on his hips. “What do you think you’re doing? You just almost got run over and you’re back out in the road, not checking for cars, again?”

Brook tried unlocking the keys, but nothing happened. “Oh no, come on.” She held down the power button, and the logo of her service provider filled the screen. “Thank God! It might still work.”

“You are aware that cars drive on this road, right?” The supe was starting to sound annoyed, his voice rising to a high octave that made it sound somehow familiar. Then he cleared his throat and added, “It’s very important for your safety that you look both ways before you step onto the street, and only cross at designated crosswalks.”

“You’re kidding, right?” It was nearly 9:30 now, and Brook was in the middle of a wet road being lectured by Captain America. She stood up and brushed some grit off the side of her pants where her bag had hit against them.

Brook was surprised, when she stood up, to realize that she was as tall as the supe. If she were wearing more serious heels, she would be able to look down at the guy. His muscles weren’t bulky either—though they were well enough defined under the spandex—so all in all she supposed it was kind of impressive that he could pick her up so easily. Or, it would be if he weren’t gifted with preternatural strength.

“Listen.” For no particular reason Brook put on one of her prettiest smiles, the one that had put her on the homecoming court two years in a row in high school. “I appreciate your help, and I understand that you’re just doing your job, but I’m okay. Just fine. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m late to meet a friend for coffee—”

“Just how late are you?” the supe asked, glancing pointedly at her phone.

“None of your business. So I’ll be on my way now.”

The supe held up a hand. “Wait a second! Seriously, wait, we have these forms….” He reached into a little pouch on a belt he wore over his spandex and pulled out a small folded piece of paper. “It’s like an evaluation, to judge the effectiveness of the super program, so if you could just fill this out and drop it off at student life, in the campus security office….”

Frowning, Brook accepted the form. She tossed her phone in her bag so she could unfold the paper. On the top it had the caption, “You have been assisted by: Softstone.”

Brook stared at the form for almost ten seconds, trying to keep herself from laughing, before she gave up and made a rude noise. “Your name is Softstone? And you don’t find that horribly embarrassing?” she asked.

The question seemed to surprise him. Then he smiled a little and said, “I’m mortified. I can’t even show my face in public.”

Without meaning to, Brook smiled. The supe, Softstone, went on, “If you ever feel like it, you can go on the NSC website and see names and bios of all registered public supers. Every official name is trademarked; it’s really hard to come up with something that’s original and as heroic as I’d like. So, what’s your name?”

Brook clenched her jaw closed. “What’s yours?” she asked through gritted teeth.

The supe motioned to the paper in her hand. “I’m Softstone, remember? You were just making fun of it two seconds ago.”

“That’s not your name. It’s your super identity,” Brook said.

Softstone shrugged. “I have a contractual obligation to stay incognito when I’m in costume. But I’ll bet you go around telling your name to strangers all the time in social situations.”

“I do, but only when I expect them to tell me their names back.”

“Well, I’m Softstone, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. If you want to use a fake name, I can respect that.” Softstone held out one maroon-gloved hand.

Brook said the first name that came to mind. “Titania.” She wanted to wince as soon as she said it, but she stopped herself. At least she hadn’t said Peasblossom. She placed her hand in Softstone’s.

For someone as strong as he was, he wasn’t out to prove anything with his handshake. If anything he was too polite, holding her hand as gently as if she were a Southern lady. She was almost afraid that he would lift it up to his lips and kiss it.

He did look amused, though. “Titania, queen of the fairies? I’m honored that I had a chance to rescue you!”

“Shut up.”

Softstone laughed. “I take it you’re a theatre major, then?” he asked.

Agreeing with him was easier than making up a lie on her own, so Brook nodded. “You’ve got me. Anyway, thanks for the rescue and all, but I’ve really got to get going. You know, hang out with people who let their friends see their faces. Um, keep up the good work!”

Before Softstone had a chance to say anything, Brook turned around and half-ran toward the corner. She would have rather just run across the street, but she was sure he would give her a hard time if she jaywalked again with him standing right there. After she had gone about twenty feet he called out to her, “If you ever need someone to rescue you again call the super hotline anytime, day or night! Be sure to ask for me—Softstone!”

Luckily, the light had turned green just before Brook reached the intersection. She rolled her eyes and crossed quickly, to get as far away from this weirdo as possible.



(View Brook's explanation of the interaction.)