Angelos.

What are you supposed to do when you're becoming a monster? I don't know. I don't know and I think I'll scream.

My eye goes into tunnel vision, my skin burning up like I have a fever. My heart pounds so fast I think it'll tear out of my chest and flop, still beating to the drum rhythms of whatever it is Heaven listens to these days.

I can't help wondering if that's ever happened before, if someone's heart burst out of their chest because they were scared or angry or caffeinated. Some supers have hearts that beat over a thousand times per minute, which is physically impossible, but what's "possible" is more of a guideline these days.

After all, what scientists once called "impossible" is now "Well, we can't explain it. Maybe everything we've ever learned about Earth and human life and the universe is wrong. We don't know. Now shut up and let us cry over this complete anarchy with a tub of mint chocolate chip Blue Bunny."

For half a second I contemplate tearing out my heart just to see if I can do it. Then I realize I'm freaking insane.

I see Jaylin backing away, groping for the door, and I want to rip her apart and wipe her existence off the earth's face in a puddle of blood and bone-meal. My fists curl, my knuckles popping out against my skin from the force of my grip. "Angelos," Heaven rasps, "calm down." I barely hear her. I barely hear anything above my thoughts.

The white hot's flowing through my veins. All at once I feel the "me" in me drain away,  like my body's an empty dumping-ground and a whole other entity decided to throw down his bags and take stock here for a little while.

It's creepy to think that entity is just me. Like a really, really screwed up version of me that wants to shred people and claw my heart out.

My eyes skim desperately over the room. A little right of my headboard, I see a window. And you know what I do? I hurl myself right through it. I don't even think about it. I just know I'll kill Jay if I don't get away fast enough. The blinds rip apart and the glass bursts. It's almost pretty; it would make an awfully cool shot in a movie, at least. The pieces fly right by me like throwing darts.

So, I sail into the early morning light and let my wings unfurl. I shoot up like a rocket, and when I look down, my whole body swells with air, with muscle, with power. 

I'm a super, and a pinnacle of them. Everything below me, I could destroy it. All the frail paper people in their frail paper houses. They couldn't stop me. They could be obliterated if I wanted it so.

My "dark side" is going bonkers. The stupid voice that sometimes pops into my head is screaming at me now, and I know that's weird even for an off-beat teenager like myself.

Doesn't it feel good? You can be anyone and do anything. This is what you're meant to be. This is who you're meant to be. Don't fight it. You can't hold it off anyway.

"Oh, shut up already!" My head swims, like I've just downed a cup of that awful beer from Hallowfest. The city sags when I land. All around me, the little sidewalk trees brown and their leaves turn crispy and die. My aura is stronger now. It tugs at me and consumes me, the way fire eats through a rickety old shack.

Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip, something inside me cries.

And I tell that thing to shut it.

***

To tell the truth, I don't exactly know what I did. My memory is hazy. All I know is that I jumped out my bedroom window, my aura went crazy, and now I'm lying on a pile of plastic crates that smell of rotting fish.

I blink. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on my exposed neck and back. My wings ache. I reach over to touch my feathers to make sure they're all still there and a few fall out. I grab one and dry blood flakes off its bristles at my touch. It's mine, hopefully. I don't want to have hurt anyone in my rampage.

 Asphalt digs into the back of my ankles, and when I raise my shaky body, pain shoots up my right leg. I glance down. My pant leg's ripped open, a clean gash running through my thigh. Okay. I touch it and pull back, barbs of heat flaring in the affected muscle. I think that's bad.

I look around me. I'm in an alley, lying behind a crumbly old building draped in cobwebs. A green, paint-stripped door has "Cindy's Home Decor" written on it in big, drippy letters. The whole place smells like rot. How did I get here? I pick myself off the ground and try to ignore the pain that accompanies the movement. Ow. Oh. I look down. 

Layers of baked on ink and blood curl down my wrists and hands like someone's sick idea of tattoo art, the insides of my arms broken and covered in fresh scabbing. I rub my burning face. "Ugh." The insides of my ears sear like I stayed up dancing all night. Maybe I did. "Oh, ow. Okay, um..." I skirt the crates and try not to stumble.

Three shattered mirrors sit propped up against the back of Cindy's crappy Home Decor, glass scattered across the gavel in jagged pieces. I sigh. Twenty-one years of bad luck coming my way. Because I'm aready so lucky. I drag my mangled body over, hoping to find a clue of what happened and why I'm here, cut up like butcher meat. I grab a mirror slice and try not to stick myself with glass splinters. And then I look down.

I drop the shard and grab at my face. I grab my eye-patch and tug it to make sure it's still on. I give a nervous laugh.

The guy in the mirror isn't me. He's like, I don't know, a ghost of me. His smirk is cold, purple flames flickering from his exposed skin, but that's not the scary part.

One of his eyes is blacked over.

I blink hard and try to shake the image away. Memories come back in floods. I remember Jaylin touching me and Heaven breaking and Gatsby's disappearance. My heart thuds. I see myself landing in the street, I feel the sheer giddiness coursing through me, the night fading fast. I glide over the street, moving faster and faster, the world bending around me, and then...

I don't know. Reflection. Maybe I saw my reflection. I sink down on my knees and drag my hands over my face. The air smells rancid, and in a smack of realization, I decide I need help. Like professional help, complete with the shrink and leather couch and "Mmm-hmm, tell me more about your childhood, Angelos."

My best friend is a superhero, my other best friend is a cat, and I'm a winged-creature with serious psychological issues.

It's ridiculous. My whole life is a freak show. I'm a freak show. The wings, the body that doesn't match, the powers. I'm like a demented three-scoop sundae.

I wonder if reversing time is a superpower. If it is, maybe I can find whoever has it and absorb it from them. Then I can take Hev and Gats back to when we were just dumb kids arguing over Aristotle and his stupid theories ("Why do we learn about this guy? He's wrong! He's wrong about everything!").

But that's unrealistic. Maybe it doesn't sound like much of a stretch from 'my best friend has cat ears,' but even if my reality is weird, it's still my reality. I have to suck it up and deal. And by "deal," I mean 'save Gats.'

So I wipe the dust off my exposed shoulders, brush away the self-pity, ignore my definite insanity, and get up. My mind is churning. Syndicate...Syndicate...

The door of Cindy's Home Decor flies open. I jump, a shock of pain rippling through my leg. A man in a checkered shirt leans against the doorframe, an unlit cigarette drooping from his teeth. I back away. His head snaps up. "What are you looking at, vagabond?" he snarls.

I jump. People really don't seem to like me these days. My leg's all shaky as I ease down the alley. "Nothing, sir, nothing."

He eyes me. I try to pull my wings in before he sees them, but he gets in quite an eyeful anyway. I blush, and even that makes me feel guilty. I shouldn't be ashamed. Wings aren't illegal and it isn't my fault for having them. He throws his head back and laughs. "Better run, Poison, because I'm calling the police. They're gonna get you for good."

I blink. "Um, I'm not Poi— "

"One." He lifts a finger and edges back into the squar of darkness. I don't know what it is about people counting, but I tense up.

"Sir— "

"Two." He's cackling now, a low, crackly sound, like paper being crumpled.

I think my heart will explode. I clench my fists at my sides and glare.  "You have the wrong man. I'm not—"

"Three!"

I bolt. Instincts, I guess. In the movies, it's best to get away before the villain counts to three, or else, screwed. My leg aches, my whole body throbbing like a quick, miserable pulse.

I crash through metal cans, my cut leg practically dragging behind me. I feel like a lab rat, running when people tell me to, trying not to die as I navigate rge electrified maze that is my life.

I shake my head, my mind in another place. I should talk to Jaylin about Syndicate, but I don't trust myself around her. Maybe I won't get to a window in time. Maybe I'll shift too fast. I adjust my patch. I'll have to do my own research, and get it done quickly. The longer Syndicate has Gats, the lower his chances are of making it out unscarred, making it out alive.

I half collapse on the sidewalk when I see it. Across the street, shimmering in the sunlight, is the mall Heaven took me to for dance costumes, the villain hangout. Granted, Gats, Hev, and I were almost captured the last time we went to the store, but the villains there would know about Syndicate. I hesitate, but there isn't much time to waste.

Shiny economy cars buzz by on a choked silver street. I walk up to the traffic light, puff out my chest, and slam my hand on the "Press here to cross" button.