Heaven.

When you're a superhero, you can only respond to screaming in two ways: bracing yourself to do some serious first aid and bracing yourself to knock a bruiser out. As my body tenses to spring, Cat grabs my arm and yanks me back against her. I bite into my cheek to hold back a sound of pain. Cat snaps around, and when she looks at me, her brown eyes are expressionless and cool. "Heaven, I know you were Galaxy and all—"

"Were?" Heat rises into my face. "Were!" I'm still a superhero, no matter what she says. No matter what anyone says. My powers will come back, I'll pick up a new suit, and I'll fight these supervillains off. That's what I'm meant to do.

Cat sighs and grips my elbow. She's my same size, but my powers take a lot of energy and leave me with a lot of lean muscle. She may be a villain and I may be powerless, but she can't hold me back, not if I put some elbow grease into my escape.

The sound is louder now. I shoot off, but it seems I miscalculated. Apparently, Jaylin can hold me back, and she does a pretty good job of it. Her fingers dig into my flesh, and with a sharp jerk, she sends me stumbling. I can hardly keep on my feet when she clouts me over the side of my head. Normally, hits like that don't hurt much, but I'm aching something terrible and the blow nearly sends me to my knees.

Instead, I suck in a sharp breath and hobble until I still, her manicured nails nearly drawing blood. "We're getting Angel and Kitten back, and that's that. Understood? You. Are. Done. Playing. Hero."

I grind my teeth. My head is still throbbing. It wasn't a glancing blow or a playful, "golly, Heaven, if you take another fry I'll knock your lights out," from Gats.

She's threatening me with actual threats. Another shrill scream pierces the air, and it cuts me like an executioner's blade. "No," Cat says. She grips me so hard my I can actually see bruises welling up around the places she presses her fingers.

I hang my head. I can't fight her, not with brute strength like I usually do. I don't know what's happening to me, why I'm so weak. It can't be the obsidian. Cat was the last person affected by it, so, logically, she'd be weaker than I am.

And yet, here we are.

"You win," I say, and her eyes light up and her lips quirk into a smirk. They always do. I have my weaknesses and she has hers.

I snap my hand away and copy the usual snotty 'humph' she gives. The screams are muffled now. Cat rolls her eyes and steps toward the driver's side. In that moment, sweat glistening on my brow, I decide all supervillains are the same. She may think I'm an "uncomplicated brute"—most villains I've come in contact with have said something along those lines about me—but she is no different. What a villain wants is control. What a hero wants is freedom. And because of that, we will never get along.

"Hey!" The moment she looks away, I run. Every step, every breath, every thought hurts. But the pain's okay. I can deal with pain. What I can't deal with is someone getting hurt because I didn't do anything to stop it.

There are trees here and the air smells fresh like flowers and fruit. This is where Starlight gets less "city" and more "Suburban Dream." It's pretty, all white clapboard houses and tire swings and sycamores. Were I not slapping through the woodland in search of a screamer, my chest would swell up with pride.

What can I say? Us Starlighters are very proud of our homes, and the news-people like to blab about our history all the time. Toby used to fall asleep to the old radio programs about Nebula and her sidekick, Taurus, the leaders of the golden-age heroes. I would curl up on the floor and listen to the superhero stories, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt at copying Toby's sleep.

Starlight City, the first city of supers.

Starlight City, the first city-state.

Starlight City, the best education systems, the least murders per capita, the best architecture, and of course, the nicest roads in the country. It's all over the brochures, on the keychains, and plastered on the capes of the complementary Nebula and Galaxy stuffies—and yes, having a stuffed doll made in your likeness is just as creepy and adorable as it sounds. "Come to Starlight, the city with the best roads in all of America!"

Because when your city houses living superheroes, the thing you want to brag about is how gosh darn nicely your streets are paved.

And honestly, as I trip over roots and cut my ankles on the jagged stones just, you know, lying around, I decide the roads kind of do feel like butter. The bragging is pretty justified.

After tearing through brush and tangling with nature's fiercest branches and sticks, I come across the plaza with the screaming. Police response time is fast, much faster than it usually is in the city, anyway. The gallant, shiny cars come barreling through, sirens so loud I briefly contemplate covering my ears, but I'm no wimp. I come across a pass with a fountain. The plaza is neat here, the yellow plaster buildings tall and lined up one by one like the toy building blocks that snap together to build a clean, sharp square. They look plastic too, like a wind could blow them down if one gust was particularly strong.

Or say, if a group of reckless supers decided, "hey! Let's go pillage and terrify some locals. Because why not?" 

A woman with a bat bashes in the windows of a Food Lion. I'm at the edge of a store, pressed up against a drainage pipe. A defensive manager runs out with a shotgun. I swear under my breath. Doesn't he know that most supervillains don't feel bullet wounds? I tried to explain this to Toby when he got in an argument with some guy who wouldn't let him carry his precious .22 into a Walmart, but to no avail. The police rush out, big guns, shouting for the baddies to freeze. It'll be bloody, but there's nothing I can do.

Out by the dumpster, I hear muted shrieks, and that's where I prowl. The police don't need me, not now, and besides that, I can see the shadows of a black-clad group huddled around a figure. That's where the cries come from, and all and all, the picture does not provide the recipe for rainbows and chocolate chip cookies.

"Hey!" I call, putting some serious voice into it that sends a jolt of pain through my throat. Heads snap toward me, faces masked. Half-face designer masks, not ski ones, telltale signs of heroes or villains. By the little, sniveling huddled between strewn at their feet, I'm going with the latter.

"Shut her up, shut her up!" I hear the brutes hiss.

Six villains. One kid. I charge into the group. Call me maternal, but I hate it when people mess with kids. Like a pint-sized person still learning basic algebra can pose enough of a threat to warrant a beating. I hear another cry, muffled.The pack snarls, but I'm wired. Nothing like cold, raging adrenaline coursing your veins to put some color in your cheeks and get you ready to fight. I drop into a fighting stance and kick, a shot of something sharp through my ribs, and connects with a guy's chest. He grunts and I hit the ground just as the fists come out. I can see the girl clearly now. She's curled into a ball, paisley handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. I'm shaking now. She wears a flimsy, glitter stained mask. "Oh, jeepers, kid," I mutter under my breath when something cracks my shoulders, a fist I think.

But even though it stings, how can I care? Gats and I were mauled like this too. It seems like a favorite tactic for supervillains these days, and I won't them take this kid like a let them take Gats. I'm grabbed and swung at, but I dance to dodge the blows. The kid looks up, her big green eyes wide and glistening. They remind me of the smooth jade stones Mom buried in her jewelry box, the ones Angel and I played marbles with until Toby found out and I got smacked.

"Touch her," I say to the thugs, my throat so raw I can hardly feel it, "and you'll be sorry!" I need to buy us time. They're going to tear me apart. I breathe in look hard at the gang. They cross their arms back, leaned in, clearly vying for my blood by the strained expressions on their face. One even drools. I resist the urge to shiver. They look at me like they haven't eaten in weeks and I'm gourmet takeout. The group glances all at one man, as if silently begging permission to light into me. I don't wait on it. I tear the handkerchief out of the girl's mouth and help her to her feet. She's taller than I am and wiry, but I can't get over how young she looks. Big-eyed. No scars. Baby-faced. Can't be over thirteen. She clings to me, arms wrapped around my shoulders as if someone will rip her away any second.

The leader of the group, a thin, small man with mused black hair that reeks of soap and Trying-to-hard speaks up. His blue eyes stand out in his face, and I realize the boys in my life that give me the most trouble all have pretty baby blues. "Yeah?" he asks, smirking. "Why?"

"I'll tell you why!" shouts a voice so distinct and deadly, I'd recognize it anywhere from Westminster to a garbage heap. Her shadow spreads over me, and between the villains, I catch a glimpse of her. Cat, leaned on her hip. Cat, holding a PVC pipe over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Cat, hair blown back by the spring breeze, purple bruises shiny in the setting sun, knees bent in a fighting stance.

Moments like these, the villain in her really shines through.

The pack of black-cladders growl and snarl, heads swung toward her like hyenas eyeing a new source of prey. The kid clings to me even tighter, her fingers sinking so deeply into my flesh so hard it almost hurts. She's probably just as scared of Cat as she is the pack. I shoot the girl a smile, but with my face bruised and scraped raw in places, it must not look as encouraging as it does "Night of the Living Dead."

"Oh," Blue Eyes, the leader guy, says. My palms feel oddly sweaty. He has a voice like silk, smooth, sounds like it rolls off the tongue. Kind of like Poison's, but less breathy. "That's cute. Tell me, pipe-girl, why shouldn't I rip these kids to ribbons?"

"Bite me," growls the girl at them, still clinging to me like a particularly tall barnacle. I grin back. She has a delicate, heart-shaped face and fair skin, nothing like mine, and her blonde hair glimmers gold in the sun. I wonder if she's trying to act brave for me like a superhero is supposed to do. You know, like I'm supposed to do.

"Couldn't have said it better myself," I say with a curt nod. She beams.

Cat laughs, the sound sharp and cruel as she strokes the pipe the same way she does Angel's hair sometimes, the way that creeps him out and makes him hide under couches. A lump wells up in my throat and I quickly push it back. One cry and I'm like a freaking fountain now. I need to toughen up.

"That's not the question you should ask." Cat steps forward and smiles. With her brown eyes flashing, she looks deadly. "What you should be asking is why I don't play 'Splatter Your Brains on the Pavement.' Answer: I don't want to dirty my weapon. Henchman is such a funky stench, you know?"

And as the group blisters, red-faced and raring to beat in her skull, Blue Eyes is cool. Relaxed. "Who are you?"

She chews the collar of her sweater in the side of her mouth, dirty pipe now resting in her hands. Slap. Slap. Slap. It takes all my self-control not to pull back, because I'm thinking of the woman who took Gats, and the pain in my side feels fresh like someone jack-knifed it.

"Hmmm." She sucks the fibers of my favorite sweater a little more, and I think of a violent, sweater-chewing goat. "Funny you should ask. If you must know, I'm connected to the big boys, Fallout and Poison."

The leader 's lips curl, his shoulders and hands twitching as if he has to visibly restrain himself from beating the tar out of her. "You work with Snare?"

"The one and only." She spits out her collar. The girl shoots me a wide-eyed glance. I shake my head.

"She's alright," I whisper to her, trying to convince myself of the same.

The leader man growls. "I could break you and your dumb organization!" And he looks like he'll really do it. Cat shrugs and smashes the PVC pipe on the ground. With a sharp and sudden 'crack,' it snaps into two even, jagged pieces, and even I know it isn't supposed to break like that.

"Yeah?" She raises the broken ends. "Wanna try?"

The man pauses, and when he speaks his words are short and clipped. "My hands are tied, but know this: the first battle comes and I shred you." He points at me and the girl. "Those ones especially." And then he shrugs, and if someone could shrug violently, he would be doing so. Like his shoulder blades are trying to tear out of his skin.

"Go ahead," I say flatly. "Fight me." I'm tired of this fighting stuff. I want to save my friends and let that be that.

The man doesn't respond. He tosses his head back and stomps off, bringing his tag-along gang with him.

"Wimps," Cat mutters under her breath as they parade into the siren screams.. Without a second of warning, she throws a pipe-half at my head. I hardly duck in time, a shot of pain through my side at the sudden movement.

"Hey!" The girl calls, trying to be brave. Telling by the flicker of silver cape she is a would-be superhero. I rub the side of my face, nursing a headache.

Cat licks her fingers like she had particularly frosty cupcakes and narrows her eyes. She quakes with rage and I think I should be scared. "Question!" she barks. "What's the difference between you and a stabbing victim?"

I glare. Her eyes smolder and I swear there are flames in them, licking at the iris, searing inside the ball. I stiffen and lean on my toes to make myself taller. "Don't speak in riddles," I try, but she waves a free hand and stalks up. I stay perfectly still. With the broken edge of her grimy pipe pointed at my throat, she continues.

"A stabbing victim has a chance at living."