I hate secret organizations, I hate illegal operations, and I hate illegal anythings with an 'o' in the name. I hate them because their members think they're so damned cool, with their leather jackets and engraved guns. They do all these things, and it's like they forget their meetings are made up of five guys named Earl in basements under circus tents and shit.

At least, those are my experiences with secret organizations so far, and I suppose that 's' on the end of 'organizations' is misleading. I've had one experience with one secret organization, a secret organization that wanted a particular ice sculpture Black Ice kept in his freezer. Ever since that run-in, the words 'secret,' 'organization' and 'Earl' put a bitter taste in the back of my mouth.

But I don't expect much different from the Everyman guys. And I'm only made more uncomfortable by  Starlight City's labyrinth streets and that its strangely starry sky.

After leaving Gideon, I weave out of alleys, walking down hills that lead to low plateaus, and then walking farther down to flat, cratered places until I'm sure this city is all descent.  An hour of stumbling in Chip's platforms,  and I finally find something that makes me a pause. A payphone booth at the corner of one unknown street and another. I've never seen an operational payphone first hand before, with the swinging glass doors and the flickering 'PHONE' sign in all caps. A way out. I push apart the doors, pick the phone off the hook, and slide two quarters into the coin slot. 

My fingertips linger on the numbers Galaxy left on my shoulder, as if they'll flutter away if I don't hold them against my skin. I unravel the bandages, causing globs of dried blood to run down my arm. They're soaked through, the deepest shade of brown I've seen. I have to squint to read the numbers underneath the stains.

"Gal, here," a voice answers on the other end. I can hear pages flipping and static. "Where are you and what do you need?"

"I'm the guy who you bandaged in the back alley. Twice."

"Ah! Right, right. You actually shattered that guy's sternum, you know?"

It takes me a second of furrow-browed concentration to remember who she's talking about. "So he's dead?"

"No. A coma." Her voice lowers. "Do you understand how lucky you are?"

The phone shakes in my fingers, and when I glance down, I realize my hand is trembling. She's on to me, I think, and I'm about to slam the phone back on the hook when I remember that would make me seem even more shifty and suspicious than I already do. I swallow. This place is suddenly confining, like a cage. Like the walls are closing in on me. "Yeah. Having trouble sleeping at night, what with him trying to stab me and kidnap Gideon. I hope he dies."

Galaxy sighs. "You didn't call me to discuss the moral implications of your actions." The words sound too large and too snobbish for someone who flies around punching people. I stifle a snort. "You didn't answer me.  Where are you? What do you want?"

"Phonebooth. Running out of minutes, I think. Not sure how this thing works." I push another bloody coin in the slot for good measure. The old phone sputters, and the static grows louder. "You're the only person in this city I know besides Gideon, and I don't want to ask him this because, uh, reasons?" My voice is surprisingly squeaky. To get it low and gravelly like a supervillain's takes practice. There's a science to it, and I haven't tried my hand at it in so long mine has begun to fall apart. "I just don't want to."

"I'm not a phone book," Gal says, and then sighs. I can hear more jostling, more pages, and the low moan of wind. "You totally ruined my descent into The Heart of Darkness while staring down at all the sad souls in my broken city." She's being full of herself again, but I can hear her chuckle. Every super has to have a thing outside heroing, and if her thing is about big words and classic literature, that won't kill me. "I'll help you, but next time, please only call me in an emergency, okay?"

"Fine." I lean my forehead against the window of the booth, phone cord pulled tautly. It doesn't seem as much like a cage anymore. In fact, it's cozy. Could probably hang a blanket in front of the door and sleep here until the police kick me out. I think about this while I give Galaxy the address, think about it so hard that when I hear Galaxy suck in a sharp breath, I don't comprehend it. Don't comprehend the whistle of wind and then the sound of static so loud it sounds like bees have eaten through the wires to nestle behind my eardrums. I just stand there, holding the ancient phone, my fingers tracing the myriad holes in the earpiece. And then the door is flung open, and I step back against the wall, small under the shadow of the levitating super.

Her armored frame blocks the entire doorframe. I could punch out the wall behind me and run, but I don't. I'm paralyzed with my hands flat against the glass, sweat rolling down my face and soaking my skin.

"I may not agree with what you have to say," Galaxy quotes, one hand pressed to her hip. Her voice is lower, with just a little gravel in it. She sounds like a supervillain, and she looks like one, chin jutted up and eyes narrowed. "But I'll defend to the death your right to say it."

"Voltaire didn't actually say..." I start, and then shrug, because that clearly isn't the point.

"I'm going to walk you to the place with all the people who want us dead."

"Oh." I feel my cheeks flush with heat. I thought they were more secretive than that. "Thanks."

"But I want to know why you believe I'm the downfall of society." She's shaking.  Her jaw is ground. Her shoulders loosen and she leans against the door with a drawn-out sigh. And I realize she isn't shaking with fear but with rage. "And why you think that about yourself. Always wanted to meet someone he felt that way. Never thought they'd be a super."

I could lie, but I don't. "We shouldn't exist."

"Why?"

"Because we're abominations."

"How so?"

"Because we're not human. We're about as human as, as—" I pick up the phone and slam it back on the hook.

"Does that even matter?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "So we're different? They're as weird as we are. Trillions of bumbling little cells." She snorts, and by the shift of her nose under her armored jaw guard, I guess it wrinkles. "Really gross, aren't we?"

"Yeah, well. Everything would just be so much less complicated and no one would get hurt—"

"Did a super hurt one of your relatives?" Her eyes widen. Her voice still has an edge to it, but the way she speaks is slower. Softer. "Is that it?"

"No!" My fist slams the glass behind me. The pain washing over my balled fist and the quiet tingle of glass as it empties off the frame is all faint, as if from some faraway place, happening to some faraway person. "Why does everyone ask me that!"

Galaxy raises a manicured eyebrow, offering her upturned hand to me. Every plate of armor glows in the "Fine, kid. Don't go damaging city property—that's my job," she says it goodnaturedly, letting her head roll back and her stance relax. Like all's forgiven, like she doesn't want to fight. But I do.

"Another thing about superheroes." My fist is shaking, covered in blood. I caused the pain myself, but I want to hate her for it. I bare my jaw at her, gripping my own wounds. "Always breaking everything."

"I don't have time for this." A bandage is wound tight around my open palm before I even see her move toward me. I blink a few times, anger a swell of heat the gushes through me. Irrational, sure. But is anything rational? She nudges me out of the phone booth with her fingers on my shoulder, and while I'm trying to to find my footing, she's already dragging me by blood-drenched cuffs. "Hey, hey!"

Her superspeed makes mine seem laughable. When she finally lets me go, I'm standing on a cobblestone street, overlooking a square of well-kempt grass and a white manor house. Six windows, casting blocks of a luxurious golden glow on the pinkening sky. She hands me map Sharpied on a napkin smelling freshly of ink. "Good luck," she says, while I keel over and vomit.

 Sickness. I'm all sickness. Dizzy and lurching and a little faint, my hands pressed to my chest because I think my ribs might blow away after the pressure and speed she put on them. "Hate people like you!" I shout after her. 

But by then, she's only a purple streak tearing across the sky. I pound my heart with my fist, coughing up sludgy mucus. "Supers," I say, spitting as I sway up the winding drive. It's built of smooth, pink stones, large and round. They sparkle under the falling sun and clack under my heels. The porch spans the entire front of the manor house, and as I slam my ear with the heel of my palm to get the aching eardrum to pop, the door flies open. I didn't even get to touch the knocker. "Hell..ello?" I say, still dizzy. I smile uncertainly at the figure looming in the doorframe. 

Despite the warm glow of the windows, the house is all darkness behind them. Hell, they're all darkness, too. Can't make out hands or feet or even a face, only a vaguely human shape and a pair of gleaming blue eyes. "Everyman, right?"

The figure is silent.

I toss my hoodie against the back of my neck, shaking a tumble of greasy hair in my eyes. I don't know what else to do, and so I strip myself of all my secrets in my first sentences to the otherworldy stranger. "I'm Max Preston. Son of David Preston, the mayor of Silver Dollar Strip. Biggest fan?"

Their head tilts to the side, eyes, bright and blue, still searing down at me.

"I could do a lot for your organization." I smile, and it's a strained grimace. "If you just let me in."

A hand reaches out of the door frame, black-gloved. I let the thick fingers settle between my neck and shoulder because I don't know what else to do. I need them, their acceptance. And when they grip my throat and lift me kicking off the ground, I'm pretty sure this was meant to happen to me all along.