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Instead, I struck gold: Taco Bell hot sauce.
I wondered what it must be like to be so mediocre and so confident at the same time.
“We saw you on the news, with that thing in your hands. You looked like you were going to shit your pants.”
They all told the same story: superheroes, for all their good PR, were terrible for the world. They were islands of plastic choking the oceans, a global disaster in slow motion. They weren’t worth the cost of their capes; whatever good they did was wiped out many times over by the harm.
Rumor had it the tech in it was so advanced it was functionally indistinguishable from magic.
It’s you they have to worry about.” I laid a hand theatrically on my chest. “Keller, you say the sweetest things.”
It was a good week before I realized that Greg had changed my email signature from “Anna Tromedlov” to “The Auditor.” It stuck.
“You know why they can’t get to our loved ones?” Keller asked. “Because they’d never stoop to it?” I answered. “Because we don’t have any.”
“To seek vengeance and power instead of cowering when the world punishes you. That’s what they think evil is, do they not?”
I took the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“You know what’s more criminal than anything I have ever done? That you’ve been overshadowed by that lantern-jawed cockwit when you’re obviously better than him in every imaginable way.”
“I wasn’t planning to forgive them either.”
