Killing Olympia

Hey, B. I know it's been a while, and I also know I haven't said anything to you yet, which is pretty shitty of me considering, well, everything. But I'm fine. I think. I never thought it would be this hard to pick up a pencil, but here I am, struggling to keep my hand steady enough to put lead to paper. It turned out that it wasn't just my back that got screwed up when Gayne slammed into me or when Atalla snapped my shoulder. My whole sense of balance isn't like it used to be, and I get these nasty migraines that leave me puking and dizzy if I stand up for too long. It's been slow. Annoyingly slow. Here I am, the great and powerful Olympia, and she can barely wash herself. It's so freaking embarrassing. Now a bunch of people from the government get to help me in and out of the shower.

Because, after all this time, the government and I are on the same damn page.

But I can't fly fast. I can't lift heavy. I got shot with a bullet this morning and doubled over.

I just…I don't know what's fucking wrong with me, you know? I finally get what I've always wanted: all these people who wake up and all they want to do is make sure I get stronger and stronger, and I just keep failing.

We've got this system, right? I get a star for every benchmark I hit. Flying. Reaction time. How much I can lift and how long can I hold it up, and I've even started having to study all these weird formations they've been cooking up for me. Like, check this out: delta-double, swing left, barrier-82. Like, what the fuck? Apparently the Olympiad uses that to train its Capes. They've got all these formations, and formations inside their formations, and they want me to memorize all of them and draw them out, because I can't fly or react fast enough yet to try them out. But anyway, back to the stars—I've got none so far. I want to push myself, don't get it twisted, but… I can't.

I try running faster, I try flying quicker, I try to lift things even when I know my body is going to give out, and it just does. It's like my brain and the rest of me isn't on the same page anymore. Pushing past my limits is what I'm used to doing, you know? I fought the devil, dude! And I'm still standing! But I'll be surprised if you can even make out any of the drawings I've made, because my hands shake so badly now when I try to hold anything still.

Mom says that it's fine, that it's usual to have to work your motor skills back up to normal. That's what superhero physios are for, right? Except this is a pencil we're talking about, not a building I'm keeping above me.

I tried to draw us. I, you know, hope you like it, or whatever. It's the first one on the pile. I haven't drawn anything in a while, and today's training sucked so bad, so I figured that I should maybe just do something that used to make me happy. Dennie would probably tell me it's pretty crappy, and he's right, I think it's pretty crappy.

But it's better than staring at this empty white piece of paper, hands shaking, missing you.

I kinda hate you, Bianca, for making me feel all weird and mushy inside, because I'm meant to be focused on saving the world here, and all I can think about is not being able to call you, or text you, or anything at all.

Government secrets, keeping me safe, blah, blah, blah legal stuff. You know how it is.

Gods, I miss you. I hope you're holding up alright. I'm trying my best to do the same.

Because what other option do we really have, you know?

Anyway, I've gotta go. They're gonna check if I'm asleep soon, and I've snuck onto the roof so I don't have to sit in that dreary hospital room for any longer than I've got to. The moon looks great tonight. I hope it looks pretty great over there, too. I've written a bunch of these on mom's laptop, but they're monitoring her emails, I'm pretty sure, so I'm gonna have to bribe one of these guys to post a letter for me. Imagine that, posting letters when the world is falling apart. I'm probably gonna be back way before you ever read this, so, if that's true, B, then…

I love you. I don't know if you heard me say it when I came over that night, but…I love you.

So, um, yeah. Yep. Cool. This is Rylee, by the way. Olympia. I sat next to you in algebra.

Tell your mom and dad I said hi. And if this–we–whatever's going on between us goes anywhere, or becomes something, then I'm gonna hold off on saying anything about it and Gods I sound so stupid writing all of this but I feel like I need to get it out of my system some way, so I'll just write it and shut this damned laptop and not open it back up again because Gods only know I'm probably gonna delete it with the very first chance I get.

Bianca, I want you to be my—

The screen suddenly went black, and my fingers were left there, hovering above the keyboard as I stared at my own reflection. I blinked. Tapped the space bar. Waited for something to happen—nothing did. Oh, come on! I ran both my hands through my hair and groaned, then looked up at the stars winking in the night sky and quietly wondered if the guy up there on his golden throne gets a kick out of pissing me off. It's way past my 'bedtime' (I know, me, have a bedtime—the ludicrousness of engineering a superhero), so there won't be anybody in the facility who'll be willing to lend me a hand to charge this thing. I'm being run like a machine recently. Wake up at five. Breakfast at six. Go for a run at seven, and then it's hell from there onward. Listen, I love working out. I love how it makes me feel, I love when I used to kick Harper's ass back in high school during track meets, but this is way worse.

I vomited after today's session, because I'd only just started being able to walk again, so that meant I was now ready to squat and lunge and sprint and dodge in the eyes of the eggheads with the clipboards and the glasses.

It was beginning to feel like I was some kind of lab rat these people could study. Someone told me what felt like years ago now that my body would be worth billions to the world. My blood was liquid gold and my skin might as well me diamond-encrusted kevlar they'd sell their own children for, and now they had me in their facility, in their notes and their diagramas, x-rayed, analyzed, and watched like I was a very curious-looking creature they just couldn't wait to cut open and examine. I swear, some of these guys get giddy whenever I stumble or fall or bend over and puke on the floor. I'd be weirder out, I'd be pissed off, if there weren't way bigger problems to worry about.

The sky was dead silent, and so was space. The wind howled far away, but was a whisper by the time it worked its way closer. It was warm enough for an unzipped hoodie here, but cold enough for me to rub my hands together and slide them into my pockets. I quietly shut the laptop and set it aside, then hung my head and massaged the back of my neck. I could feel the scar from the incisions they'd had to make when mom was putting me back together. Still raw. Still tender. Sometimes it felt like tiny shards of frost were crawling down my spine like barbs.

Slowly, I rolled my shoulders and sighed through my teeth. I let the wind play with my hair as I leaned back on my palms and let my legs dangle over the side of the ledge. You know, I hated to admit it, but sometimes I missed school. I missed how simple it was. I missed having to fight the urge to skip class and losing out on that urge. I kinda missed getting caught drinking with Grant and making a break for it, or spending my weekends with Dennie, pestering the old man about teaching me how to draw. I'd like to say that I used to be angrier, that I used to be so much more violent, that I used to hate scrubbing the gristle and the blood from my fingernails just before I walked into homeroom and got picked on by Harper and the rest of the cheerleaders. But I was still angry. So, so angry. There was hate, there was spite, and there was a cold bonfire in the pit of my stomach that's eating me alive.

I know they're coming, I know they're not going to stop their Conquest. They offered me a deal and knew that I wasn't, in a million years, ever going to take it—but they were offering me the easy way out from all of this.

For once in my life, the easy way was right there for the taking. Just…walk away.

Leave it all behind, and leave whatever happened next to fate. I mean, it's not like the humans had liked me all that much. Heck, a lot of them hated me. But here was the difference—the Empire wouldn't see me as one of them. I'd be a dirty half-breed, a fraction of their power, and they'd get rid of me faster than Earth would collapse.

I was going to love this planet, and it was going to love me, even if we didn't always share that love.

Because I didn't know anywhere else in the galaxy that would take me.

I can't just fly up there and keep going and going until Earth was a tiny blue speck, right?

The easy way had always been right in front of me. Well, above me.

Right into the jaws of the Empire's bloody teeth.

Stuck saving people who tried replacing me with an obedient clone, stuck facing monsters who could split the moon in two if they tried hard enough, all because I one day thought it was a good idea to stop a bank robbery.

I'm gonna have to beat Ava with a hammer one of these fine days as a way to thank her.

I stretched my arms over my head and stifled a yawn. I might as well call it a night. I'm gonna be up early tomorrow for the same bump and grind, but a part of me didn't want to. A part of me was so repulsed with the idea of having to go back inside of that room, that bed, because it would mean the slow, creeping reality of the truth would just get a little bit closer. I didn't want to say it, and I didn't want to speak it, just like everyone else didn't want to.

I had to save the world, even if I couldn't pick up a pencil to write my name anymore.

I swallowed my thoughts before they could start spiralling. Day-by-day, they were getting louder and harder to ignore. Sometimes they'd echo in the back of my mind so loudly that I'd flinch and quickly spin around.

Like always, nobody was there telling me that I wasn't good enough. At least, not anymore.

Now, everybody wants me to get better. To get so good that I'd make dad look like a chump.

Expectation and pressure wasn't new to me. But that didn't mean I liked it.

And that didn't mean I wasn't exhausted.

I picked up the laptop and folded the pieces of paper, sliding them into my pocket and gingerly floating down several stories until I could climb back inside of my window. I cringed as my tender ribs pulsed with pain, then came the ache that locked my fingers around the laptop for a painfully hot several seconds. I sat there on the ledge, breathing, waiting for the spasm running through my left arm to ease up enough for me to breathe and—

"SURPRISE!"

If I wasn't able to fly, that might've been the death of me when I slipped off the ledge and fell onto my skull. I floated in the air, heart racing as the lights inside my room burst into life. I winced and held my ribs, panting like I was exhausted, and watched Emelia, Grant and Michael (well, Em and Grant) grin at me. I swallowed, licked my dry lips. Why are they here? When did they even get here? A bright red cake with a golden mound of sprinkles sat on the desk, right beside sealed stacks of comics, fresh clothes on my bed, a new phone, headphones that would probably take my years to afford, sneakers, sunglasses. Gods, the entire room was full of things. Michael, with his buzzcut black hair and pale face, blew a party blower. He'd never been easy to make smile. Nothing had changed.

I slowly slipped back into the room and looked around. A red and blue banner hung above the window that said HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! Grant and Em were still grinning at me. Michael stood there, as cold and stoic as ever. Icy vapor hung around him, seeping from his pores and making the room just cold enough for me to shiver. I watched tiny cartoon Olympia cut-outs dance in the breeze, attached to the banner in various states of flight or sleep or laughter. I had no idea where these guys could've even gotten them, but Michael had a stack of them in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, which was a good enough answer to almost—almost—make me smile.

A weary, exhausted smile, but a smile nonetheless.

His brother came over and squeezed me into a hug so warm I almost immediately started sweating.

"There she is!" Grant said, putting me at arm's length. He'd gotten taller, a little more muscular. His dark hair was unruly and he smelt like old cigarettes. He still had that quarterback smile and shine in his blue eyes, and when he punched me lightly in the shoulder, I had to grit my teeth and smile and pretend that it didn't almost floor me. "Look at you!" He turned around, swung his arm around my shoulders, and said, "And those nerds said she was still a few months out from being who she used to be! I, for one, think she looks great. Trust Rylee to always get back on the ride without a second notice." He flashed me another smile, almost like a gunshot. "Want some liquor?"

I scratched the back of my neck. "I've got a hell of a lot of questions right now."

"She didn't say no," Grant said. "Mike, toss over the clear, will you? Let's get this—Ow!" He flinched as a shock of purple electricity jumped from Em's index finger to his chest, burning a hole through his t-shirt. He patted himself down and muttered, "Fine, fine. Jesus, everyone here is suddenly no fun at all. More for me then, I guess."

Em wrapped her arms around me, a lot more gently than Grant did. I gingerly did the same, and let my chin rest on her shoulder. Every inch of my body hurt, but I can't remember the last time we'd hugged. Have we ever? I don't know. Doubt it. But we did it like we've been doing it for the better part of our lives, until she stepped back and put on a smile that said, We need to talk. It was the same smile she'd given me so, so many other times before, but for now, she patted my shoulder and said, "Sorry about him. I usually don't let him off his leash until midnight."

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"Haha, very funny," Grant said, folding his arms. "How're you holding up, Ry? How's it going?"

"You mean how else is she supposed to be dealing with the mental toll of knowing the world is on her broken shoulders?" Michael said. Frostily, of course. He dropped the pair of scissors and stacks of cartoon Olympia's on the desk, then wiped his hands on his jeans like they were filthy. Then he met my eyes. "She seems to be taking the end of the world pretty well, seeing how relaxed she is. But I guess that's a good thing, you know. Putting your feet up."

I clenched my jaw, but forced a smile onto my face. "You're as warm as I remember. How's San Angeles?"

"Hell," Michael said. "It's too hot, too expensive, and the Capes there don't take their jobs seriously."

Coming from the guy who ditched being a superhero to be an actor, but sure, whatever.

Em clapped her hands together. "We're not here to talk about superheroes tonight. We're all here, Ry, because today is a very special day." She spread her arms and grinned. "It's your six year superhero anniversary!"

Six years? Wait, how old am I? Right, eighteen. My birthday should be coming up soon then.

Nothing like one existential crisis after another to screw up your bearings on time.

I looked up at the red and blue banner, then at the stacks of sealed comic books on the desk, the posters still rolled up, the fresh clothes on the bed, the pairs of shoes, the brand new phone still in its box. I swallowed a little and tried to keep smiling, but that pit in my gut, that thing that's been there for months now, widened just enough to drop my gut. This is…a lot of stuff. Really expensive stuff. Then the cake. The pizza boxes. The take out and the sodas and that one bottle of liquor on the floor in the corner. I picked my fingernails. Chewed my tongue. Em's arms slowly fell to her sides, and then her smile slipped entirely off her face, quickly replaced with concern.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

"I knew we should've bought those Olympia balloons, and maybe even the bigger party streamers, maybe the Olympia-cycle, too?" Grant muttered. "The room feels empty now."

"It's not that," I whispered. Cleared my throat. Tried again. "How do I pay you guys back?"

Silence lingered. I heard Michael's jaw tense and the muscle in his forearms tighten.

"Rylee, you don't need to pay us back," Grant said. He waved his hand around. "This is all yours."

"Yeah, but…why?" I asked him.

He pointed above me. "Like the banner said, it's your superhero anniversary." He searched the bed for a minute, then showed me a piece of paper. A really, really old news clipping of me on the front cover, still with that stupid costume I'd slapped together from bits and pieces of whatever I could find in my closet. Wonder-Kid Saves Mini-Mart! I held it gingerly. It felt so brittle between my fingers, like it would crumble the second I tried to turn it over. "See?" Grant said, looking over my shoulder. "You've been kicking ass for the longest time. Enjoy it, Ry."

"But I haven't done anything to deserve all this," I said, looking at him, then Em. "The world is a mess right now. You guys shouldn't be doing any of this. You and Michael should be at home with your mom and dad right now. Em, I'm pretty damn sure your siblings miss the hell out of you, and New Olympus is a fucking—"

"Can I talk to Rylee for a minute?" Michael asked. All three of us looked at him. "Alone."

Grant's smile was lopsided. "I don't think that's a good idea. How about we all grab some cake and—"

Em looped her arm through his and said, "One minute, Michael, that's all I'm giving you." She smiled at me and nudged my arm, then led Grant out of the hospital room. When the door shut, I heard their shoes beat against the floor long enough to make sure that Michael and I were probably the only people awake in this wing.

Which was bad news for me, because it was freezing in here, it was silent in here, and I did not want to be anywhere near here. My chest felt tight just standing here. It was his eyes, though, that made this even harder, too.

And he stared at me. Stared at me and made the spacious room so small it felt claustrophobic.

"If you're gonna say something," I muttered, folding my arms, "then just spit it out."

"I didn't want to come here," Michael said, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I didn't want to see you. I didn't want to help Emelia set this whole thing up. I didn't want to leave New Olympus just so I have to listen to you bitch and complain with your woe is me act." My gut clenched. I chewed my tongue harder, almost tasting blood. My fingers dug into my biceps. I tried to look away, but his heart was so loud, his existence so frigid, that I barely had a choice. "You're pathetic, Ry. So pathetic. I could almost stomach when you were running around without a care about what you actually were, when you killed people and thought the blood on your hands was something you could wash away with some ta[ water. I hate this version of you. I hate that you keep trying to be…better. You're not better. You're just self-aware now, and nothing's changed, so let me tell you this." He got closer. Close enough for me to see the frost his shoes left on the tiles and the ice that crawled across the glass behind me. I had to look up at him to see his eyes, so hooded and dark I could barely see the light in them. "Em put a lot of effort into all of this. She baked that cake. She bought half of this stuff. And you will have a good night, and you will eat that fucking chocolate cake, and if Grant tells you to drink from the bottle, you're gonna down it until he's cheering." He jabbed a finger into my chest. "You don't deserve to feel shitty. So suck it up and put on a smile like you always do."

He stared at me, angular jaw tense, eyes hard, icy vapor seeping from his skin. He stepped back, and the frost slowly fell from the window.

But I couldn't fucking help myself.

"Is that why you came?" I asked when he had his back turned to me. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "You wanted to tell me you're still angry about something I kept apologizing for, Mike? Is that it?"

"Michael," he said icily. "And you know as well as I do apologies mean nothing."

I spread my arms. "Then what do you want from me? Say it. Fuck me, just say it!"

Quietness sat between us, fat and loud and solid.

Slowly, he turned around and said, "I want you to die, Rylee. I want you to die alone. I want you to die scared. I want you to die over, and over, and over again, and I want you to feel so much pain that you kill yourself."

I lowered my arms, heart hammering against my ribs. "Yeah, that's what you want?"

"Yeah, that would be the candles on my fucking birthday cake."

"Yeah, well, that's not happening," I said. "The world needs me."

"The world needs to get its use out of you before you're useless to it again," he said. "You're a tool at best that's going to turn into a liability when all of this is done. Or you fail, which always happens, and the world is going to ask the same question I've been wondering for the better part of five years, Rylee, and that's if you were even worth the time and energy it's taken into making you a good superhero. Do you even understand how pathetic that makes you sound? The entire government, the Olympiad, so many people you've ripped away from their families, have to come together to make you good." Michael shook his head slowly, a smile like a blade cut across his face. "You're not good at this. Legacy means nothing. Just 'cause your dad was a superhero doesn't mean you were ever meant to be one. And I am so, so terrified that the world is on your shoulders, because the last time anything was on your shoulders, you let it fall, crash, and burn."

So that's what this is all about. He thinks I'm going to let the world down, just like I did him.

"I'm not the same person I was back then," I said quietly. "I'm different. Stronger."

"There's a wheelchair in the corner of your room and a team of doctors telling me otherwise. There are so many people who have so much faith in you, and none of them can see how badly this is all going to end for us."

My eyes stung. I blinked them away and massaged my nose, then sighed and shuddered with the effort. I ran both hands through my hair, looked up at the ceiling, and let myself decompress before my racing heart and hot lungs and dry tongue could make this all so much worse. Ok. Fine. I looked at Michael again, nodding my head.

"I went to their house," I said quietly. The curtains danced behind me. Cool night air filled the room. "And I told Selina's family everything that happened." That made his jaw harden. It made him glare and step back, like he was ready for me to launch myself at him and put him through the floor. "And I wish you heard all the shouting Mr. Gates did, and the argument they had in their bedroom that night when they let me stay in the guest room. But I left, Michael. I left before the sun came up, and I ran. I bet you like hearing that, right? That I was such a freaking loser I couldn't even be in the room opposite hers. You want me gone. For good. But I can do a lot more good alive than I can dead, and you know for a fact that Selina would've told you to step back, calm down and just think for once."

"You've got no right to tell me what she would've said," he said through his teeth.

"I do, actually," I said, jabbing a thumb into my chest. "Because I'm the one who kept trying to be a superhero when you're the one who tucked tail and ran to Hollywood. You think I just forgot about the crash? She was my friend too, and I'm not gonna stand here and let you piss all over me." I got closer, pushed aside the bed and shoved him back. He stumbled, stopped, fists clenched, eyes hard. I jabbed a finger into his face and said, "Where were you when Lower Olympus burnt? Where the fuck were you when I was practically homeless and still trying to get that place back into one piece? Where were you, Michael, when I nearly died all those times fighting by myself, 'cause you betrayed the one fucking promise you made to your own girlfriend?" I was panting. My chest ached. The pink stitches across my spine and ribs flared, feeling fiery, but I wasn't done yet. Not close. Not when he was staring at me that way, not when he was glaring at me so hotly, almost on the verge of hate. "Nowhere," I whispered. "You were off playing pretend in Hollywood, when your girlfriend's parents mourned their daughter alone for years."

He slapped my hand away, then coolly said, "One hell of a superhero you are, saving New Olympus."

I shoved him again. His thigh hit a table, knocking action figures onto the floor. "Yeah, think so?"

He shoved me. My feet slid on frost. He pointed at me and said, "Don't touch me, Rylee."

"Yeah, or else what?" I asked. "Gonna run away again? Gonna let someone else do all the hard work?"

"You killed her," he spat. "You're the one who let her die."

"Oh my Gods," I said, exasperated. "I didn't fucking kill Selina! I was weak, alright! I was weak, and she was stronger than me, and she was braver, and maybe, in some other life, I was the one who died, Michael, and let me ask you something, genius, would you have blamed her for that?" Silence. He stared at me. Icy mist spilled through his lips every time he breathed. I spread my arms. "No, I didn't think so. You've always had a problem with me for some goddamned reason, even before any of us were friends. So just say it. Get it all out, damned coward."

Michael stared at me, stared so long the temperate bit against my skin. Then he rolled his shoulders, adjusting his jacket, and said, "If I had a duty, Rylee, to save Bianca, and she died because I was too weak, too slow, huffing my own bullshit, then you would've killed me. You would've hated humanity even more, and ripped me in two." My saliva bittered. He quietly continued. "I've hated you because you're capable, you always have been, and Selina saw something in you that none of us did, and you betrayed her when it mattered most. You were arrogant. You were stupid. And you just weren't half of what Zeus was when it counted. Now she's dead, and her blood will always be on your hands, and no matter how good of a superhero you become, it'll never fill the hole in your chest, because you know it'll never take back the amount of pain you've caused other people. Selina was forgiving, and she was kind, and you can pretend you're doing this all for her—at the end of the day, it's for you. It's all for you to feel better about how bad of a person you really are."

I forced my hands to slowly unclench, for my lungs to slowly relax and exhale.

"You know," I whispered. "I've had a pretty shit year. I've made mistakes. I've made even worse choices. But I want to believe I'm turning out to be a better person, and if you think you're the first person to tell me how much I suck, then I hate to burst your bubble. Life sucks, then it sucks some more, and then you get out of bed and go save the world, because that's what I do, and that's what I'll always do. I was born for it, and I'll die for it, no matter how bad I feel about myself, because I know somewhere out there, someone needs Olympia."

Someone just like the little girl who always dreamt of flying away into the clouds.

And not for one second do I care if he thinks otherwise. I hated to sound arrogant, I hated to sound this angry, this bitter, but he wasn't there when it counted, and neither was his brother. I was alone. I was alone in those sewers, in those alleyways, in those blood-streaked hallways, and those realities filled with destruction and fire and agony—I was alone. Dennie used to tell me about these groups of kids way back in the Golden Age, teenagers who'd dress up and band together and save the day, even if that meant stopping a purse snatcher and calling it a night. I never believed him, because everyone I'd met so far either spat in my face, stabbed me in the back, tried to get my hands filthy, or was a plain old liar.

Trusting someone to have your back in the heat of the moment?

That was almost ludicrous. Damn nearly a death sentence where I'm from.

But Selina had always had my back. I'd hated it, because it made me feel weak, like I needed someone to save me. It made me feel the way I am right now. Barely able to fly. Barely strong enough to stand. I'd feel embarrassed when she'd sweep up some thug who'd gotten into my blindspot, then she'd giggle and nudge me and tell me she always had my six.

And she'd smile this stupid, gorgeous smile, and make it feel like everything would turn out fine.

Somehow, someway, everything would just work.

Maybe that was partially the reason I believed she could do it. I had this inkling hope, this tiny little thought, that she really could pull it off, because she hadn't failed before, and she wouldn't fail when it mattered.

And if there was one thing I wasn't going to do, it was make Selina's smile mean nothing.

This was going to work out. I would be strong enough to make sure this works out.

If not for myself or the entire world, then for people like Selina, who always knew it simply would work.

So, quietly, I sighed the tension out of my shoulders, and said, "I know you're at the door, Grant."

"What?" a muffled voice said, then: "Oh, right, she's got superhearing." The door creaked open, and in came Michael's twin brother, goofy smile on his face nowhere near warm enough to fight the chill that immediately made him sneeze. He looked around the room. He looked at the space between Michael and I. Then, slowly, he slid between us, grabbed the bottle of liquor, and said, "Cheers to us, right? To the kids who are gonna save the world."

"What?" I asked him, taking the bottle before he could unscrew it. My stomach couldn't take the smell of it right now, let alone the fiery liquid gasoline that would churn it into a mess. "You guys aren't even staying here."

"Well," Michael said quietly, brushing past me, leaving frost on my shoulder, "sadly, we are."

Because he just couldn't trust everything being on my shoulders again.

So this time, if things go bad again, we can all die together.

Fun.

I cracked open the bottle and flicked the cap into the trash can. "Cheers to us," I said, raising the bottle. Michael was already walking out of the room, hands in his pockets, taking his frost with him. So Grant swung his arm around my shoulder, and Em gave me that look—that questioning, I'll talk to you later, kind of look.

I was going to be a dumb teenager for one night, because if I sat down alone in this room and let my mind wander, I might've just figured out that the handful of people I actually call my friends might've just signed their death certificates by being here. I didn't blame Em and Grant for leaving. I blamed Michael for spitting at me and not doing anything about it except play pretend for the audiences and the shareholders. Selina wouldn't want that. She'd want me to turn a new leaf. To be…friendly, or whatever, so I took one swig, let it choke me into a coughing fit, let Grant take the second, Emelia the third, and together, we went hunting for Jack Frost, who'd found his way onto one of the quads, where he could stew and brood in silence, until we pinned him down and made him drink.

In typical Michael fashion, he was the first person to get drunk and the first person to faceplant, cursing me all the way to the floor as he sank against his brother. With the bottle empty, it meant the twins were passed out, and Emelia was nursing a bottle of water and giggling as she leaned against my shoulder. Cake smeared on our fingers and mouths. Olympia party masks strapped to our heads. I was pretty sure a candle was quietly burning through one of the curtains, but I was more than definitely sure that I wasn't drunk—but I was…alright. Alright enough to make sure all three of them had blankets covering them. Alright enough to clean up the mess in my room and sit on the window sill. I fiddled with my new phone until it turned on. Recovering all of my stuff was a pain, but I finally did it. The poor thing might've been brand new, but it glitched out the second I tried to open all of my text messages.

So I shut it down again, and stared at myself from a screen that finally wasn't cracked.

For the first time I could remember, I wasn't seeing splinters of my reflection.

It was just…me.

And I guess I was fine with that.

"No matter what, Ry," I whispered to myself, to the sound of their snoring, their shuffling, their drunken muttering and their moaning stomachs, "it's gonna end up fine. Taught yourself how to fly. You can do it again."

But I had to do something first. I had to go somewhere first.

I needed to make amends, and make a promise.

And I was willing to wager my soul on this, or whatever was left of it.

I just had to make sure I was good enough of a superhero to have nights like this for as long as we all lived.

Cheers to Olympia, right? And I guess Rylee was pretty awesome, too.

Let's make year number six the best one yet.

It's what Selina would've wanted.