CHAPTER 10 - SABRA

The Zocalo Inn was humming with energy as Sorcerous Chameleon launched into their encore set. Sabra, slouched in a booth with a good view of the stage, still hadn’t developed a taste for their music. Hisae called it “neo-grunge pop-punk.” Sabra called it an excuse to drink.

The view was okay, though, if you looked past the lead singer—a skinny blonde with a terrible black dye job—and focused on the guitarist with the fire-engine red hair and shockingly garish mirror dress. Somehow, she had the charisma (and legs) to pull it off. The only way Sabra knew she’d pull it off was if it ended up on her bedroom floor.

Damn, she thought. Take it easy, Sab.

Apparently, the four band members were empowered and moonlighted as vigilantes around New York—according to Hisae, anyway. Sabra wondered if they had been band mates first, vigilantes second, or the other way round. Either way, it was somewhat interesting, at least, but not enough to keep her interested.

Sabra couldn’t quite dispel the feeling that she was here out of obligation. Of not wanting to buck a trend or disappoint her friends. Every Friday night, they hit up the Zocalo—if they didn’t have the money for Singularity or Echelon-X. But that had been before everything had changed. Now, it just felt like she had better things to do.

Before she could begin to track down the people who shot her father, she still had to pin down why that jumpjet wasn’t working. Sure, she could read some manuals and look over some diagrams, but that wasn’t much fun. Sabra worked by feeling, and her fingertips practiced absently against the top of the booth that she and her friends had clustered around.

Hisae asked, “You okay over there, Sab?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Just dancing.”

“With your fingers,” Derrek said.

“I’ve heard it’s all in the fingers.”

Hisae snorted into her drink. Jamar laughed. Derrek, his face flushed, muttered something about going off to get another round of drinks. On stage, one song finishing up, the guitarist kissed the drummer—a lanky white dude with handguns tattooed on his pectorals—and Sabra chucked that particular daydream into the trash. But—

“Guys,” Sabra said. “Do you think I’d look good if I tattooed guns on my chest?”

“What,” Hisae replied, laughing. “To match your arms?”

“Well, I’ve got that ankh between my shoulder blades.”

“Those go together?”

“I think it’s called contrast.”

“Sometimes I really can’t follow your train of thought, Sab,” Jamar said, draining his glass.

“It doesn’t leave the station much,” she replied. “And, y’know, derails frequently when it does. Hisae can tell you all about it.”

That was how they’d met. Hisae Sato had been her “study buddy” the first time she’d flunked math, when she was fourteen, and her new friend’s patience and diligence had helped her crest the awe-inspiring heights of being a straight-C student by the time she graduated from high school.

And Derrek—well, she’d met him when they were both fifteen, and he was cowering and crying behind the lockers. Turned out, he’d picked a fight on his very first day and bitten off more than he could chew. Something had happened to his parents, but he had never talked about it, and she had never asked.

“Derrek’s taking a while,” Sabra said.

“Probably chatting someone up,” Hisae replied.

“Maybe,” Jamar said, and he glanced toward the bar. “I’ll go find him.”

Jamar pushed his way past and made his way around the edge of the dance floor. The band kicked off into another song, and the guitarist was a riot of riffs and reflected light. Hisae leaned across the table and asked, “So, what’s plans, Sab?”

“Plans?”

“Yeah, plans. Or are you going to stay here for the rest of your life?”

“I figured I’d leave the club eventually.”

Hisae rolled her eyes. “No. I mean, don’t you want to leave Asclepion?”

I want to go all the way to Fortress Geneva, baby, she thought. But she said, “I guess. But I’ve gotta think about my parents. I can’t leave them here, y’know?”

“Yeah, I hear that. My mom and dad moved to Tokyo-2 last year, and I think I should join them.” Hisae looked away.

“I mean, I think I will,” she continued. “Soon. Maybe a month.”

Sabra’s heart sank, and she busied herself with sipping from her empty glass.

“I wanted to let you know first. Don’t tell the guys, right?”

“Sure,” Sabra said. “Sure.”

The ocean of people around the bar shifted, and Sabra snapped her attention to it, if only to distract herself from the fact that her city had become that much more of a wreck. Jamar emerged from the crowd, guiding Derrek with one hand on his back. Sabra sat up. Even the flashing dance floor lights made it easy enough to see his scowl—and the blemish along his cheek and jaw.

“Hey,” Sabra said, when they were closer. “What happened?”

Derrek grunted, simmering. “Nothing.”

“Now’s not the time for the tough guy silent treatment, man.”

“Someone said I had to bring you a message.”

“What?”

Derrek waved over towards the bar. Sabra spied four people, all dressed in a similar fashion, sporting the black and purple of the Forgotten. One of them, she noted, had a familiar beard outlining his jawline.

Shit. Bryce.

“And they hit you?” she asked.

“Barely,” Derrek replied. “Looks worse than it is.”

“What was the message?”

Derrek’s gaze wavered. “What message?”

Sabra frowned. Her mother was a nurse, and so she had picked up a thing or two. Blows to the head were funny things—sometimes they bled worse than they were, and sometimes they seemed benign until you failed to wake up.

“We should get Derrek to a hospital,” Sabra said. Coward, some part of her whispered.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I can walk it off.”

The Forgotten crew pushed through the crowd, Bryce leading his trio over to them. “Shit,” Jamar muttered. “Look, we gave you the drinks, guys. Passed on the message. Everything’s square, yeah?”

Bryce looked straight past him, eyes on Sabra. “We’re not even yet.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. But she knew where this was going, and the pre-fight buzz always began at the tips of her fingers and toes, like a humming at the edge of her hearing. Like a song, and her heart was the steady beat of a war drum. She didn’t run away with it, though—not yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

“I bet you don’t. Do you want to tell them, or should I?”

“What’s he talking about, Sab?” Hisae asked.

“Nothing. How about you take your three idiots and fuck off.”

Bryce leaned in. “What’s that, little girl?”

The buzz hummed through her hands. Sabra hated being called ‘little.’ Who the hell would ever think of her as little? She sat up in her seat and slid her empty glass away.

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“I said, fuck off and let us enjoy our night.”

“Fine,” Bryce said, then looked to Derrek. “Enjoy your night, buddy. We’ll find you outside.”

“Oh,” Sabra said. “Are we taking this outside?”

“Sab,” Jamar cut in. “These guys are Forgotten. Mike’s boys.”

“Yeah,” Bryce replied. “We can take this outside if you’d like. Can have it out between just the two of us.”

“Alright,” Sabra said, standing up. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bryce led the way. Sabra followed him out and her friends followed her. Her father had made one thing very clear: if you fight, you fight because you have no other choice. At first, you walk away. If you can’t walk away, you run. If you can’t run, you give them what they want. And if you can’t—or won’t—do that, then you fight. And if you fight, he said, then you spare them any suffering.

Her father was a reasoned, humanist pacifist. Perhaps not for all of his life, given the burn scars that riddled his arms, the scars he tried so hard to hide, but he had been for as long as she’d known him. I am because you are, her father always said. But to her father’s mantra, Sabra had added a second clause: but better you than me.

The four Forgotten arrayed themselves in a loose semicircle in the parking lot across the street. Sabra followed, shedding her hoodie on the way. She tossed that over to her friends and limbered up, stretching out her arms and shoulders. The Forgotten watched her with a strange combination of hunger and confusion.

“Before we get started,” Sabra said, “I want to make one thing clear. I know your boss. Work with him, even.”

The confusion intensified. Technically, you weren’t supposed to say things like that. Technically, there was supposed to be a divide between cape and civilian and everyone had to play dumb but, well, fuck it.

“Wait,” one of the Forgotten said. “Bryce, isn’t that—”

“Shut it. And she’s a coward. Talks up a big game, but she’s the reason why Khalid’s got a broken arm.”

Didn’t make sense. She hadn’t even touched him.

She caught his gaze. “You really want to bet on that, Bryce?”

He squinted at her. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Can’t use powers out of costume, you lanky bitch, everyone knows that.”

“If I had powers,” Sabra said, and made a show of examining her nails, “I wouldn’t need them to make you suck this asphalt so hard you’ll choke on it.”

Bryce stepped forward, scowling. Perfect, Sabra thought, and that buzz spread up her arms and across her scalp. She bent her knees and set her stance and waited.

“You’re going to regret this,” Bryce said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Probably.”

She didn’t blame them. Couldn’t blame them. Were she in their shoes, had she gone through what they had, maybe she’d be sucker punching people on dubious pretenses. But that didn’t mean she’d let it go unanswered, either. Being a pacifist, she figured, didn’t mean she had to be passive.

“Seriously,” Bryce said. “I’ll happily fuck you up.”

“I don’t care,” Sabra said. “Are you going to keep barking, dog, or are we going to get on with it?”

There was a difference between sparring in the ring and brawling in the streets. In a brawl—a real fight—you never knew what was coming. It was a lesson Sabra had taken to heart even since her dad had first passed her the gloves and, while she was strapping them on, bapped her—lightly, very lightly—on the nose.

If he had sucker punched Derrek, then he’d probably pull some shit if he thought he was losing. Might call his boys into the melee. Might have a knife. Getting stabbed was one thing, she could live with that, but having to explain it to her parents was another.

So she’d end this quickly.

Sabra held her guard up and let him come. If she was going to do this, then it was going to be on him. He could walk, run, or give in. Whatever happened if he decided to force the issue—well, it was out of her hands.

He forced the issue. Bryce approached her too quickly, facing her with his chest and not his shoulder. He threw a punch that didn’t connect—wouldn’t connect, Sabra could feel it—and she weaved to the right. Then, with her right hand, twisting through her hips, she punched him in the throat.

Bryce stumbled, gasping, and she grabbed him as he looked like he was about to fall. “It’s okay,” she said, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re okay, you’re fine.”

She kept repeating it, speaking softly—like he was a friend, or an idiot who had bumped his head. Then, just as he relaxed, just as she felt the adrenaline bleed out of him and saw the fight go out of his face, she took hold of his arm—and broke it at the elbow.

This time, she didn’t catch him as he fell, screaming and crying. She left him on the asphalt and took one step over him, to face his buddies, and brought her fists up again. She turned half a circle, but no one advanced.

“Are we done here?” Sabra asked, and no one responded. “Okay, cool. Get out of here—and make sure you tell your boss to come and get him!”

Someone over by the doors to the Zocalo jeered wordlessly as the Forgotten fled into the night. Sabra leaned forward, hands against her thighs, and let out a shaky breath. That could’ve gone bad. It could’ve gone really bad. Three against one, much less four, wasn’t good odds. It was why she’d had to end it quickly and decisively. But she was shaking, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t fear.

Pretty sure.

“Holy shit,” Jamar said. “Sabra!”

“Are you okay?” Hisae asked. “Oh, God—look at your face.”

Sabra raised her fingers to her nose, stared at the bright blood on them.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just... I need a minute. Is Derrek—”

“I’m okay,” he replied.

“You are not. Can you guys get him to a doctor or something? He might be concussed.”

“Yeah,” Jamar said. “I just wanted to see— Wow, yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

“Sab,” Hisae began, holding her jacket out to her. “Did you have to do that?”

Sabra pulled herself upright. Hisae’s round face was pale. She wasn’t sure how to answer that—no, but yes. She reached for her hoodie and shucked it on and said, “Is it better to break one arm or beat up four dudes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Sabra replied, frowning. “Me either.”

I am because you are, some part of her said. And then, as if in answering chorus: but better you than me.

“Are we good to get out of here?” Jamar asked.

“I’ll wait here. Gotta sort everything out with their boss.”

Hisae said, “What do you mean—”

“I’ll explain it all later, okay? I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I’m clear. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“Always am.”

Sabra sat down on the pavement, watching Bryce curl around himself in the middle of the parking lot. Maybe she should move him. Maybe. If anyone got into a car, she’d drag him out of the way then. It wouldn’t do if he died, he wouldn’t learn anything that way. She scratched at her scalp and waited for the shoe to drop. Maybe she’d find out what Mike was like when he was mad.

She focused on her breathing. Inhale, exhale. A dull headache spread across her brow, behind her eyes, pounding in time with the beat from Zocalo. She’d won, and that was all that mattered. And there was no other way this fight was going to go, or could have ever gone. It’d been over since Bryce had stepped to her, since they had first sized each other up, since the song had first kindled in the whispers of cosmic strings.

What?

The temperature dropped. The streetlights flickered and went out. Sabra leapt to her feet as the darkest shadows around the parking lot gathered and pooled and a figure in black, face painted like a skull, coalesced into existence. Took a moment to look around the lot, to the patrons outside the club, then to the figure whimpering on the ground.

“Wait,” Mike Romeo said, “what the fuck?”

“I feel like I could ask you the same thing.”

“Jesus, Sabs—you did this?”

“Your guys picked a fight with one of my friends, so, yeah.”

“What?”

“Your boy, Bryce, said he had a message for him. Did it come from you?”

Mike shook his head. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, Sabs, I swear.”

“But,” she began, and shut up. Mike was a good dude, honest. There was no point in fighting him on it.

He sighed, closed his eyes. “Shit. Look, whatever’s going on, I’ll make sure it gets left at this, okay?” He opened them again, glanced at Bryce’s prone form. “Thanks for not throwing him to the cops, wouldn’t do to have him back there two nights running. Look, Bryce’s been shaky ever since this whole gang war kicked off. Don’t take it personally.”

Sabra nodded. “Sure. How’s Khalid?”

“Who?”

Weird, but maybe Mike didn’t know everyone in his group. She shrugged it off. Besides, when hadn’t Asclepion’s gangs been going at it?

“Anyway,” she said, “why did you sound so surprised? What, forgot that I could fight?”

Mike shook his head. “No, how could I? But I also figured it was the chick in the silver mask. Only reason I got here so fast is because I’ve been on high alert. But between you and me, I’m very happy to not be staring her down.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since the night of your big debut, someone—”

“Let me guess,” Sabra said, gesturing to the vague height of her nemesis. “She’s about this tall with big, bulky rocket boots. Wears a lot of black?”

“How did you—”

She grinned brightly. “I kicked her ass last night.”

“Well, thanks for that, Sabs—she’s been roughing up my people ever since.”

“I didn’t tell her you were involved, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Wasn’t really,” Mike replied. “But she hunts my people down, scares the daylights out of them. Dangled one guy over a three-story drop.”

“Christ and Allah, did she—”

“No,” Mike said. “But now that I know you ‘kicked her ass,’ I’m guessing that she’s looking for you.”

“Cool,” Sabra said. “Then she really is my nemesis. Don’t suppose you got her name?”

“Nope,” Mike replied, squinting at her slightly. “Look, I can’t stay here too long, people might start asking questions.” He walked over to his fallen goon and laid his hand upon him. “Mind telling everyone I scared you a whole bunch, Sabs?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. That’ll make it easier to stop this from becoming a whole… thing. And be careful, yeah? Watch your back, and I’ll let you know if I find anything out about your… nemesis.”

“Hey, don’t give me that look—aren’t you technically a supervillain?”

“Technically, we’re both a lot of things. G’night, Sabs.”

And with that, he vanished into the night—like the shadows had reached out to claim him and his injured man—and left her there, alone, as the streetlights flickered on.

“Yeah,” Sabra said, smiling to herself. “Good night.”