Sarah calls in sick on Tuesday and doesn’t show up to school. Over the next few hours, several industrial sites in the Pacific Northwest get phone calls from a “reporter” asking about what they lost during their recent burglaries. She dragoons me into the effort as well, sending me a list of phone numbers to call over lunch. I don’t get much to eat, but I send what I find back to her.
The virgin Dreadnought-4: Can only investigate the murder of his predesecor for forty minutes around noon because he shouldn't take the algebra mid-term on an empty stomach.
The chad Calamity: Realises high-school is bullshit, blows it off to be a fucking superhero all the live-long day.
As the day dims toward night, our inventory of stolen goods begins to firm up. Exotic coolants and ceramic heat sinks. Optically flat mirrors and several very expensive motion picture camera lenses. A thousand gallons of low-viscosity hydraulic fluid.
Utopia's either going to build a mega-death-mecha, or a sick gaming rig. Oh, wait, she's going to solve all the Suduko puzzles and render bitcoin useless! The girls pay a capacitor plant Utopia hit a visit:
Back on her feet, she pulls something out of her jacket that looks like a tiny toy gun with a pair of thick wires poking out the front. She jams them into the lock, squeezes the trigger a few times, and we’re in.
“Lock picking with actual lock picks is for eccentrics, hobbyists, and morons,” she says.
“You’re not an eccentric?”
“Hush.”
I feel like there's probably some locks where an actual pick would be the best option, but I know very little about that.
“Wackachicka wackachicka wackachicka wackachicka…”
Calamity pops her head out of the storage room. “What in the hell are you doin’?”
I pause like a deer in headlights between a wacka and a chicka. “A cheesy ’70s investigation montage?”
“Damnit, D—girl!” She stalks down the short hallway and slips into the office. “Caping is a might bit more serious than that.”
“Oh come on, you talk all old timey and you call yourself Calamity.”
I'm torn about this bit. On the other hand, Danny actually enjoying himself doing something besides trying on girl clothes is nice, but I dislike MCU style "Isn't being a superhero
wacky" bits.
“That is a persona!” says Sarah. She snatches her hat off and throws it to the floor. “It is a vital element of the form, one that you have ignored for too long. I don’t even know what to call you when we’re out like this!”
I shrug as I take the copy out of the machine and fold it up. “‘Hey you’ is working fine so far.”
Sarah is one of the few characters who acts like a native inhabitant of her own universe.
That’s a very good question. At first, I sort of assumed I would be. But then. Well. But then. But then my parents found out I was a girl. But then I met the Legion. But then David torched our friendship. Running around hunting Utopia is fun and all, and yeah, I promised I’d find a way to honor Dreadnought, and taking down the supervillain that killed him is a good way to do that, but Calamity has a point. I’ve been able to choose permanent colors—not even Dreadnought’s colors, just anything—for more than a week now. And I haven’t. And maybe I never will. So I don’t say anything because I don’t have any answers, and after a moment it gets weird.
I could swear I've read this exact paragraph five times doing this review.
“Hey, look, I didn’t mean anything by that,” says Sarah. It’s a little weird talking to Sarah when she’s got the Calamity outfit on but she’s not doing the voice.
“It’s okay.” Like a bubble rising from the depths, the question forms and is out of my lips before I really think about it. “Is it selfish that I kinda just want to be Danielle right now?”
Yes! You've been "Danielle" for most of the book!
“No. I don’t think so.” Sarah bends down, picks her hat up, and fiddles with the brim. “I think we’ve already gotten everything we’re going to get from here. In fact, I was just being thorough. We probably have enough for my contact to go on already. Do you, um…do you wanna go buy makeup?”
Canny Calamity knows how to keep the AGP demigod wrapped around her gun-barrel.
“I don’t have any money.”
With that bandanna over the lower part of her face, Sarah’s eyebrows become much more expressive. “My bike cost seventy thousand dollars, and my guns are eleven hundred each. You think I can’t afford a tube of lipstick?”
“Where the hell do you get that kind of money?”
Sarah shrugs. “I rob drug dealers.”
“Oh.”
Most drug dealers apparently make sub-minimum wage, so Calamity must be busy.
“What kind of makeup do you like?” asks Sarah.
“I have no idea. I used to just grab the first nail polish that looked pretty and get out.”
“Okay, so let’s get you some foundation and mascara to start. Maybe some lip gloss, too.”
“Not lipstick?”
Sarah shakes her head. “Maybe. Lipstick is a little heavy. Unless you’re going to a formal event, or there’s a particular look you’re going for, it will seem out of place.”
"Also, bitch, wash your damn hair."
I realize I’ve never seen Sarah actually wear makeup, and yet she speaks as an authority on the subject. When I say as much she shrugs. “I am the only daughter in a family of boys, and
if you think my mother didn’t force me to learn about this stuff, then you are out of your goddamn mind.”
A little stab of envy goes through me. That one day shopping with Mom seems cheap and flimsy in comparison.
At least Sarah's not talking about her first period or something.
Picking the correct foundation turns out to be a lot more involved than I thought it would be. There’s a special lamp that’s supposed to give the right kind of light for color matching, and I’ve got to hold different shades up against the inside of my arm to see which ones match my skin tone the best. Of course before I can do that I’ve got to decide between liquid and powder foundation, and really I have no idea which is better. When I reach for a tube of black mascara, Sarah shakes her head, and points me towards some dark brown mascara instead. Because I’m blond, actual black mascara would stand out strongly against my coloration, which is useful for achieving certain looks but not something I want to tie myself to, at least not until I know what I’m doing.
I have never felt more "cis" in my whole life. Also, Danny's blond? Huh. I always pictured him darker-haired. Someone shop tranny-Homelander
for my personal collection.
It’s like this all the way down to the smallest detail. There’s nothing simple about makeup, and she assures me that I’ll want to practice putting it on a few times in private before I leave the house with any of it on, because apparently it takes considerable skill to put the stuff on and make it look nice.
You know, I'm a dude with only the one sister, and I'm pretty conventional in my presentation or whatever you want to call it. Do most ladies actually get sat down by their mums or sisters and taught this stuff explicitly? I always got the impression most mothers allow their daughters to learn through trial and error, with the occasional comment about how they look like clown-hookers.
Then she says I might not even need it, and I nod and say its one of my superpowers to be impossibly beautiful, but it still looks like fun to get made up. Sarah sputters for a little while.
Every day, Sarah wishes she could be the Falcon to Cybersix's Captain America and not Danny's. Enough of this bullshit, someone press "T" to wait.
We’re good at leaving my back yard without any noise now, and we wait until we’re most of the way down the alley before we say anything else. I notice for the first time that somehow all the streetlamps in this alley are out. When I examine them in the lattice, I see they have been shattered. Almost as if someone with a silenced pistol came through here and shot them all.
That very night, the Tozers discovered a baby boy left for them by American Dumbledore.
“So tonight’s the night?”
“Tonight is a night. Gonna come calling on a business partner of mine, fella going by the name of the Artificer. He’s a grayish sort of hypertech merchant. We tell him what we know about the robberies and the time frame, then maybe he can tell us what she’s planning. Probably won’t be too exciting. I was thinking we’d do a little patrolling after we talk to him.”
Still knocking it out of the park with the names, Daniels. Also, is it wrong I kind of want to go on patrol with Calamity? Sounds like a hoot and a half if you get into the spirit of things. You know, beating up criminals, having a somewhat loose interpretation of the rule of law, thinking thoughts other than trans nonsense.
Calamity kills the engine and pulls her helmet off. Her motorcycle ticks and clicks in the cold night air. “This here is it. I called ahead so we shouldn’t get shot at, but just in case we are, try not to get hit. He’s got things that could even put a dent in you.”
So, a boombox playing recordings of Danny's dad?
Calamity draws a pistol and begins swapping out jelly rounds for hollow-points. “He’s a mite bit eccentric, but he only tried to kill me the one time. We’re square. Square-ish. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s why you’re loading lethal rounds, because this is fine?”
“Only in one gun. Nice to have options.” She snaps the cylinder closed. “Let’s go.”
I bet that was a more interesting adventure than anything in this book.
We walk towards the shuttered factory. There are no lights on in this area, no sodium orange to keep the night away, and so the Artificer’s factory seems like a hulking black void in the silver moonlight. When we’re within thirty yards, I start to hear a low buzzing noise. My hair begins to prickle and float. A white spotlight clacks on and pins us to the ground.
Okay, so, when I was writing my capeshit novel (avalible now at no major bookstores or digital vendors!) my editor cautioned me about figurative language, because in a book where characters can do whatever, it's easy to confuse metaphor for something literally happening. That being said, is the spotlight actually immobilising the kids? Introductions are made, and we get to see inside the Artisan's lair:
Holo-projectors and flat screens throw pale glows on the cement floors, and bright white banks of LEDs hug the ceiling. Huge dynamos and racks upon racks of computer servers dominate the walls to either side. Deeper into the Artificer’s lair—and this place is so obviously meant to be thought of as a lair—I can see individual experiments in progress. A half-refurbished matter fabber sits in a corner, its guts splayed out on the ground. Its functioning sister is humming quietly, steam leaking from its sealed production cubby.
Oh, look at Dani--been in two mad science lairs and she's already jaded. Also, is a "matter-fabber" something a layman would be likely to recognise on sight?
Calamity, you had better be prepared to pay your bill,” he says as we come down the steps. “I refuse to be strung along any further, young lady. No more ammunition until you settle your debts.”
“Don’t let your horses lead you, Art. Here’s your money.” She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a fat brick of twenty-dollar bills. She holds it up and he snaps it out of her hand, rubs his thumb down the edge to make sure they’re all the same denomination.
“I’ll count this later,” he says.
“Your trusting nature in these cynical times is a balm to my wounded soul.”
You had God knows how much money lying around in case you ran into a wish fufilment character, and you were stringing along your ammo guy? Doesn't seem wise, Calamity.
The Artificer is obviously American, but he affects a slight accent. Maybe he thinks it makes him sound sophisticated.
What kind of accent? French? British? Australian? You sure he just isn't from another part of America, Danny?
He’s got eyes set deep in the hollows of his skull, and a fringe of thick black hair pulled back high from a severe widow’s peak. He’s wearing, and I swear to God that this is true and I’m not making it up, he’s wearing a double-breasted white lab coat and thick purple gloves.
No, really.
That’s what he’s wearing.
It's almost as though he's a fucking supervillain or something and that's the sort of weird shit they do in your world.
He notices me staring. “What’s the Legion’s pet doing in my humble shop, hm?”
“Uh—” Now how the hell did he know I’m with the Legion? I look at Calamity. She shrugs.
“Please, don’t delude yourself,” he says. “Only the Legion’s kiddie club wears throwaways.”
“Oh.” I’m starting to get the feeling the Legion are the only people in town who don’t realize that.
How'd they get the fucking idea in the first place? Do they think supervillains work like bulls? The Artisan's willing to try and figure out what Utopia is building, but in exchange he wants some non-Newtonian fluid. Don't worry, Calamity knows where they can get some. Namely, the local university:
“So then how—wait, we’re not going to steal this, are we?”
She looks at me like I’ve said something strange. “Of course. What do you think being a graycape means? We ain’t gonna let the law stand in the way of doing what’s right.”
“Stealing isn’t right!”
Remember kids, trans is punk. Although, Danny does have a point: engineering is one of the few things DEI initiatives haven't ruined yet.
“Look, if this stuff is that common to hypertech, I’m sure I can get some from Doc Impossible. Just hang on for—”
“NO!” Calamity’s shout echoes against the factory wall. “We are not going to the Legion for help!”
She’s so forceful I take a half step back and pause to collect my wits. When I find them, a slow burn of anger comes with them. “Why the hell not? I’ve been letting you call the shots so far, but this is stupid!”
Calamity swings her leg over the saddle of her bike. “The Legion’s not just gonna hand the stuff over.”
“How do we know? We haven’t even asked them!”
Is it me, or does Danny forget she hates the Legion a bunch.
“They ain’t trustworthy! It don’t matter what they do and don’t give us, there’ll be some hook behind the bait and we’ll end up frying!” She slams the helmet down on her head. “We’re doing it my way.”
So, we know why Danny (sometimes) hates the Legion: they won't fire a longtime member and friend for not lying about Danny's sex. What about Calamity?
“They arrested my dad.” Sarah’s voice is thick and choked. “The government framed him for murder, and the Legion just want along with it. He’s doing twenty to life in a federal pen.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” It feels like I understand all the words she’s using, just not the order in which she said them. Maybe I misheard her. “Why would the government want to frame him?”
You know, when woke types ask "why weren't we taught this in school" they usually just weren't listening.
“My dad was a cape, called Ricochet. He worked just above street level,” says Sarah. “He found proof the CIA was smuggling drugs for the Colombian cartels and pocketing the cash to fund their black operations.
And then they sold Soldier Boy to the Russians? Side-note, I love
The Boys, but they should really have A-Train be replaced by an even worse speedster who uses they/them pronouns to get people shouted down on Twitter for talking about his crime-sprees.
He tried to go to Congress about it. The Legion arrested him a week later.”
“No, that…they must have been tricked.”
“They invited him to their tower and then ambushed him in an elevator.”
“They wouldn’t do that—”
"It'd be
cramped, for starters!"
“They did!” she shouts. “I only see my dad from the other side of a glass wall now! He missed my brother’s funeral, Danny!”
You know, maybe this is shitty of me to say, but if I carried a genetic curse that had a 50% chance of giving my kid blood cancer, I'd adopt or something.
“This is…I don’t know, Sarah this is not what I thought we were doing—”
“Then let go of my bike and get out of the way,” she growls.
I open my mouth to say—to say what? I don’t know. Something. Something I hope will make this okay again, and put us back where we used to be. Where it feels like we’re supposed to be.
In a sane world Calamity would be the main protagonist and Danny would be a tragic but dumb villain.
A flash, blue on white, and sharp black shadows racing to the horizon.
The pressure wave rips us from our feet and slams us across the gravel. I go end over end in a shower of rocks. Calamity’s bike spins and crunches into the ground inches from her skull. I reach out for her, find her hand in the dark. She squeezes back.
The night is broken by a pyre rising from the shattered factory. The mushroom blooms red and black over dancing flames.
A second flash. A piercing cobalt beam lances down from the sky and into the flames. New explosions blossom and thunder.
See, God Himself agrees with me!
The wind shifts and the smoke clears for a moment. A small figure floats down from the sky, wreathed in blue and silver.
Utopia.
Or Utopia, either works.
