It occurs to me that I haven't described myself. At all. And that, probably, you see me as some freakishly tall shadow-blob, chugging coffee as she shuffles from butt-kicking to butt-kicking. Or you see pieces of yourself in me. Maybe you're a reader who slips into these words and wears my experiences like a second skin. Which is pretty dang cool to a nerd like yours truly, and even more so to the superhero I'm supposed to be. Anyone can be Red Comet, so anyone should be Onyx, too.

But if Masquerade ever really kicks my butt, I've decided it would be nice if a few devoted readers could identify my body.

"So," I say to the whirling circle on my screen. "I can't disclose my sources. But this is my first lead on the disappearance of Red Comet." I flip the phone around. You have to remember, I draft my stories on a typewriter.  I don't know how a phone works. My post got a few reads, a few comments. Most asked for proof I'm the real Onyx. The rest called me a creep. 

I hover over the warehouse behind the cottage Masquerade jumped me. It looks like a playset. A little gray toy sticking up on the green quilt forest. A little closer, and there's the hissing brown bog with the bubbles scraping the clouds before they pop on the blades of grass with several snaps in quick succession. My heart slams. I can feel the odd heartbeats, the stabbing heat in my side. In another thirty minutes I get to take a second dosage of pills to relieve the hearth that's begun to stir again in my bones. 'Cause who needs actual rest, am I right?

"See that warehouse?" I swoop down over the bog, my toes dangling just above the little hissing bubbles. The warehouse's sides are orange with a coat of rust, a few chains slung over the door and looped around the brass knob. The air reeks of acid, the metallic-tinge of sheet metal stinging my nose. I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my fingers and yank the chains so hard they snap. "Huh," I say to the phone. "It looks like I'm a... a... " Can't think of a pun about my super-strength, so I stand there, laughing this low eh heh heh at the camera. The door creaks behind me and swings open with a painful squeal. My heart skips. I lick one finger and hold it up to the sky like all the sailors do in the old movies. The air is dead still.

This is where the smart people stop. They turn around, or call the police, or so something that does not include walking into the very clear trap. But I'm sure I've established that I'm not one of these smart people. Evidence is evidence, and I need it.

Someone comments that I'm stupid. "Very," I say, and take to floating, balancing on the thin web of molecules on the toes of my mud-slicked sneakers. 

The warehouse, from the inside, is everything you'd expect and wouldn't all balled in one. The roof is supported by rotting wooden rafters. You can make out the cracks in the oak, the molds and weeds peeking out through the slender 'Xs'. The ceiling is torn. Sunlight slants on the floor, painting the metal all around me with seams of gold. Filing cabinets are pressed up against the walls, manila folders piled up under my floating my feet like the dead leaves I used to jump into as a kid when I lived inland. But that's not the disturbing part, none of this is, really.

The warehouse is filled with hooks.

They dangle low on steel chains. Rusty at the tips, splattered brown. They clang like demented wind chimes when I push past them, catching in my unbrushed hair, tugging at my hoodie strings. My hands have gone clammy and cold. 

This is what it must feel like in a slaughterhouse.

The reception here is low and the live-stream is depleting my battery, so I cut it off with one last panoramic snap of the warehouse and an even quicker 'bye.' I take pictures instead, the adrenaline rush so overpowering I almost forget to miss my camera. I wade through the files. Most of them are burned or filled with holes. Of the papers I can salvage, the ink runs together, blurring the words. Half are crisp with a thin dry, brown layer. Drenched and air-dried.

My heart sinks deeper and deeper into the pit of my stomach. The air is thick with the smell of acid and blood. I shouldn't be here. This isn't a cute little mystery that I can flip to the back of the book for the answer. 

But I said I'd figure out what happened to Red Comet. I want to know. If not for the people I promised, at least for her. 

I squint at the alcove above. All is still. I squat down, steady my hands, and comb through the papers. They're all burned. Even the ones that are still intact are illegible. In between the pages are shiny jags of metal. I slip a piece into my pocket before pushing deeper. Bile burns at the back of my throat. A flicker of red catches my eye between two beige folders. I yank it up hard, cold red silk running through my fingers, tears at the hems, burn marks at the corners.

A squeak catches in the back of my throat. 

A red cape.

Red's cape.

I start to take pictures, a lot of them. Snapping photo after photo of the ratty strip of burned silk, vomit coming up in the back of my throat. The hooks rustle in my peripherals. I keep snapping. My mind has gone into a blue screen system error mode. Does not compute. Does not function. Information whips by in a storm.

I am  5'9, 135 pounds, sixteen years old, and an African American female. You can't miss me, really. Lanky limbs, eyes a shade of muddy light brown or green depending on the sun or my mood, tangled hair that the generous call "waves" and I call "a pain." A kind of thin, limby girl. I can just imagine the images online, in the papers. First in the 'Missings,' then in the 'obituaries.' Maybe some stupid kid will find my cape a month from now. Maybe never. I'm jerked upward. The phone clatters to the ground with a sickening 'clack!'

Pressure closes in on my throat. I kick out, grabbing at my own cape. Masquerade howls with this deep laughter that bounces off all the steel in the room. I steady my hands with a quick glance behind. A hook is driven through the cheap black satin. "Haha." I deepen my voice. I have to become a superhero. Chop chop. "Very funny," I say as I twist and clang on the chain. My hand slips to the keychain on my hip.

"Don't you have a saying in the superhero world?" asks the villain. His mask pops out of the sea of silver. He emerges as effortlessly as you'd emerge through water, pushing metal out of his way, floating in the harsh sunlight. "No capes?"

He's holding a coil of rope.

With a flick of two fingers I have myself cut free. Thank the Lord and the universe for paranoia, over-sentimentality, and blades that pop out of pencil sharpeners far too easily. I snatch up a rusty hook on my way down, still kicking, lip chomped down so hard I can taste the beads of blood between my teeth.

"You can't speak. That mask makes you look like...like a doofus." I spit to rid my mouth of the metallic tang. "What happened to Red? What do you know?"

Masquerade chuckles. I lunge. Legs curl up to my chest, exploding out at him. He slips back against the chains and swipes me out of the air with a slap to the side of the face. The blow sends stars spiraling before my eyes. I flail and hit the ground. Hard. The fresh pain in my side draws a scream. The impact sends a crack through my twitching body.

He lands on top of me. Another shock of impact, his knee digging into my injured side, his coiled weight pushing against my chest. His mask presses into my face. "Onyx, Onyx." He clucks his tongue. "You've gift-wrapped yourself. What's the point of chasing down heroes if they don't put up a fight?"

Most of his words are coming out 'Whump whump whump' to my throbbing ears. My eyes are squeezed shut. Teeth gritted against an oncoming scream. "Oh, I'm sorry, you think I'm here for your entertainment?" Even that comes out strained. "Well, I'm not—"

"Shh." He takes my wrist. I squint. He flicks the rope and it takes on a red glow that hums and hisses from the inside. My heart is beating so fast it's become a thrum. "Just, you know, relax—"

I wheel my free fist back and pop him a hard punch in the mask. My knuckles sting, but it's just enough to push him back. Another elbow to the chest. He presses his knee deeper into my side, his fingers further into my wrist. I'm scrambling and punching, lashing out in any way I can, my eyes drawn to Masquerade's lasso. My mind is busy making connections. The red glow. The chemical bog. Comet's cape. "Quit telling me to relax when you're trying to kidnap me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Would you rather I cracked out a 'muahahaha?" He lunges for my other wrist. I duck his attempt and elbow him so hard in the rib cage he yelps and the 'crunch' is undeniable. I wriggle free, winding the red cape scrap around my hand.

I'm back on my feet. He grabs his side, eyes half-shut behind the slits of his mask. He races for me. I dive around him, snatch up my phone. There's another yank, the neck of my jacket pulled taut against my throat. I'm flung off my feet, dangling. He's got my hood balled up in his fists. 

"Looks like they forgot to mention 'No hoods.'" By the time I've finished my quip, he's swung me around and thrown me so hard and fast my head hits the corner of a filing cabinet and white stars explode in front of my eyes. That's what they don't tell you about stupid-offhanded-remarks.

They waste time. 

I collapse on the cold concrete, scrambling for a pun to adequately describe my situation. The world sort of fades to black, like an onyx. You know, 'cause onyxes are black and my costume is black and... 

Boy, do I need better pun-game.