The Last Superhero (36 page)

I roll my eyes. “Who
would?”

Dad's scolding eyes don't
leave me hanging.

“
He's
asked to be kept awake at all times since we have personnel working
around him twenty-four hours a day.”

“
You
should let him rest. Is he eating?”

She shakes her head and it
feels as if the ground has been removed from under me.

“
Have
you offered him any psychological help?” Wyatt is prompt to
ask.

“
He
won't talk to us,” she bows her head, as if the fact that
Steven wouldn't talk to them actually hurt her. “All he's asked
is to be kept awake and to not let anyone see him.”

I lower my sight to the cup
and can't focus on the brown liquid because it reminds me of that
time he swirled my coffee with his power so I wouldn't burn my mouth
to oblivion.

“
This
is my team,” she proceeds. “Dr. Fletcher. Dr. Hudson. And
our interns: Miss Cane and Mr. Wells.”

Doctor. Doctor. Miss.
Mister.

I'd never remember their
names so I turned them into Dude who removed the IVs, Lady with the
bright red lipstick, and the young'uns: Little Miss Sunshine and
Handsome Guy with David Bowie-esque features in my mind.

There. That I can remember.

“
He
did ask for you,” Little Miss Sunshine comments from her post
standing behind an empty chair, leaning forward in the general
direction of my seat as if to accentuate that the words were directed
to me. “More than once.”

“
And
what is it you're doing here exactly?” Dad inquires.

“
We've
been taking DNA samples and comparing them with the ones taken
twenty-eight years ago to see if there have been any changes.”

“
Have
there?” The question outruns my thoughts.

“
Superhuman
DNA isn't too different from a normal human's, but over time, the
extra strands they have go through a series of very specific
mutations that, in some cases, can predict how long said superhuman
has left to live.”

“
You
used the term super
human
,”
I say.

“
That's
all he is from a scientific standpoint. Nothing more than a human
with extraordinary abilities.”

“
So,
you know when he's going to die?”

Glances are exchanged around
the room.

That's never a good sign.

“
He's
already dying.”

A bucket of ice water
dropped over my head never felt so cold.

“
Does
he know?”

“
We
haven't told him.”

“
How
much time does he have? Will he lose his powers?”

“
When
it comes to his powers, history tells us his kind don't lose their
powers completely; they only diminish with time. However, there's no
way to tell exactly, and there's the fact that superhumans age slower
than normal humans. My guess is, and this is a personal opinion based
on the extensive research I've done, that we're probably looking at
two to three years. Dr. Fletcher here believes it more in the four to
five years range.”

“
So
little?” My hands tighten around the cup of now-cold coffee.

Has the oxygen left the room
or is it just me?

“
His
mutations have developed faster than in any other case in our DNA
archives. His samples are almost thirty years old yet the changes
shown should've taken twice that time. At his age, his father looked
far younger than Steven looks right now. It's as if his own body is
acting up against him.”

To this Wyatt sits
straighter, switching his attention to me, says, “The
nightmares.”

“
It
is a possibility,” Dr. Hudson adds herself to the conversation,
“and we're willing to help, but none of us knows enough about
them. Not as much as you, Miss Armstrong.”

And I see the red lips
parting, letting out a smile that is emulated along all the white
coat-wearing people and it both reassures me and calms the
desperation brought on by the horrible news I've just been given.

Breathe. Then say, “That's
exactly what we're here for.”

38

They let me see Steven one
more time before we're removed from the lab/bunker. He stays silent,
keeping me in a tight embrace, and I can tell it isn't due to him not
wanting to talk to me as much as it is from his body almost shutting
down.

He hasn't slept since the
arrest. Almost thirty-six hours.

Stimulants. Adrenaline. All
shot up his veins every set amount of time.

This is the worst heartache
I've ever felt.

The team wants to interview
me, yet Dr. Morgan thinks it best we get some rest and then have a
fresh start in the morning.

So we make our way to a
motel where we can spend the night.

I throw all my stuff into
the room they assign me and take a spot on a concrete parking curb
outside my door for a smoke under the twilight.

Around me, an array of
conversations is going on as I blow smoke and try not to think of
anything. The closest to me, Daphne, is on the phone with her
roommate, asking how her cat is doing. Dad's talking to someone, I
assume Simon, to check on Mom. I can hear Suárez speaking
Spanish not so far away.

“
Can
I join you?” Wyatt's corduroy pants are all I see before the
thin man lowers himself to sit next to me.

“
You
smoke?” I offer him my pack, afraid he'll say yes because I
don't have enough left to make it through the night.

“
No,
thanks.”

It's strange, the silence.
It's different when you know the person you're sharing it with
actually cares, unlike some unknown party attendant you just met and
have no idea how to spark a conversation with once the
nice-to-meet-yous have been said.

“
You
don't have to stay,” I finally say.

“
And
miss the opportunity of a lifetime?” That comes out a little
too loud. Clears his throat. “I want to be of help, Giana. I
feel... I feel like I can finally make a difference in someone's
life.”

That. That's it. “That's
exactly how I feel.”

“
It's
a good feeling.”

“
You
make a difference in lots of lives, though. I mean, you're a
psychiatrist.”

“
I
have, yes, but this is different. This is... groundbreaking.”

“
Are
we being selfish?” I blow smoke through the side of my mouth
that isn't facing him. “Am
I
being selfish?”

He ponders on my question,
examines it in his brain, lifts the folds, looks inside.

“
You're
not doing this for pride or recognition. Love is what's driving you
right now. It's driving you to save a life that would have otherwise
died alone, empty. Someone that has given so much to so many
shouldn't leave this world in a state of abandonment.”

“
What
about those scientists? You think they really want to help?”

“
Your
father and I struck up a conversation with one of them –
Fletcher – while you were seeing Steven and he sounds sincere.
He told us Dr. Morgan had handpicked them based on their points of
view towards Steven. That they were all there to make sure he didn't
fall into the wrong hands, or die by execution.”

“
Do
they have a plan?”

“
They
better,” he chortles.

“
I
don't think they'll take too well putting the fate of the last
superhero to ever live in the hands of a group of writers and a trio
of cops.” We both burst out in laughter to that. “This is
fucking crazy.”

When I look at him, he's
smiling, his brown eyes glinting. “My kind of crazy.”

I set the cigarette butt on
the ground and crush it under my heel.

He waits for a moment before
proceeding, “Giana, I brought you some stuff to read although I
think you know what you have to do.”

“
And
what is that?”

“
If
you want to survive in his nightmares, you'll have to become stronger
and we've all seen that creating a character is the best way to do
so.”

Ugh. Not this. “Do I
have to?”

“
Yes.
That'll be your homework. Find a character you can relate to that is
strong enough to fight nightmare Steven and win.”

“
Can
it be one of yours? Daphne's? Jake's got a really good female
protagonist...”

“
I
wouldn't use any of those if I were you.” He stands. “You're
a creative person; you can come up with something. It has to be
powerful enough that we can do some dream exercises with it.”

“
Dream
exercises?!”

“
Yep.
Dream exercises. Google it,” he says all smugly as he heads to
his room.

At least now I had homework
to do during what would become, without a doubt, a sleepless night.

Everyone had his or her own
room except for Daphne and me. We girls wanted to gang up together,
you know. And thank god because then I could use D's laptop to Google
characters.

That, of course, after I ate
some pizza while Dad's unyielding eyes watched me chew and swallow
the thing. Appetite is something I rarely lose; he should know that
by now.

Anyway, thing is I need a
character and I have no idea. I'm not into fantasy or science fiction
so it's not like I have expansive knowledge about it and, for reals,
most characters feel too unreal to me.

“
I
must be weird or something.” I've changed into my pajamas and
the laptop on my lap is getting hotter by the minute.

“
Nah.”
Daphne's laying by my side on the bed, changing channels on the TV
like there's no tomorrow. “You're just too focused on reality.
It's not weird. It's boring but not that weird.”

“
I
don't need you telling me I'm boring, I need you to help me find some
goddamn character so I can fucking dream about it.”

“
It
has to be powerful, right?”

“
Mhm.”

“
It
has to be able to fight, probably have some kind of weapon.”

“
Yeah.”

“
What
kind of weapons do you like?”

“
Guns?”

“
You
think a gun would stop Steven when he went for you?”

Good question. “No.”

“
Then
try something else. What about a sword? Can you visualize yourself
killing him with a sword?”

It's nightmare Steven, not
the real one, okay? “Yeah. I can. Some sort of samurai sword
maybe.”

“
Shit!”

She gives a jump and I think
it's that some creepy crawler has gotten on the bed so I leap off it,
laptop held tight against my chest.

“
What?!”

“
A
samurai!” Her round face is alight all of a sudden. “Don't
you remember that exhibit we went to about the female samurais?”

Exhibit? Female... “Ooooooh!
I do! Oh my God, yes!! Those were some badass chicks.”

“
And
they existed for real! Gimme that...” She pulls me back to the
bed, taking the laptop from my hands so she can make the search
herself.