In a Superperson World #5- A Diary

April 19th, 2035
The Coffee Shop- Shriner District



Dear Diary,

Some days, more than most, are one of 'those' days. I was leaving the coffee shop after a very odd shift. The buildings echoed reverberations of a distant BOOM. Sudden, like whiplash. 
Great...
I wait for the sirens to sound. (Hands over ears because, let's face it, those fuckers are loud. But they save lives, so what are you going to do?)
Nothing.
Still, no matter how many times you hear it, "BOOM's" are never a good thing. 
Hell, fireworks explode silently now- So the citizenry doesn't mistake a show for another missile attack by that raver gang again...
  
The SPEZ (Superperson Engagement Zone) app dings. It's a cacophony of chimes throughout the entire city. Everyone stops to look at their phones. The notification reads: 
"SPEZ ALERT: 

FIGHT OF REGISTERED VILLAIN'S HOBGOBLIN AND MR. FREEZE. 

321L WEST-BOUND KNOCKED OFF TRACKS. 
ALL LINES SHUT DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

DARCIA DISTRICT ZONED OFF UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

UPDATES AS SITUATION CONTINUES."

Fine. 
It's a little extra walking. But the bus stop is only a mile down the road. I notice several others changing their direction as well. Most people have at least five contingency plans to get home. I have eight. It'd be nine, but my friend who flies moved to Bali.
Another alert chimes:
"SPEZ ALERT:

VILLAINS CONTAINED. 
IN CUSTODY OF METROPOLITAN SPECIALIZED RESPONSE UNIT.

MAINTAIN SPEZ UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."

That's good. It's better when things end quickly. 

The bus stop is in sight. I think my work shoes are on their last days. My feet have an ache that's nagging.  
The phones ding. I hear a series of groans around me. People are looking around and shuffling into the stores around us.
"SPEZ ALERT: 

VILLAINS HOBGOBLIN AND MR. FREEZE HAVE ESCAPED CUSTODY. 

SUSPECTS APPEAR TO BE WORKING IN TANDEM. 

OMNI BOTS EN ROUTE.

ALL STREETS ON LOCKDOWN UNTIL SUSPECTS APPREHENDED. 
ALL HERO'S ASKED TO COMPLY WITH LOCKDOWN.
ENTER NEAREST BUILDING AND WAIT UNTIL YOUR DISTRICT IS CLEARED."

Greeeaaat.
Back to the coffee shop it is. Not like I needed to sleep today anyway. And now I have to jog. 
Stupid villains...

The shop is packed to the gills with people. There's a panicked look in Jain and Austin's eyes. They fly around, milk sloshing everywhere. Trying to bang out the thirty plus orders for those standing testily about. 
A regular, Laramy, is still co-opting a table in the corner. Came in a few hours ago. Usually stays a few more. He's a hipster. Claims to be a revolutionary in Goa. He tips decent, so we go along with it.

I sit with him and pull out my laptop. It's inventory night at Bunsen and Beaker. After some 5th Century Egyptians came in last week, we have a whole mess of new liquors and tools. Might as well add them to the invit. sheets while waiting. 

Eventually everyone settles in. 
Austin turns on the radio which is running the Emergency Broadcasting System on all channels. 
It's kind of a downer. 
 My dad once told me 30 years ago, the announcer voice was very scratchy, fading in and out. I was just a baby then. I don't remember this. But now, the sound's so clear, it's like someone whispering in your ear.

The voice states the death tally is at 13, which is really low, everything considered. 
Ironically, when villains fight one another, the death toll is always lower. They're way more into hurting each other than anyone else. Unlike the Great Avengers Battle of 2016. The entire city of Old Chicago was crushed under an alien spaceship coming through an inter-dimensional portal.

Luckily, the SPAKKO! gel promptly deployed in the train. And they were already cutting people out of it. SPAKKO! is a florescent blue gel. It takes three or four shower to wash off the AXE body spray smell. But I can't complain. It held me perfectly still after filling the cabin. Even when it crashed into the Convention Center, we didn't feel a thing.

The EBS mentions the only people hurt were on the street as the train toppled down. 
Also the sandwich artist at 'McGruff's Hoagies and Muffulettas' who's being treated for severe frost bite.
Witnesses from the shop claim the fight erupted from an argument over which brand is the best olive tapenade. And where it should be placed: Bottom of the bread against the meat, or top with the veggies? 
Bottom. Duh. Everyone knows that.

It's been a couple hours now. The Omni Bots are starting a sweep of our district. 
Someone had a holographic game of Risk. Half the customers have joined in. They've taken sides- cheering or booing any particular take-over. Across the shop, a woman decided to set up a Mary Kay party and is steadily making over everyone in the crowd. I'm surprised how many men volunteered. Even Laramy. 


Hopefully, I'll be able to go home and take a shower before going to the bar. Tomorrow, I'm definitely buying new work shoes. Ouch. 


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In a Superperson World #4- A Diary

April 15th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City


Dear Diary,

My dad used to say, once I start paying taxes, I'd be considered an adult. He failed to mention, after I got my first job junior year of high school, it only applied after I got married and moved next door, preferably.
But under his roof, I'd always be his baby girl.

My mom once said being an adult meant accepting all trivial things and all big things thrown at you, and managing them.
From:
bills
not running out of toilet paper
insurance
getting along with your coworkers
-to bigger things-
going to work despite heartbreak
paying rent (or your bookie) on time
avoiding a SPEZ (SuperPerson Engagement Zone)
and remembering your mothers birthday.


I lived on my own at 22. A bachelor degree of what-the-fuck-does-it-matter, crisp in my hand.  I said sayonara to my parents and the coffee shop (my first gig in high school). Hopped on a bus and went.
More than sure- I didn't think I wouldn't be fine. 
I moved from this crazy place and straight into the arms of it's sister city. A slightly different rhythm of crazy, but played with all the same instruments.

A lot of things pop up when the nest is behind you. Like all the additional costs. The stuff you didn't realize wasn't a given.
Like a trash can, or dish soap. A mattress that doesn't smell like a locker room floor drain.
There are many eternally internal debates too.
Whether packing the hangers is worth the hassle versus buying new ones. Do I reeeeaaally need a bath mat? Will my new roommate get offended if I spray the roaches in the kitchen as, every night, he turns into a large dung beetle?

All these get sorted eventually. It might take a few paychecks... A couple years even... But it gets there. As long as you can find the job to get said paychecks. Which is a whole other maze of banal crap in a new city. And the degrees we thrashed around for, amounts to, about as much as the toe-fungus mattress.
So then there's the cost of not working.

From there, rent. Bills. Groceries (sometimes I resent not being one of those osmosis people. Eating is so damned expensive.). I'd pay for this and that, on time mostly. Hold down a job until the place got slammed into/blown up/burnt down/swallowed into the earth. You know, the usual. Go out with coworkers. Friends. Do all those things my parents said made me an adult (I've started to notice they're all money related).

The freedom is great. Sometimes I'd trip and fall. My parents helped me out occasionally- as long as I promised to Skype with them.


Five year ago, I was shuffling papers around my ugly-ass beige desk. Sunset long over. There were fireworks in the distance (it was a munitions plant exploding). I was the last one in the office. Well, there was Fred the Janitor too. We chatted a bit. Watched some kids play tag around the sky-scrappers. The LED-GLO in the soles of their kicks illuminated neon trails behind them. It wasn't a bad night.

But I didn't feel like much of an adult.

I was wearing a pencil skirt and a button up blouse. Reasonably heightened heels. Eggplant purple hair tamed into a bun.
I looked professional.
I looked like an adult.
It all fit better now- compared to when I burrowed into my moms closet and played dress up.

But I still felt like that kid, hoping to play the part.
I wonder if other grown-ups are the same.

So five years ago, I took all the money I saved. Shipped my shit back home. Quit the office. Hopped on a bus and went.
Then I hopped on a plane.
Then off a plane.
There was also a train... Somewhere in there.
And before I could catch up, I was in Europe. Greece, to be precise.

There was Ouzo. Lamb roasted in drum barrels, buried in the sand of newly formed beaches. A cute fisherman named Paulo who could speak to starfish (apparently they didn't have a lot to say). And a whole group of minstrel-like locals, who played like Metallica was going out of style. Not in this century.

Once a month, I'd ring my parents, to let them know I was safe, well-fed and not doing anything they wouldn't do. I crossed my fingers for that part.


A few months later, I met a crew of crazy mutant kids, just graduated from University. They were fun.
Traveled with them to Spain. We ran from mechanical bulls through the crowded, cheering and drunk streets of Pamplona. One of them, girl named Jezzi, turned a bull's horns into baloney right before it gored her. Instead, she was only head butted with a lunch meat. Michael jumped onto the back of one, in the middle of the mob. We didn't see Michael again until Paris.

In 2022, the mutant spider(s) responsible for Spiderman and his silk (see what I did there?)and escaped the laboratory... again. This time, making it all the way to the docks and up a lee-way line. They sailed across the Atlantic. Eventually disembarking in the port of Marseille-Fos, France.
No one's sure exactly what happened next but... well, let's just say, they got big. Like, size of a car, big. I'll save the history lesson for another time, but the long and short is they took over the Eiffel Tower... and somehow the dome of Saint Peters Basilica in Roma.

They've calmed down quite a bit since then. The french airlift cattle near a woven funnel "entrance" once a month. In exchange, they don't eat the citizenry.
Everyone wins.

So, of course, it's become a tourist attraction. And a popular dungeon crawl, for those adrenaline junkies. Not recommended. Or legal. 

It was here we ended up-
Wearing specialized head lamps in the middle of the night; a tour guide holding a boomstick like a magic wand. We crouched through eerily white, gauzier tunnels, covered in cooking spray so we wouldn't stick to anything. Phones on silent, flash turned off.
Every hush of wind.
Every swaying strand.
Every skitter.
Every echo of tapping.
We were paranoid beyond our wits. Our imaginations proving far more monstrous.

It was mostly safe. A week after feeding, the spiders hibernate into a food coma.
Still. What a rush!
Exiting through the sewers, giggling like school children. The tour ended at a pub, with a pitcher for all. We cheered to our guides health.

An automated voice message had flashed up on my phone during the crawl. I shut it off. Probably a computer asking me to vote for that floating bald guy again.
My phone disappeared at the bar.
For about a month.
I let it go. All the pictures were saved in the cloud. I'd download them when I got back.
We kept traveling. All the way up, to yodeling with sheep farmers at the tip of Scotland.
Then, through the workings of a karma, my phone found me. With the message waiting to be heard.


My parents should have added, 'Get to the shelter quickly, as to avoid the tip of the Space Needle, flung, far from across town.' to the list of adultification. I'd have appreciated it.


My key still opened the door.
Everything looked the same, but fake.
The scuffs on the wall from Mr. Johnson's bike tires. The frosting stains on the floor from when mom dropped dads birthday cake. The coffee, feet and oil stains of everyday life. Even the smells, made the hallways familiar.
A recognition of time passed. Silly little memories created. The proof of a home.
Gone.

A condolence wreathe of lilies decayed, liquified and matted onto the counter. A note from PepsiCo stuck out awkwardly from the feted floral foam.
There were frames on the walls, but no pictures. A couch, but no cushions. Toilet paper, but no trash can. The bedrooms looked ready for a photo shoot, except for a fine layer of settled dust. 

And that was that.
I bought hangers and a bathroom rug.
Got a job as a barista at the coffee shop again.
On a walk, met the owner of Bunsen and Beaker. We talked about Paris. And from there... you know the rest.


Funny... I never wondered if I was an adult again...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In the Superpersons World #1- A Diary

April 6th, 2035
My Apartment, MidCity


Dear Diary,

It's been almost two weeks since the Easter Day Massacre at the Harlen Park Parade. They finally got the bloodstains off the sides of the buildings.
Took 'em long enough.
The news reported that it was a minor scuffle between two factions of wanna-be X-Men, so there wasn't anyone to arrest specifically.
My parents used to tell me, before Superpeople were put into categories of 'Hero' and 'Villain', gang related fights among them were common.
That was what? Thirty years ago?

I guess that's why it took so long for the mess to get cleaned up.
Had there been a sponsored Hero present, PepsiCo would have it all polished and new in a couple days. Instead, the metro station was a wreck until four days ago. We had to clamber over blown-out chunks of concrete and uprooted trees, like some sort of LSD induced ants.
Man, the city workers are slow.
I hate they moved the coffee shop into that neighborhood. It was safer back in the slums. Stupid, greedy owners. Some obscure chick in purple calling herself 'Nightingale' say she likes our coffee once. Suddenly we're "hip". 
Fuck hip. How about alive?

If I hadn't inherited my parents apartment, I'd still be living in the outskirts. I don't think living this close to the inner city is worth it, especially after what happened here...
Those PepsiCo robots did a great job though.
The whole building is brand new again. They even added crown molding in the bedrooms...
And it's pretty quite, with so few neighbors. The building is slowly filling up again. The Manager said we're at 50% occupancy now.


One of my regulars, Joey Zand, (or, as he tips me extra to call him, 'The Zand Man') claims the city is secretly paying for people on the outskirts of town, to refill the city center.
They should just give up selling the condos above the designer stores on 3rd by Squared Avenue. Put cardboard cut-outs of people in the windows instead. At least the death toll would go down.
Not like it'll get destroyed less often. They're rebuilding it monthly now. 
All the trees lining the road are synthetic too, screwing into place. The real ones kept exploding.

I'm surprised though. I didn't think we had a problem with occupancy after the great Japanese O.M.D.O.J. Immigration Act of 2029.
Those guys keep showing up by the boat and plane loads. You can't blame them. Godzilla is nesting in the middle of Tokyo. 
A couple guys argue about the Over-sized Monster thing at least once a week.
It's a pretty popular topic.
Probably because they haven't come here yet...
For some reason, drunk men think it's funny to act out the first, historic Godzilla battle with Anguirus. They round up all the pint glasses and little bottles of salt and pepper.
It usually leads to a big mess; sometimes a brawl. All which I get to clean up... Thanks guys...
I think they're wrong about Godzilla and his kind. He's not there defending Tokyo. In fact, I've seen the way he stumbles around Narita on MetroPrime News1. Looks like the guys who leave Bunsen and Beaker after last call-

He's just an animal... Who doesn't want to share his sake.

Anyway, it's 2pm. Time for bed. I have another double at the bar tonight, then coffee shop tomorrow.
There are no sirens going off. Hopefully it stays that way.


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny