Excerpt from February’s issue of TeenCape: A Night with Shield-Maiden

I know why they call them tights now. Hoo boy. Attention, Imagination: there is nothing left for you.

Two days ago I caught the Menacing Martian checking out my ass mid-fight. Tongue-lolling, eye-dropping, mind’s-eye chugging leer. Granted, I just used the distraction to kick him so hard his unborn kids could describe the shape of my foot, but still. Yuck, right?

I don’t have a cape, if that’s what you were thinking. I thought about it, and Ruby Riot actually campaigned pretty hard for me to wear one, but come on. I saw the Incredibles. Plus, capes are not modern. No. When was the last time you saw someone wearing a cape, like, in the real world? I’m not a Victorian serial killer, so I’m not wearing a cape. End of discussion.

I’m sorry, I’m digressing aren’t I?

You’re not asking me how I became a superhero, right? Superheroine. Whatever. Superheroin sounds like a wonder drug or something.

I guess you want to know how I became Valkyrie’s sidekick? The glamorous story of how we met? Our first battle, how I figured out her secret identity, what horrific trauma I faced to become Shield-Maiden?

Get used to disappointment. If I’m coming out of the phone booth, it’s not going to be to a trashy rag during my first couple weeks. Do you think I’m crazy? Have you ever even met Valkyrie? Plus I have family to protect, you understand. Yeah, a family, I know. No dead parents, no "shaped out of clay," nothing like that.

No, they don’t know. About, all of this. How could they? I don’t seriously think anyone suspects their little girl sneaks out at night to don form-fitting Lycra and go toe-to-toe with egomaniacal psychos wearing funky helmets. I mean, do they fear it? Sure. Superheroes are cool right now. You can’t go a day without seeing another dead kid plastered on the newspapers, one of the unlucky kids who wanted to be a hero (or a villain) but didn’t have the alien parents, money, or funky mutated genes to do it. Usually someone’s son in a scuba suit full of bullet holes, a wall-hanger katana found on his dead body. The twenty-five dollar kind of sword that probably couldn’t cut cold Colby-Jack.

Do I feel lucky? To have powers? I guess, yeah. I have the option of a normal life, I just didn’t take it. Someday if I do retire, I’ll still have super-powers. I’ll still be able to blend in with the crowd, maybe nab a husband with a crooked smile and a jaw like a granite countertop. Squirt out some kids if I’m feeling maternal. The only difference between me and the soccer moms will be that when my mini-van gets a flat I won’t need a jack to fix it.

That’s a long way off though.

Hmm. How old do you think I am?

Ha. That’s flattering, but no. The tights skew older, side-effect of the male mind I imagine. Still in high school, if just barely. I’ll be at Valkyrie’s side, sidekicking, for a while. Neat powers does not a superhero make. For every one villain I’m strong enough to punch through a wall there are fifty villains that could knock me into space. Could beat me one-handed. Could kill me, maybe. One of the crazy ones, the ones who don’t do it for the bank robberies or the ransoms or the even the headlines. The ones who can’t help themselves. Those are the villains that keep me up, that put me at Valkyrie’s side every night, that tell me to never stop training, never stop learning, never stop practicing every day until my fists feel like hamburger and my legs burn like they’ve been dunked in gasoline.

Because I might meet one of them. One of the real bad guys. The guys that don’t play by the rules, that don’t tell you their big scheme, that don’t send themed henchmen with giant hammers after you. The ones like Hilton or Strauss or Smiling Jack, the ones that put a knife or a bullet in you and move on. They might torture you, but it isn’t Saturday morning stuff. Valkyrie told me a story . . .

You know what? I should stay on topic.

Sorry. I’m back.

Why am I here? Right. Thanks.

I wanted to set the record straight.

I didn’t abandon Valkyrie last night. I didn’t let that mob boss go so I could chase my boyfriend.

And I did not. DID. NOT.

Sigh.

I did not kiss Beachboy.

I don’t CARE what the pictures look like.

Wait, stay, please. I’m not going to hurt you. Get out your pencil or your recorder or your iPhone or whatever, and listen to my story.

Beachboy.

Ugh.

Okay.

It’s a Friday night in Lincoln City, and we’ve been tailing Dario Giachetti . . .

***

"The youngest son of the Giachetti crime family," Valkyrie said. "He’s kept himself pretty clean. Except, his wife just turned up in the hospital. Beat to hell, and pumped full of drugs. She’s got no history of using."

"Isn’t this a, uh, a cop problem?" I asked.

Valkyrie didn’t even turn her head. Her short pennant cape, the one that hung from her left shoulder, snapped behind her in the high wind. She wasn’t wearing her battle armor - instead, she wore sleek black chainmail woven together with large sections of deep blue kevlar, all of it form-fitting but actually baring little skin. On her head, a short tight helmet of dull gray metal. It covered most of her face except for a T that revealed her eyes, her nose, and the center of her mouth. The helmet had a faint Eagle motif, and near the crown of her head it swept back on either side into a subtle pair of wings. You couldn’t see her hair beneath the helmet - that’s on purpose. Makes it that much harder to figure out her identity.

"It would be," she said. "Except they put Murdock on the job."

I nodded and gave an "ahhhhhhh." I’d done enough homework on that angle: Murdock is corrupt as they came. He isn’t just in the Giachetti’s pocket, either. He’s in every pocket he’ll cram into, even the super villains. The only reason he hasn’t been fired or caught is because he’s basically a freakin’ genius. He’s the DaVinci of corrupt cops.

Feel free to print that part about Murdock if you want, but I’d be careful.

Valkyrie didn’t have her sword or spear on, which usually meant she wasn’t expecting superhuman trouble. Though, even if she was, she could handle it just fine with fists alone. You’ve seen Valkyrie fight. You know what I’m talking about. Too fast, too strong, too brutal - most just called it quits as soon as they heard the Eagle Scream.

Nobody threw down arms when they saw just me coming. Shield-Maiden didn’t exactly cause criminals to have incontinence problems. The only fear I evoked was the knowledge that Valkyrie might be near.

I wore my usual costume, made out of the same chainmail-and-kevlar material as Val. The chain was black, like hers, but the kevlar was pink instead of blue. I’d slung my shield on my back, the one that’s silver and pink and in the shape of a Norse shield knot.

Other than the color, the only difference in our costumes was the head and the waist. I wore leggings like her, but over them I wore a mid-thigh armored skirt made up of sword-shaped slats, Roman style. They didn’t interfere with my leg movements, but they girlied me up a little. I didn’t have a helmet, either, just a silver domino mask over my eyes. Val had braided my long black hair into a single battle-braid that ran almost to my waist.

"Do you see him?" I asked her.

Valkyire nodded.

I stared out across the bay, watching the thousand sparkling lights of the city. We were up on the construction site of the new Reynolds and Balk building, the one that still showed its steel girder bones like the world’s most massive corpse. The work crews had gone home, the cranes had gone silent, and everything smelled like the sea.

A fog horn rolled out across Lincoln Bay.

Valkyrie’s eyes could see for miles - I followed her gaze, but came up with bubkis. I could see the bay and the city beyond, but she could probably tell me what brand of suit Dario Giachetti had on, and what texture the cloth was. I could flick on the binos or the nightvision in my mask, but why bother?

"He’s going to the basketball game," Valykrie said.

The stadium did stand on the water across the bay, domed and glowing with sky-shooting lights. I checked the clock in my mask’s heads-up display - the Knights game started in four minutes. It was a huge game, I’d heard, the playoffs. My boyfriend would know, but I’d rather play sports than watch them.

Yes, I have a boyfriend. And yes, he knows my secret. It’s an intimacy thing.

Why do you think I’m trying to clear up this stupid Beachboy mess? Anyway.

"There’s gonna be a shit-ton of people, Val," I said. "Celebrities, judges, probably even some Capes."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Maybe we should wait until after the game," I said.

"Dario’s wife probably won’t regain the use of her legs," Valkyrie said, squinting at the stadium. "She’d been beaten with something strong and thin, probably for minutes. Something like a golf club."

I sighed. The Giachetti’s were huge golfers, and it had become something of a symbol for their work. If Dario hadn’t done the deed himself, one of his brothers or capos had. And if Dario was innocent, why go to a basketball game and not to your wife’s bedside?

"He’s scum," I said. "But is it safe?"

"Safe?"

"He’s a Giachetti. The last Cape that arrested a Giachetti turned up in Lincoln Bay in six different coolers."

"The Bolt," Valkyrie said. "A fool. But a friend."

"Is this a revenge thing?" I asked. Tentatively. You play nice around a woman who can crush bricks with her hands.

"Justice," Valkyrie said. She finally turned to look at me, and I saw in her eyes the resolve you could throw a tank against.

Valkyrie leaped from the edge of the building and soared across the bay. I sighed, slung my shield onto my right arm, and looked over the edge. Below, fifty stories down, a concrete parking lot just aching to smash me into Maiden-burgers. I took four deep, steadying breaths, held my right arm out, and looked at the shield. It weighed almost nothing, and yet I’d seen it deflect a rocket-launcher without so much as a pinch on my arm. Old Norse magic, I guess.

"Okay," I said. "Here we go."

The trick to flying is not dying.

I jumped. The wind tore at my face, and the parking lot rose to meet me at heart-exploding speed. I spoke the word, and I felt the shield come alive. It jerked my arm up and out, and I held as tightly as I could.

I streaked out over the bay, hanging one-armed from the shield. I’m not embarrassed to admit I let out a laughing whoop of joy that emptied my lungs.

Keep in mind, this was only my second week on the job.

No, I didn’t know the previous Shield-Maiden. I don’t really want to talk about that.

Valkyrie must have been pissed. It’s the only explanation I have for her landing at center court. I directed the shield, and it carried me through one of the vents and down toward her. My mentor was up on her feet, basketball players rustling, confused, around her when I hit the deck. The shield, and the arm holding it, hung over me, and I landed a little too hard.

I staggered, but managed to stay standing. I switched the shield to my left hand – it’s a whole thing - and tried to look intimidating behind Val, even when the massive crowd made me want to yack with nerves. It didn’t really matter - no one was looking at me anyway.

Valkyrie spoke with a voice like thunder, a bellow that battered the crowd into stunned silence.

"DARIO GIACHETTI," Valykrie boomed. She pointed a fist up toward the expensive box seats. "YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF REBECCA ESCALANTE-GIACHETTI."

The audience gasped; some screamed. Valkyrie, master of subtlety.

I swallowed and glanced around. Celebrities on the edge of the court. Famous basketball players - I reminded myself to see if I could get some autographs for my boyfriend. He’d be miffed if he saw the news and I didn’t even try. He’s a crazy Knights fan. Boys, right?

Up in the box, on the other side of Val’s deadly fist, the dark shapes inside began to stir.

"Isn’t this a little, um, spectacular?" I whispered.

"That’s the idea," Val whispered. It rang around inside her helmet. "If he runs, he looks guilty. If he doesn’t, this little show is going to hang over him for a while. People are gonna learn about his thrashed wife."

"Even if his connections get him off," I whispered, my mind racing, "the people are still gonna assume he’s a wife beater."

"Exactly," Val said. She sounded angrier than usual, which made me justifiably nervous.

The figures in the box stirred faster.

"And . . . he’s running," Val said. "Him and his boys."

"They have weapons?" I asked.

"Just guns I think," Val said.

Oh. Just guns.

"Ready?" Val asked. I couldn’t see her mouth, she was turned away, but I could hear the grin in it.

I hefted the shield. "I guess so."

If you’ve seen the broadcast, you’ll know it was right then that Beachboy ruined everything.

He or his alter ego must have been there that night, and he burst onto the scene at precisely that moment. He swung around the stadium in one great loop, riding that stupid flying surfboard. Flowing golden hair like something from a romance novel whipped out behind him, and when he raised his arms the crowd exploded beneath him. They actually did the wave. Swear to God.

Everyone loves Beachboy. Everyone who’s had their brain fall out, anyway. Feel free to quote me on that.

What? Well, sure, he’s well built. Swimmer’s body, no shirt, those sunglasses-goggles that probably have all the tech my mask does. Well-muscled legs beneath skin tight carbon-armor midnight blue leggings, a dazzling smile. Just because he’s technically good looking doesn’t make him not a giant douchemobile.

Douchemobile. You heard me. Capital D. Bilbo Douchebaggins, from DoucheBag End.

He did a full circuit on that stupid surfboard before sweeping down and stopping right in front of Valkyrie. The board kicked into hover, and Beachboy put his hands on his hips (ugh) and flashed a smile bright enough to cause sunburn with prolonged exposure.

"Lovely ladies," Beachboy said, in that Keanu Reeves accent. "What seems to be the probbles here?"

I winced. Visibly. Credit to Valkyrie - she’s a tough bird to shake.

"Go home, kid," Valkyrie said. "Enjoy the rest of the game."

"Unless you gals are gonna suit up, which, like, believe me would be muy excellente, you’re gonna have to bail for that to happen."

I sighed. With force.

Beachboy smiled at me over Valkyrie’s shoulder and gave the ’what’s up’ nod. I rolled my eyes harder than anyone had ever rolled their eyes. Ever. I think I strained an ocular muscle, but it was worth it.

"Whoa," Beachboy said. "Attitudinal. I like it. Nice outfit. Viking Girl?"

I ground my teeth. I was the third Shield-Maiden. The outfit had changed a little, sure, but everyone knew that Valkyrie worked with a sidekick. He wanted me to correct him - I could see it in his smirky smile.

"I like your outfit too," I said, gesturing with my shield. "Run out of material for a shirt? I’m sure we could donate something. Is the bare chest for the boys or the girls? You can tell me. Wow, you like shave the whole thing. Natural, not creepy at all."

Beachboy ran his hand through his long hair and flicked it. I could hear the crowd behind him, and most of them made approving noises.

"Don’t like what you see, chica?" Beachboy asked. "That would be a first."

"Would you take me vomiting as an insult? Because I could work some up."

"We don’t have time for this." Valkyrie stepped forward.

Beachboy put his hand on her shoulder. In hindsight, that was the real mistake.

"Refill the chill pill prescription, right?" Beachboy said. "Dario Giachetti’s off-limits."

"What?" I spat. "Are you freakin kidding me? You’re on the Giachetti payroll?"

Beachboy scoffed, "Like, no way. Dario is . . . uh . . . "

Beachboy looked up and down, behind him. He covered his mouth with his hand - I sighed - and he spoke low.

" . . . an informant," Beachboy said. "For the Frontline."

You know the Frontline. "The First and Last Line," the super-hero study-buddy group. Valkyrie, like all of the Primaries, was a nominal member. She tended to work alone, if you could call having a sidekick alone, but she had a membership card like anyone with any power.

I had a junior membership, which entitled me to exactly dick with a side of nothing. Basically it prevented me from being arrested as an unlicensed superhero. Which, I suppose, yay?

"Too bad," Valkyrie said. She put a hand on Beachboy’s wrist, the one attached to the paw touching her shoulder. "Giachetti lost his protection the second he saw fit to beat a conversation into his wife."

"You don’t know, babe - "

That’s about as far as he got. Valkyrie twisted his wrist, pivoted on one high-heeled boot, and shrugged him halfway across the stadium. The coaches for the visiting Bellway Larks just managed to avoid a Beachboy beachball right in the face. They dove, and Beachboy crashed through the bucket of Gatorade, a bench, and finally blasted halfway through a Subway, Eat Fresh sign.

"Take care of him," Valkyrie said. She took off, streaking over the court, the crowd, and blasting through the wide front window of the Giachetti box like a shot from a cannon. Her Eagle Scream ripped over the hushed silence of the stadium.

I sighed, slipped back into a fighting stance, and held my shield low and to the left. I flexed the fingers of my right hand, thought over my options, and reached for a pouch on the side of my utility belt. What I wanted fell out and into my fingers, and I clenched my fist again. I turned.

Beachboy came striding out of the wreckage, and he wasn’t smiling anymore. The face held an oddly tranquil fury I found disquieting. He looked less like a surfer and more like an angry god, the way a really annoyingly-handsome person can get when they’re pissed.

He held one hand up, like a crossing guard, and I heard a woosh from behind me and the whining sound of a high-tech engine revving up. Shit. I’d forgotten about his board.

Rookie mistake.

I half-turned, but that was it. It probably saved me from being totally embarrassed.

Beachboy’s board cut towards me, impacting half on my shield and half on my back. The armor took the bite out of the blow but none of the force, and I went flying like I’d been bitchslapped by a wrecking ball.

The lights of the ceiling and the polished wood of the basketball court floor did loop-de-loops in my vision. I hit the ground hard and slid half-way across the court. I grunted, got a hand under me, and looked up just in time to see an angry blonde-haired streak flying toward me on that stupid surfboard.

I darted to the left, rolled, and came up in a half turn, ready for his second pass. Valkyrie had called that move "Defensive Roll Beta," and had drilled it into my head and body over hours of training. She had a name for every punch, kick, spit, bite, roll, jump, and dive. I sometimes wondered about her parents, assuming she had any. You’d be surprised how many Capes are orphans. Maybe you wouldn’t be.

The second pass came a lot slower than I would have guessed - I’d overestimated Beachboy, and he’d underestimated me. I guess he didn’t think I’d get up so quickly, because he was parallel to me and turning his board. No reason to miss a perfectly good opportunity. I ducked, threw my shield as hard as I could with my left hand, and ran right after it with all speed.

I’ll give him credit - Beachboy saw the missile, rounded his eyes, and brought the front of his board up. The shield bounced off the bottom, but it also pushed him further up, teetering his balance on the board. I hit him a half second later, hiding behind the path of my shield: I checked my shoulder hard into the board. Pain lanced up my arm, but my plan worked. The combination of shield and me cranked the board up too high, and Beachboy lost his balance. He went over backward, looped, and landed hard on his chest. I batted the board to the side and flipped over his prone body.

My right hand opened as I darted over him, connecting the sticky taze-disc to his perfectly shaped, tanned trapezius. I hit the ground on the other side of him, flat on my heels. I heard the taze-disc go off, a soft quick buzz, and Beachboy let out a stuttering-moan.

I turned. Beachboy lay, writhing on the floor, the unseen electricity making his muscles spasm. I rocked a smirk on my face, because I wondered if he was peeing his pants. Some guys did, when you got ’em right. His armored pants were skin tight (and probably water-proof, knowing his powers), so I guess I’d never know.

I held out my hand, toward where my shield lay a dozen feet away. It wobbled once, whined, and flew back to me. I held my left hand up, and the shield attached to the magnetic bracer.

I know how shitty it looked, but I couldn’t help myself. When he rolled onto his back, I put one of my heels directly on his sternum, the classic victory pose. I took a deep breath - there were some cheers, and I’m going to be honest, I enjoyed them.

Just for a second.

Beachboy grabbed my ankle, spun with incredible strength, and planted me so hard into the basketball court I thought a truck had hit me. I didn’t even bounce. I lay still, my arms flung out to either side of me like the perfect jackass. I’m not going to say I heard little birdies tweeting over my head, but that’s probably just because I couldn’t hear anything. My mouth tasted like blood, my eyes had gone white, and my hearing wasn’t working unless the entire world sounded like a school bell going off. At max volume. Forever.

His fingers latched around the back of my neck and lifted me like the dumb limp ragdoll that I was. My vision returned, a little, and I saw that grinning jackass beaming a thousand-watt smile. He held me by the scruff of my neck like a naughty puppy.

"Thank you, thank you!" he was shouting and fake-bowing, waving and smiling to the crowd.

I tried to hit him, but my arm didn’t even respond. The only reason I still had my shield was virtue of magnetism. My hand had lost the handle, and groped at the air. My right hand slipped down, and I found another taze-disc. I just barely managed to palm it and get it up toward my head. I slipped it into my mouth, really hoping it wouldn’t go off.

"Beachboy . . . " I whispered.

He turned. He even had the gall to lower his sunglasses, flashing me a pair of bright blue eyes that, I have to admit, were a bit knee-melting.

"You beat me," I said.

I hoped my muffled voice would sound like someone who’d been hit with a basketball court.

He nodded, patronizingly. A foregone conclusion for him, I imagine.

"You’re so strong," I mumbled. I tried to stroke his face with my right hand, but it failed me, falling on his chest.

"I know," he said. "I must have hit you pretty hard. Sorry babe."

"Kiss me," I mumbled.

To his infinite stupidity, he didn’t even question the sudden turn. I’d like to take credit for it with my banging body or pretty face, but I’m going to pin it more on him being an unbelievable ass.

He slipped his hands around, one cradling the back of my head, the other holding me tight to him by my waist. Beachboy knelt down, and in the middle of Lincoln Stadium, planted his lips on mine. I went with it, for a second, coaxing him to open his mouth.

He did, eagerly. I felt a hint of tongue before I transferred the disc into his mouth, pulled my head back, and tapped the button on my belt that manually detonated the taze-disc.

Beachboy jerked. His eyes rolled back. He fell, and I went with him. My legs hadn’t quite regained their strength, and we tumbled like a pair of puppets with their strings cut.

I rolled off of him, gave the crowd a hips-crooked, palms up, "Did I do that?" pose. They liked that. A lot. Then I transferred the shield to my right arm, spoke the word, and soared up and over the crowd, right into the Giachetti box. Those cheers were a little more deafening, and I went off with a grin that made my face hurt.

So that’s what happened, you dig? I don’t want to hear about the Knock-Out Kiss Heard ’Round the World. I don’t want to hear about the Beachboy/Shield-Maiden whirlwind affair. And I do. Not. Want to hear that stupid couple nickname again.

Oh come on. You’ve heard it.

Sigh.

Beach-Maiden.

Yeah, I know. Shut up. Don’t laugh.

But yeah. Valkyrie had been hit with some Cape-grade weaponry that had her stunned her long enough for Giachetti to escape. If I’d been there, I might have been able to do something. Maybe. I did not bail to smooch on my super-boy-toy. Give me a little credit for feminine strength. It bugs me, sure, but she told me to put Beachboy down.

Ha. Well, no. I don’t think that Tazer-Kiss was in the handbook. Val gave me credit for resourcefulness, which, from her, is like the highest praise anyone could get ever. If she doesn’t insult your technique, that’s a compliment.

She’s okay. Giachetti’s thugs zapped her and fled - it happens. The blackmarket has some interesting weapons if you’ve got the cash for it. She doesn’t blame me, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s still miffed Giachetti got away, but we’ll get him. Trust me.

The Frontline? They investigated it, but there’s a "Let’s You and Him Fight" loophole for Cape-on-Cape violence. Apparently it happens a lot, two good guys slugging it out. We super-heroes don’t always agree on how to handle everything, is what I hear, and we’re all so pumped up with anger problems and super-strength that sometimes the steam gets released in the form of good-guy violence. I got a slap on a wrist - Valkyrie got a bigger one, for interfering with a Frontline informant. It’s a whole thing.

So that’s my story. Thanks for letting me put the record straight.

When am I what?

A ring?

Are you kidding me?

Come back here. The only ring I’m gonna show you is the one in your ears -

Get back here!

I don’t care how disgustingly handsome and built and handsome he is. That accent.

Those stupid entrancing blue eyes.

Ugh.

Beachmaiden.

Make me gag.