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“And what about Mouseketeer and the Grasshelper? Has there been any talk of a possible partnership?”
Journalists were packed like sardines into the cramped conference room, but no cameras—Toxophilite had insisted. Several burgeoning artists in the crowd scribbled hasty sketches of the press conference, the long table which seated the heroes Toxophilite, Craftroach, Seersucker, and Mosquixote.
Toxophilite moistened her lips and leaned closer to her mic. “You’re referring to the holders of the rat and the locust miraculous,” she emphasized, choosing her words with care. “No new developments have arisen at this time.”
“We’ll continue to spread our feelers,” Craftroach added with a flashy grin. “If anything changes, we won’t hide it from you.”
Another reporter followed this up with a question directed specifically to Craftroach. Toxophilite leaned back in her chair, relieved. She didn’t mind being here, but there were other things on her mind that she wished she could attend to instead. Things that weren’t half as vapid or petty as the non-relationship she and her partners had with “Grasshelper” and “Mouseketeer.”
Looking over at Seersucker, Toxophilite could tell they felt the same way. They fidgeted with the buttons on their waistcoat, frowning to themself. It took two tries plus a nudge from Craftroach for them to respond to a question about their slingshot. Toxophilite wished she could grab their hand and duck out with them early, maybe take them out on the lake so they could talk without anyone around to look. She knew exactly what was on her partner’s mind, and she hated not being able to break character and help them through it.
Mosquixote had barely spoken since greeting the crowd of reporters at the start of the conference. Toxophilite wondered whether he had fallen asleep in spite of the journalistic din. Squinting carefully, she studied the holes in his helmet visor, but they were much too tiny to give anything away.
Newcomers to Elliston often pegged Mosquixote as the most intimidating member of the four, but these assumptions were always dashed as soon as he charged into battle. Nothing could be more ridiculous than a six-foot-eight stick figure in plate armor running down the avenue on foot, with a lance taller than he was held straight out in front of him.
And Toxophilite in particular knew what a softie he was behind the visor.
A reporter waved and called her name to get her attention. “Toxophilite! Toxophilite. Would you say you’re the brains behind the operation when it comes to you four?”
What an asinine question. Toxophilite pressed her lips together to keep from curling them, leaning forward long enough to say just one word: “No.”
She heard a tiny snort from under Mosquixote’s visor. So he was awake. He honed in on his microphone like a bird of prey and accidentally knocked it over with his visor’s point. A handful of reporters in the back laughed. “ I’m the brains,” he said in his shrillest and most quavering voice, “the brawn, and, I dare say, the beauty.” This sent a wave of chuckles through the whole room, and mercifully diverted all attention away from the other three heroes.
The reporters kept at it for another fifteen minutes before Toxophilite could tell she and Seersucker couldn’t take it much longer. She stood up and loomed over her mic, letting the brim of her hat obscure her face for effect. “That’s all,” she said shortly. “Do not try to squeeze in any more questions, and please leave the conference room in an orderly fashion.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Craftroach added. “Thanks so much!”
Toxophilite wished he wouldn’t do that. She loved that her partner was so open and gregarious, but in the context of their hero personas, it was safer for everyone if they kept people at a fair distance. Especially the press.
Before all of the reporters had finished leaving, Seersucker stood up and made a beeline for the back door. This, too, had Toxophilite hiding a wince. She could only hope none of the stragglers in the crowd would try to psychoanalyze her partner’s behavior on some nutty gossip blog.
“I’m going after them,” Mosquixote whispered, standing up with a gentle rattling. Toxophilite clenched her fists under the table. Mosquixote was probably the last person Seersucker wanted to be alone with right now.
Craftroach had the same idea, shooting Toxophilite a concerned look with all the sneakiness he could muster. Toxophilite hid a sigh, nodding reluctant approval. Craftroach bounded up from the table to follow the others.
Toxophilite, alone with the caterpillar line of shuffling journalists, rubbed her fingers across her nose. She wished she’d never agreed to this press conference, and more powerfully she wished she didn’t have to. Ever since the rat and locust wielders had put themselves in the spotlight, it was as if a spotlight had been cast on her and her partners, as well. Before, it had been normal, expected , for them to want to stay in the shadows. This new celebrity hero culture was far too bright for her tastes.
A hand tapped on the table in front of her. Toxophilite quickly readopted the rigidity from earlier. “Yes?”
“Sorry,” said the reporter. “I was just wondering if there would ever be a chance for some one-on-one interviews?” They were a sort of shrimpy, angular person with big oval glasses. Their hair was done in one long braid, with little orange beads strung in.
“Doubt it,” Toxophilite tried not to growl. It was bad enough that they’d ignored her instructions; now they were trying to encroach upon her partners’ privacy even further?
To their credit, the reporter looked sympathetic. “I know keeping your identities secret is very important to you,” they said. “I’m more curious about your tools and powers.”
Toxophilite squinted at them. This, she realized, was the person who had asked Seersucker about their slingshot earlier. “I doubt it,” she repeated, this time attempting to drive the point home without hostility.
The reporter sighed. “I understand,” they said. “Could I give you my card? In case you change your mind.”
Fed-up and tired, and wanting desperately to abscond to the back room and tend to Seersucker, Toxophilite begrudgingly took the proffered card: orange, like the reporter’s hair beads. “Please leave.”
They did, but they stopped once, turning back. Toxophilite barely held herself in her seat. “It doesn’t have to be in-person,” the reporter said. “If you’d feel more comfortable, we could communicate online.”
“And leave a digital record of every word?” Toxophilite asked. “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” they replied, and finally, finally left.
Toxophilite counted twenty full seconds to make sure they were really gone. Then, she bolted.
“Oh-thank-goodness,” Craftroach let out in a breath as Toxophilite closed and double-locked the back-room door behind her. “Blatto, settle down.” His hero’s costume fell away, leaving him in denim overalls and a long-sleeved shirt. Blatto carefully threaded his way into his holder’s hair, probably to stay.
“You’re wearing overalls?” Toxophilite snapped without thinking. “On press conference day?”
Craftroach, aka Gus Hughes, raised his hands. “Baby, we’re downtown. Half the street is in overalls. No one’s gonna think I’m Craftroach any more than they’d think Bingham or Lewis or Sheila is Craftroach.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Toxophilite snapped. “Ixxa, drop off.” As a civilian, Martha had worn a loose blouse and tight pants precisely to obscure her connection to her hero form. She instantly regretted detransforming and losing her long coat. “You have got to be more careful.”
“And you have got to give the people more credit.” Gus flexed his arms, clearly glad to be out of his hero suit. “We should talk more about this later—maybe after you put on something you’re comfortable in.”
Martha started to argue, but Seersucker interrupted with, “Hiiru, detach,” and she remembered why she’d been in such a hurry to get back here in the first place.
“Are you okay, Pat?” Martha asked. She tried to rush over in such a way that she didn’t overwhelm her partner with the movement.
“Patty,” Patty corrected ruefully, swishing her long skirt around her ankles. “Wishing I brought a second set of clothes.”
Martha made a noise of sympathy. “Thought it’d be a guy day?”
“It was a guy day. This is such bullshit.”
Gus rubbed her shoulder. “Sorry, Patty. Quiet enough in here?”
“It’s fine,” Patty said, smiling a little. “Sorry for running out at the end. I just couldn’t do it. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” She always said that sort of thing. Martha frowned inwardly and hoped she hadn’t been the one putting pressure on her partner to stay. “Or,” Patty added, “maybe you’d think people would learn to be quieter.”
“Maybe so,” Martha agreed. “Sorry I took so long to get back here. One of the reporters kept bothering me about one-on-one interviews.” She didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice.
“And you turned them down?” Gus asked.
“Of course I did,” said Martha. “I’m not risking our identities, and I’m not giving the press any more material.”
“Marf, we need to build trust!”
“We build trust by keeping the city safe.”
“Trust in our ability, sure. But trust as people—”
“Guys, stop,” Patty demanded. She stood up between them, interrupting the argument with her body. “Gus was right earlier—we should talk about this later, when we’re all comfortable and better-rested.” She looked past Martha’s shoulder. “Speaking of comfortable, um…Mozzie, are you gonna change?”
Martha and Gus shifted positions so Mosquixote could join the circle. He sighed, echoing inside his helmet. “Well,” he said, “I would, except, well, I may have neglected to don a suitable civilian outfit this morning. Today’s civvies…are my skivvies.”
Martha already knew this, of course, but she chuckled anyway. “I told him he’d want to change.”
“I don’t see the point,” her husband retorted, “of putting on clothes when, with a single phrase, I can be suited instantly in an outfit perfectly tailored for the day’s activity.”
“The point is not being trapped in a stuffy suit of armor,” Patty giggled. Then she blushed.
“Alright, alright.” Gus was laughing, too. “Patty, you coming home with me? Or…?”
“I was hoping to talk to Marf,” Patty said. Gus nodded in understanding, smiling to Martha in a way that said he wasn’t angry about the argument earlier.
“I’ll be talking to Marf later, too,” Gus told Patty, and turned to kiss Martha on the cheek. “Take care of her,” he said.
Martha softened. “You know I will.”
“Shall we exit in opposite directions?” Mosquixote asked, bowing to Gus and extending his long, gauntleted hand.
Gus laughed and shook it gladly. “We shall,” he replied, turning to leave through the back door. “Go put some clothes on, you animal.”
“Never!” Mosquixote called after him. As he headed for the front, he blew Martha a kiss. “I’ll see you at home, my lady love!”
“I love you,” Martha said, shooing him off with a smile.
Martha waited a little while after Mosquixote had left. Patty looked at her knowingly.
“What?”
“You’re thinking about how to apologize to Gus.”
Damn it. “So I am.”
“Well, don’t overthink it. He loves you, plain as anything. You’ve got your little butch love thing going on.”
Martha considered this. “I wouldn’t call it little,” she said.
“There you go,” said Patty, leaning up to kiss her cheek. “That’s the kind of confidence you need.” She turned her head to address her Kwami, who was sitting on her shoulder. “Alright, Hiiru?”
“Seem to be,” the little leech-thing said. “You brought victuals, right?”
“Always,” Patty assured her. “Here.” She fished a jar of anchovies out of a hand-sewn skirt pocket, and gave her Kwami two.
“Mighty kind of you,” Hiiru said between bites.
Martha took this time to give her Kwami a piece of cinnamon candy. Ixxa accepted it with merely a nod. “Mind if I transform back?” Martha asked them once they’d finished. “I can’t stand this outfit. Gus was right.”
“Affirmative,” Ixxa said, flying close to Martha’s hand to prepare for the transformation.
“Ixxa, fall in.” Martha closed her eyes, relaxing as soon as she felt the weight of a good coat on her shoulders. “Alright. Better.”
“You look better,” Patty agreed. “Wish I could do that for a pair of jeans.” She took Toxophilite’s hand and led her to a sheet-draped couch on the other side of the room. “Sit with me?”
Toxophilite did.
Patty took a deep breath, grabbing Toxophilite’s other hand and clasping them both together. She was blushing again. “I think you already know what this is about,” she said. “I know you—I mean, I think—I wanted,” she tried, and huffed in exasperation. Behind her, Hiiru perched surreptitiously on the arm of the couch, savoring her second anchovy. “Oh, I can’t even say it!” She laughed. “I want,” she tried, and broke off giggling again. “Oh, this is ridiculous.”
“I can say it,” Martha offered. She knew what it was; she’d pieced it together from Patty’s behavior over the past couple of weeks.
“No, I can do it. I want,” she said, “to ask Alonso on an outing. There.” It liked to have taken her all of her effort. She took several deep breaths, laying her head on Martha’s chest. “So I wanted,” she said, muffled, “to ask for your blessing. And your help.”
Martha kissed the top of Patty’s head right at the base of her part. “Well, you have my blessing,” she said. “What do you need my help with?”
“Where do I start?” Patty cried. “You know how I get. I’m worried I’ll start talking and trip over my own feet.”
Martha smoothed a hand over Patty’s hair. “I think Alonso’s more likely to trip over something.” Her husband was many things, but she wouldn’t call him graceful.
“And I don’t know where I should be offering to take him,” Patty continued. “He likes the ranch out in Pendlewood, but I don’t know if he’d like it with just me.”
“He’d love it with ‘just’ you,” Martha retorted. “You’re already more than halfway there, Patty. Meet him on patrol, tip your hat and bow, and ask him to the ranch. He’s not complicated.”
Patty smiled, but there was still worry in her eyes. “I’m scared he’ll say no,” she said, “and I’m scared I won’t be able to deal with it, and it’ll mess everything up. You and Alonso, you and Gus…you and me.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Martha said, putting both hands on Patty’s shoulders. “Alonso’s not going to say no to a date; he likes you, and he’ll always say yes to something new. And I know you, and I know you’ll be able to adapt. No matter what.”
Patty swished her skirt with a shy, warm smile. “I guess that’s true,” she admitted.
“There you go,” Martha told her. “That’s the kind of confidence you need.” And then she pulled Patty into a hug, tender and soft and sweet.