Origin and Tonic

The serene end of a hectic day had finally come to the tired staff of VALentine Complex, and while the desk jockeys prepared to retreat to the neighborhood watering hole for a few well-deserved drinks before dinner, the irregular crew was bracing themselves against what promised to be an equally hectic evening shift. Sergeant Striker was grumbling to himself as he paced evenly across the tessellated lobby floor: “Damn villains. Always in the night, it is. If it’s day it’s gotta be a basement or an attic, no doubt about that, but in the night they get antsy and need to spread out around town. Get some elbow room. Lousy punks.”

He spoke to nobody visible. The tabloid beneath his arm - some refreshingly simple nightly reading - rustled softly as the lights powered down throughout the modified midtown skyscraper that served as headquarters for VALCom.

Upstairs in the tiny kitchenette that abutted directly upon the employees’ lounge, Matchman was leaning exhaustedly against the countertop as he absently stirred non-dairy creamer into his second cup of coffee. He looked down but not out. The day had been a brutal one, of cross-town combat beneath the city streets with a small army of cyborg sewer alligators, courtesy of Dr. Dejection and the B.L.A.H. Corporation. Sometimes Matchman wondered just where his arch-nemesis got his ideas for municipal domination. The faint tang of leftover sewage still left a viscid streak in the air, even after repeated showers.

Behind him, his official sidekick Z-Girl was sipping steadily at her own cup of midnight-black attitude readjustment solution. “Do you smell something?” she asked, sniffing cutely. She was just-turned-eighteen, with short blonde hair and a vivacity that, in certain circles, might have gotten her into serious trouble if she hadn’t been able to back it up with her own set of truly paranormal abilities. She was the niece of Suzanne Grace, the Astrology Technician for VALentine Complex, and had volunteered her services one fine day over her aunt’s strident objections. Her qualification exam was simple: fly. She could, and did. She was a shoe-in for the job. No mutterings of rampant nepotism had yet been heard from the rest of the staff, especially once it had been revealed how well she was able to keep up with Matchman himself, and buffer his interactions with others, at least in the majority of circumstances. This wasn’t one of those circumstances.

“No,” said Matchman, wishing that she’d change the topic. He expected no mercy from her on the subject of sewers, seeing as how he’d once again had to practically twist her arm in order to get her to remain behind in comparative safety.

Unfortunately for him, Z-Girl had seen large portions of his running battle with the cyborgators on the security cameras at the Department of Public Works as the day unfolded, and knew exactly what had occurred. Fortunately for him, she also had enough good heart and common sense to change the subject anyway. “Tell me the story,” she said coyly with emphasis, the rim of her white coffee mug nipped lightly between her strong teeth. The mug had lettering around the outside that read: WHAT PART OF “SUPER POWERED” DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Matchman winced. “Oh, not again,” he groaned. “Not the story.”

“Please? You know I’ve never actually heard it yet,” Z-Girl said.

“All right, but after that, can we talk about something else? You know that the story of the origin of my super powers embarrasses me somewhat,” Matchman said.

“Oh, come off it. You know you love nothing better than a willing audience for the narration of your improbable exploits. Besides, I’ll bet you keep changing it every single time that you tell it anyway,” Z-Girl said.

“I do not\! Just because you don’t listen, young lady - “he began, but then he saw the laughter lurking in the corners of her eyes. “All right,” he said again, and went into the lounge area and sat down upon the overstuffed sofa that had been placed there expressly for the purpose of conversations after hours. “But this time, I want you to actually listen. Hard. Take notes, or something.”

“I always listen. You wound me, sirrah\!” she said, mockingly pseudo-injured, as she scampered gracefully to her end of the couch and flopped down energetically, eyes shining. She put her half-full coffee mug on the end table, held out her left hand as though it were a pad of paper, and poised her right index finger over it, lightly, as though it were possible to write with it upon the minutely swirled fabric of the unique skin of her palm.

“O.K., hit me, prof - I’m all set\!” she signaled her reluctant lecturer, who was by now enjoying the sacred softness of his favorite sofa in the Five Boroughs.

Matchman leaned back, eyes closed. “How come you’ve never told me the story of your own origin?” he asked in a low tone.

Z-Girl was suddenly on the defensive. “What’s to tell? One day I woke up and had super powers. Badda bing, badda boom. No biggie. Done and done. Your turn. Come on, tell me\!”

“I’ll bet you were bitten by something disgusting - something disgusting and radioactive -- on an unmentionable body part.”

“Unh-unh\! Gross\! No way\! Sounds more like you’re projecting - unless - I know - you got probed by aliens\!”

“Not even close. Possession by spirits?”

“Nope\! How about an ancient artifact of some kind?”

“Nosirree bob. Psychic powers? Poltergeist stones showering down when you hit puberty?”

“As if\!”

The two super heroes sat, each at their own end of the sofa, and glared fleetingly at each other. After a short time their faces melted to reveal a glimmer of true, core-deep mutual affection for one another.

“You’re not going to tell me after all, are you?” Z-Girl whispered fondly.

“Maybe some other time,” Matchman said, and sipped his coffee to cover the awkwardness of their shared moment.