Back at work the next day, unable to concentrate, and not because of Flo’s surprisingly lush lips.

  Well, not just because of that. She had eventually and abruptly pushed off me, dropping back to the roof, running to the fire escape, saying “seeya Friday! Text me when you get home safe!” with a wave. I have no idea where things are between us, or where I want things to be. It was a mistake born of the heat of the moment.

  And I can’t concentrate because of that mistake, staring at the video on Rachel’s laptop.

  “I thought the Flying Man was just a meme!” she’s saying excitedly as I continue to stare, my stomach dropping like an elevator.

  The blurry video shows Flo and I on the building, shot from the window of a taller building. Too far and too dark to make out any faces, but… Flo is dancing around me before she stops. Soon, she’s clutching onto me as we’re making out.

  “They landed there! On the roof!” some guy in the video is whispering like a creep as he’s spying on us. “I swear to God! I had the window open for a smoke, I saw something and… it’s this dude flying right out of the sky with that chick!”

  “That’s bullshit,” I manage. “It’s just people on the roof.”

  Goddamn it. I was so overwhelmed by the moment, flying with another person, Flo’s politics and calling me her broom, my latent attraction to her as she pressed onto my back, that I got sloppy. Elena’s was far from the tallest building around and… some asshole just had to have their phone handy, didn’t they? The creep lets off one final “oh my God!”

  “That’s what people are saying,” Rachel says as the TikTok logo and sound flash. “But I don’t know! Why would someone make that up?”

  “Um, have you ever even been on social media before?” This is getting out of control. What if someone else has video of me actually flying? They would’ve posted it online by now, right?

  “But, Nick. What if the Flying Man of New York is real?”

  “You also believe in astrology,” I tell her, my mind racing, now knowing why Ian had texted me a mysterious We need to talk while I was on the subway.

  “But I mean… someone made a pretty good reel about this, I’ll try to find it. I don’t know, Nick!”

  “Rachel, come on.” I hate that I’m basically gaslighting her, but what can I do?

  “And I wonder who his girlfriend is?”

  “She might not be a girlfr–Rach, it’s bullshit, calm down.”

  Soon, me and Flo are both apologizing on the group chat, but a clearly furious Ian tells us to save it for in person tomorrow night.

  Why the hell do I even fly in the most densely populated area of the United States, anyway? Why don’t I fly in rural Pennsylvania or some shit? Am I stupid?

  And who the hell goes by the name Flo? Is she selling car insurance?!

  We hadn’t texted directly since we kissed, other than me texting her that I had made it home safely and her liking it. I have no idea if I want to pursue anything with the scary girl with the fantastic lips… but the power imbalance is more than a little disconcerting.

  And what if the video is me getting outed? What if the CIA or some shit takes an interest, cleans up the video, makes me out somehow?!

  Shaking my head, I pull up the spring training project. What else can I do? I just have to continue to live my life, and if some government thugs try to pull me into an unmarked van someday, then so be it.

  #

  Friday evening at Ian’s.

  I’ve been called a tosser, a bloody waste of a perfectly good power, an arrogant arsehole, a choad, a petulant little twit, a gormless prat. Ian’s saying he only wishes The Boys hadn’t ruined the word “cunt” as a perfect insult for morons like Flo and I.

  “Well, it wouldn’t work anyway without the accent,” Elena points out.

  The Flying Man of New York’s now gone from a meme to a nascent conspiracy theory, all due to that one asshole’s TikTok. Thanks both to Rojas’ latest “directions” and Ian shoving his iPad in my face I’ve seen everything, from me having a jetpack to being a member of the Illuminati as if that makes any sense. Posts about me are starting to resemble posts about chemtrails. People. They’re always looking for any excuse at all to believe in the unbelievable.

  Well, ok. Maybe not unbelievable in this case.

  “Been over two years since we’ve met, Elena,” Ian fumes, “And we’ve never had anything close to an incident. Then these twats come along and blow up the bloody internet in less than a week!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘blow up the internet,’” I begin before he cuts me off again.

  “And what are you two charmers doing, anyway? Are you really boyfriend girlfriend?”

  “And what if we are?” I shoot back petulantly.

  “We’re not,” Flo tells him softly.

  “Well, you’ve been trying to clean up this mess, at least,” Ian mutters.

  “Oh, I work at X,” Flo says. “What used to be Twitter before Elon fixed it.”

  “That clocks,” I say, nodding. I can’t believe I made out with someone redpilled.

  “Shut up, dork. I’m making sure only the craziest people who think the video is real are trending. It’s more like they’re cleaning it up for us.”

  “Right, then,” Ian says, calming down. “Continue that. I’m putting off meeting our next and final friend until this hullabaloo quiets down. He’s a bit older than you lot, and he’s a cop which obviously complicates the approach. On the other hand, having a friend on the force would be handy, yeah? And you over there: consider yourself grounded until further notice.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. Half of New York’s now scanning the sky with their phones.”

  I find out a little more about Elena: she had known two others who could do what she does, which involves not super speed or teleportation, but moving across another dimension while time remains still in ours. She says it’s not like a hyperspace dimension or the Upside Down, but more like moving a bit behind reality, like if life is on a piece of paper and she dips a bit below the writing desk. It’s confusing, especially since that sounds exactly like the Upside Down. But either way, there had been something that had gone down among her and two others like her that Ian helped with, and that’s all she’s willing to say.

  So there’s two more like her, not just one.

  She’s definitely the quietest of us four, like she’s always a bit sad about something. She’s normal height for a girl, maybe slightly chunky, oval face. Unremarkable features, like the kind of person you forget passing five seconds later. But possessed of a certain self-assuredness despite the tinge of melancholy.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  We head out after Ian has had his fill of chewing us out, telling us he wants to begin drills next week. What kind of drills, I have no idea. But why, at least, I know, even if I haven’t learned anything else about the others with Elena’s trick.

  But maybe I can learn more about Flo. She had moved to the city to join Ian and Elena and had immediately gotten hired at X. I ask how on earth she pulled that off.

  “Know what they say about avoiding politics at the workplace?” she says as we walk up the street towards the subway. “At X, it’s the opposite. I poured it on like I was Laura Ingraham on Adderall.”

  “Wow,” I murmur. “That’s cool you let her crash on your couch, Elena.”

  “Oh, I’m helping with rent,” Flo puts in as we start down the stairwell towards the F train. “I insisted.”

  “Have she ever lifted the couch while you vacuumed?” I ask Elena.

  “Yeah, I demanded she do that at least once.”

  “Hate how most of the super strength characters in movies are male like Mr. Fantastic,” Flo says, pouting, as we pass by a busker on a violin near the staircase and an uptown train. “A little more representation would be nice. Oh, She-Hulk was so cringe and woke, wasn’t it?” I groan as uptown train appears, pulling up to the station.

  “That’s us,” Elena announces.

  “Oh, we’re going the other way,” I tell her. “Flo’s studio in Brooklyn.”

  And at that, Elena actually rolls her eyes.

  “Hey, excuse you!”

  “What?” Elena shoots back, walking on the train. “Flo, I support you, but…” The subway doors close in front of her as she gives a tight grin and a shrug.

  “Funny way of supporting you,” I fume.

  “She just thinks there’s no way I can break out,” Flo yells over the noise of the train leaving. “And maybe not, maybe nobody can without connections, but… maybe I just wanna anyway, right?”

  “Right!” I holler. “C’mon, I wanna see the next Chappell Roan do her thing!”

  “Ugh, she’s too woke! Compare me to Tate McRae instead!”

  #

  Standing in the studio next to the guy on the mixing board, arms crossed, I’m impressed by Flo’s singing voice. Light, lilting, somewhat airy, what sounds to me like perfect pitch and register. This is not someone who needs Autotune.

  “What I did to you hurt, the situationship is dead / But let me feel you just one last time on me in my bed –”

  “Wait, Flo,” the producer cuts in. “Having trouble with that input, I have to adjust. Apologies. Start back at the second refrain in three… two…”

  He’s not even her producer. He’s some guy who just happened to be hanging around the rent-by-the-hour studio tonight. I guess that’s life if you aren’t signed to a label: hobbyist singers get hobbyist producers. Flo’s not letting his mistake perturb her in any way as she restarts.

  She’s dropped a few songs over the years, hoping to get noticed, but she explained how brutally competitive the pop scene is. Even Sabrina Carpenter had toiled away anonymously for years and years, even though she’d been signed unlike Flo, before her big break… and Flo had not done herself any favors living in Philadelphia. Working in right-wing social media isn’t exactly getting her connections, either. I’m just hoping some New York bigshot in the industry will notice her.

  Flo reaches the refrain again. “Just one more time, feel me, be mine / We’ll just not be heard, he won’t hear a word / I know she’s in your heart now, but one more time, make a vow.”

  I’m wondering if she hurt Mr. 360 more than she had even let on. Poor bastard.

  But I know just how dearly Flo wants to be famous. Maybe not for her strength – she knew even before meeting Ian just how dangerous it would be if certain powerful figures knew of the existence of abilities like hers and mine – but famous, regardless. Flo Vickerson, scion of red carpets, conqueror of Spotify, hero of countless girls worldwide.

  “Ok, Flo,” the producer’s saying. “I think we got it this time.”

  “Thank God,” Flo says, finally venting her frustration. She had gone over countless takes.

  Hmm. Hero.

  Despite the danger, I knew Flo was only half-joking about the “instant celebrity” thing. Like so many others, she wants to get famous with her music… but the occasional offhand remark shows that she could live with getting her big break as a Captain Marvel or a Wonder Woman instead.

  But she won’t expose herself, partly out of fear of getting abducted by the government for experiments, partly because of how that would upend basically the entire world, and partly out of deference to Elena, Ian and I.

  Right?

  She’s now back in the production room, debating how to edit her track with the producer, as I eye her. Right. She’s still trying to make her mark the old-fashioned way. If she was going to reveal her true power to the world, she would have by now.

  The producer’s now arguing she should multi-track her voice since that’s her best feature; Flo seems hesitant.

  Besides, she’s not the one getting noticed for her abilities to the point of the “Flying Man of New York” going from just a meme to a true rumor.

  Frowning, I think of how far apart Flo and I are on wanting fame. How the absolute last thing in the world I want is to become famous. For one thing, almost all celebrities are narcissistic shitbirds, and I just can’t become like them. For another… I like my privacy. I like being able to walk into the local bodega on 187th street and being just another face in the crowd to everyone except Rojas.

  I like nobody being all up in my shit.

  My job has me promoting celebrities. And, sure, I sort of make exceptions to my “all celebrities are narcissistic shitbirds” rule for anyone wearing pinstripes, but… outside of getting to play the sport I love for money, the actual life of Aaron Judge sounds downright scary to me.

  Screw red carpets. My idea of a fun night is having the guys over for a 2K marathon, no matter how much I suck at it compared to Carter. Or gathering at Foray’s. Or trading who’d-you-rather’s on the group chat.

  Soon, we’re in the street behind the studio, practically an alleyway. Narrow, few lights, almost certainly no cameras. It is good air tonight – except for the temperature, which had dropped unexpectedly.

  “Let’s just Uber back, it’s too cold,” I say, buttoning up my coat. “Is there any way I can promote you or something? Got a, you know, Soundcloud link or something?”

  “Soundcloud!” Flo gasps in outrage, halting and staring at me. “What… what do you make me out to be?!”

  “Well, how do you go about it then? Gimme a moment, gotta pee.”

  “Oh, gross,” Flo says, turning, walking away. “Why are boys so gross?”

  As I relieve myself against the studio’s back wall, I notice headlights flash across it. Hurrying up, I zip back up when it occurs to me that the car is coming on way too fast for a narrow street like this.

  Wait. Flo!

  “Flo!”

  She’s in the middle of the goddamn street, turning around way too late.

  The car is not braking at all. Oh my God. I hunch, preparing to hurl myself at her… far too late, she’s too far away as the car careens right past me.

  The old Town Car is upon her as she reaches out.

  With both hands.

  A tremendous crash, scream of twisting metal.

  The car flies up and over Flo. She had lifted it, propelled it over herself.

  Screeching, agonizing metal as the car lands on its side, sliding to a stop, sparks grinding on the street, until it shudders and rolls over upside down.

  Flo and I stare at each other. It’s quiet now, besides the car’s engine still rumbling, idle, and the sound of distant city traffic.

  “Are you all right?!” I shriek.

  She nods, slowly, before turning to the car. “I’m, um, not so sure about him.” It comes out all dazed.

  She’s right. I turn, race to the car that would have killed Flo, crouch by the upended wreck. The driver’s side window is smashed; there’s blood, the driver unconscious, a man in his 40s. Even from here, I can smell the reek of alcohol. I pull on the door, but there’s no give, what with the way it’s squeezed into an unnatural shape.

  “Flo!”

  Running footsteps. “Hey… step back, Nick.”

  I do as Flo wraps her right hand in her scarf. She grasps the center of the driver’s door through the broken glass, pulls, snaps it off the car frame before tossing it to one side, the ruined door hitting the pavement with a crash.

  I look around. No traffic. But there’s some guy down the alleyway, frozen, hands in his coat pockets.

  “Oh shit.”

  Flo’s pulling out the unconscious driver. I go to her side, putting my fingers on his neck. His face is lined, rugged, like he lives life hard.

  “Still alive,” I mutter.

  Flo turns, spots the guy. “Hey mister! Call 911!”

  I look back. The guy, an old chubby man, just nods slowly, pulls his phone out of one coat pocket.

  “Nick, we gotta go.” She’s on her feet, going to my back, putting her arms around me.

  Shit. She’s right. The risk’s gone up by an order of magnitude, but we have to leave now.

  “Wait!”

  The old man now has his phone by his ear, talking to 911. Hopefully. Which means, unless he’s quick, he can’t turn on its camera.

  “Ok, now!”

  I leap into the air, flying straight up, Flo clutching me hard. Except this time, there are none of her usual squeals of delight.