Bluebird vs Blitz
Chapter 5: The Final Battle
Meinong's schedule was full for weeks, but Sasha received a letter with pre-training instructions. The demands on her exercise and diet were grueling. Upon first read, she lost spirit. No way would she could commit to this regime. A few days later, exhausted from sexual frustration (her Blitz fantasies only grew more persistent), she started.
Each morning for sixty days, she awoke at four. The bags under her eyes felt like they were tunneling into the back of her skull. She heaved breaths just to overcome the first wave of sleep deprivation. Then she drank a smoothie-- prepared the night before-- which contained enough nutrition to last a regular human three days. Halfway through, without fail, she gagged to prevent vomiting. She'd taped to the refrigerator the picture of Blitz holding her. Otherwise, she would have quit.
The air was dark and cold as she left her house and jogged to a twenty-four hour gym, where superheroes could exercise anonymously. There she made several rounds on each machine, pushing each muscle just beyond its limits, then waiting ten minutes before going again. She accumulated so much sweat that her clothes, now twice their weight, clung to her body. Occasionally, a man hit on her. Most were too intimidated by the fiery focus in her eyes.
By the time she left, she felt like she could barely crawl home. She forced herself to sprint.
Then came shower, second breakfast, work.
Sasha was spectacularly focused. Even her awkward interactions with Jeff didn't distract her. She needed to steel herself for lunch: another smoothie, a full breast of chicken, a kale salad with walnuts, and two oranges. She ate at three spaced intervals, so as not to attract as much attention.
After work was martial arts training, at Meinong's own facility. There she encountered the most sophisticated fighters in the industry. Legends she'd revered as a child. Up-and-comers who'd been training for longer than their memories. They taught her well, then laid her out. At least, at first. Then she started to hold her own, make them sweat before they pinned her. By the end of sixty days, she won more often than lost.
Another work out followed. Another smoothie. Dinner. Stretching. Bed by ten.
Sasha was never stronger, faster, or better at fighting than at the end of those sixty days. She looked the same--her body grew in strength without growing in size--but she exuded confidence.
Then she saw Meinong.
Bluebird met him in his gymnasium. The windows were long, with arched tops, their sunlight sparkling on every speck of dust flitting through the air. Mats covered the floor, scenting the air with new plastic and sweat.
With one pinky, Meinong supported himself on a balance beam. His bare toes pointed toward the ceiling, and parted a block of sunshine into fine tendrils. He stood so close to the window that he appeared merely to be a swaying silhouette, more shadow than form.
"Meinong," ventured Bluebird.
The master flexed his pinky. The force of those tiny muscles alone propelled him toward the ceiling. He twirled, as if untouched by gravity, before landing on the mat before Bluebird. A breeze crossed her eyelashes.
"Thank you for--" Bluebird started, but Meinong raised a finger. He held it a moment, forcing her to wait for his instructions.
Meinong was tall and wore a dark fabric so tight that Bluebird saw every strand of muscle as it tensed and relaxed. He infused each moment with such grace that she wondered whether his life was choreographed. His head was shaved, his brow wrinkled, and the twinkling in his eyes cut through Bluebird's secrets.
"You wish to overcome Blitz," said Meinong. "And it must be you."
"I've been training. With your help, I will be ready."
"Show me."
Bluebird almost asked:
"You mean,
fight
you?"
But his tone was too grave to suggest ambiguity. She charged.
Meinong dodged or parried every punch, every kick, every elbow. He moved no more than a scarecrow on a breezy day, and yet he tangled past every blow. Bluebird's chest was heavy with her breaths, her face hot with the effort, until Meinong yelled.
"Stop!"
Bluebird realized he'd placed a pointer finger on her side.
"Blitz could have cut you in two."
"Okay. How do I do better?"
"You have reached your physical peak," observed Meinong. "And it has been insufficient. You must instead modify your offensive strategy."
"I'll do anything."
"A cape."
"A cape?"
"A cape." Meinong paced while he lectured, gazing at the room around him as though he could see his thoughts sitting on the balance beam or stretching on the floor. "I have studied Blitz's fighting style. No martial artist is he. He has instinct for combat, and intuition honed by countless hours of experience. But confound his natural resources, and you may defeat him."
"How would a cape help?"
Meinong interrupted her so quickly she realized her mistake in asking. "A cape greatly expands the appearance of your size, without shifting your center of gravity. Learn to work with a cape, and it disorients the opponent. Blitz's instincts will not be able to respond to such an amorphous target and, without the plasticity of structured training, he will be unable to adjust."
"How do I learn to fight like that?"
Meinong grinned. "I will teach you. But first, I will need to modify your costume."
The modification lasted two weeks, during which Bluebird fought crime in a backup uniform. A bit itchy, a bit too large, but serviceable. Finally, the message arrived, and Bluebird returned to Meinong's gymnasium. She received a new uniform.
Sewn into the shoulder straps was a wide, lightly ruffled, uranian blue cape. Meinong averted his gaze, indicating she ought to change. The costume fit snugly, but she noticed the extra weight in the shoulders. When the cape settled, it reached to her lower back.
"Now your training begins," said Meinong. "You must know, always, the position of your cape, especially when it is not in your field of vision. You must not only know, you must control. You must learn to move it as naturally as you move your body. Finally, you must learn how best to disorient."
"I will do anything to learn," said Bluebird. "Teach me."
The training required three months. Three months of cape exercises, rehearsed before a mirror, so Bluebird could see herself. Three months of videotaping herself hurtling through obstacle courses, then listening Meinong criticize every second of activity. Three months of fighting. At first, the cape threw her balance, clipped her elbows, and dampened her focus. Halfway through the three months, she fought with equal fluidity with or without the cape. By the end, she fought best with it.
In her final sparring with Meinong, Bluebird's cape fluttered to the left, indicating that she pivoted toward the right. Meinong's arm flung forward, his fist landing exactly where he expected her to be. Instead she shifted her weight back toward the cape, furling it a bit, and jabbed Meinong in the jaw.
"Enough!" Meinong rubbed his jaw. He chuckled. "I have never met a superhero more determined to defeat someone in my life. Well, Bluebird, with my blessing, you may face him."
With the buoyancy in Bluebird's chest, she felt as though Blitz were already defeated. "When I find him, I'll show him everything you've taught me."
"Finding him should be no difficulty." Again he paced, gazing around his gym. "I hire many eyes. They keep me attuned to the darker places in our city. Blitz will be attacking a political fundraiser next week."
"And-- and you trust me with the job?"
Meinong grinned. "I would send further backup if I was unsure. Sasha Tempert, Bluebird, you will completely overwhelm him."
#
Sasha Tempert waltzed around her apartment, arms swaying in time with the stadium rock, her pump-up playlist. The room rattled with the passing of the monorail. Soon, the rest of the city would shake as well. When the mighty Blitz toppled.
And that's
all
that would happen, Sasha assured herself as she sat in the bathtub. Through the window, she saw the black bars and diamond windows of downtown, where Blitz would soon strike. She would render him unconscious and turn him over to the authorities. And do nothing else with him.
But she shaved more than just her legs that night.
#
A few panes of glass, a handful of locks, and a tiny circuit of halls. That's all that stood between Bluebird and her final showdown. She knelt beside a brick booth on the roof, staring at the surrounding skyscrapers. Gold light poured up from their bellies, leaving their heads, impossibly high above, obscured in shadow. With a smirk, Bluebird reminded herself that she could level any one of those buildings, and she could
certainly
level Blitz. She just needed to wait, wait for a sign of disturbance.
A scream perked Bluebird's ears, echoey from the concrete canyon below. Another shout followed, then a gushing tide of footsteps, pouring from the building.
Blitz.
Bluebird kicked the booth door. It dented around the handle, then slammed open. Now for the few panes of glass, handful of locks, and tiny circuit of halls. Vigilantism requires a broad suite of skills, among them burglary. Bluebird skirted alarms and disarmed guards with superhuman ease. The final lock snapped under her grip, and Bluebird entered the ballroom gallery.
"Bluebird!"
The woman exclaimed and grabbed Bluebird's shoulders. She threw her weight into the superheroine, and sobbed into her chest.
"Shh," chastised Bluebird, though she pet the long dark hair of the petite stranger. "What's going on down there?"
The stranger raised her gaze to Bluebird. Recognition rang in Bluebird's head. Where did she know this woman?
"I'm the Calas daughter," she said. "You are the hero that saved my family on the balcony."
Bluebird smiled. "Looks like you could use a hero again."
"But..." the woman faltered. "You should know, it's Blitz."
"No worry. Last time was a fluke. I've got him."
Bluebird already felt cocky, but the confidence glowing in the young Calas's eyes further assured her. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Sofia Calas."
"Well, Sofia, I recommend watching the show." Bluebird held Sofia at arms' length. "But be sure to stay up here, where it's safe."
Sofia called, "I love the cape!" as Bluebird walked to the railing of the gallery. From her perch, she evaluated the situation.
The ballroom was huge, with three layers of galleries, pillars of carved marble, and scarlet curtains lining the walls. Across the floor stood a fleet of tables, vacant save for unfinished wine and still-steaming dinners. Their former occupants cowered beneath tablecloths or against the walls. Henchmen blocked the doorways, machine guns pressed against their torsos.
And there, in the clearing meant for the mayor's speech, stood Blitz. Even from above, he looked huge. Did he buy a tighter shirt, or had the buttons always clung so tightly to his pecs and abs? And those biceps, clearly defined even beneath his sleeves. Bluebird's lips dried.
