Chapter 80

So, why did I just win this fight today? Anthony pondered. He couldn't recall ever practicing that attack. And he was still so dazed by what he had seen in his daydream that he was completely unprepared to protect himself.

"One lucky move." Sasha grinned. "Besides, you're thinking about your dream girlfriend again." "Tattoo girl inspires you." She took off her mask. As usual, half her white locks had escaped the boho scarf she wore wrapped around her head.

"No, I'm not." Anthony could see her face turning red. "I mean, she doesn't." He sat against the wall and unzipped his borrowed fencing jacket, which bore the fading letters of someone else's name.

"You know you're a lousy liar. It's one of your best qualities." Sasha took a seat beside Anthony. "So, tell me. "What is Tattoo Girl up to today?"

Anthony shook his head. Tattoo Girl had nearly become a running gag between them. "Something is wrong. And the dreams are shifting." He stared at his pal. "They're turning into nightmares."

"Go on."

Anthony turned aside. "I'm not sure." It doesn't matter. It's not true."

Sasha laughed. "This is America, Anthony. A person is flying around in an owl outfit. Some climb buildings like raccoons. Others pound cities into plaster with powerful supernatural fists and alien data. "How do you know what's real anymore?"

Anthony knew it was all too easy to fantasize about being saved by a superhero, especially when you were locked in the kind of existence they had. He only shrugged. "Do you think those people are heroes, Sasha?"

"Of course. "Don't you?"

Anthony did not respond. He wanted to tell Sasha about Assassin Lioness, just as he wanted to tell her everything about the dreams and show her the sketches. But there were some aspects of yourself that you just couldn't discuss, not even with your best buddy. Because there were some aspects of yourself that made no sense, not even to you.

Not even in a world where people faced criminal lords, supervillains, and Gods with superpowers.

Is Celine Dupont real?

Maybe.

Possibly.

It was also plausible that he had created him. But Anthony knew he hadn't invented the Assassin Lioness, and she—the woman in the dark, as he imagined her—was also in his nightmares. Of course, they'd met before, so it may all be psychological nonsense. Traumatic memories played out in the safety of dreamland or whatever. He wasn't in London that night, was he? The phantom words, which had stuck with him for almost eight years, floated back into his consciousness as if on cue.

W.O.M.D. Were the same

If you require my assistance, please contact me.

When he was ten, he snuck into her tutor's laptop and searched up W.O.M.D., but as far as he could tell, it was either a classical music piece or a cartoon character. Atlantic Trade Routes was the name of a large export company/location. He had no idea what the Underground Society was.

Most online searches refer to Underground Society as The Dead Room.

That was the literal translation. So what? Which Dead Room was important to Anthony, or even his father? Are you dead, like the Underground Society? Is she dead, like her father? Or maybe I'm just dead, like the flames of those who fought against those who abused youngsters like me. Perhaps his mind was just recalling that night and attempting to make sense of it. Maybe the room was simply a memory for him.

Red what? Sasha was prodding her with a blade now.

"Speaking of trips, we have to depart quite early tomorrow." It's like six o'clock in the morning." Anthony tried to piece together what her companion had been saying.

"Six? That's the first bus? And how are we going to pay for a bus all the way to Philadelphia?" Sasha smiled.

"Who mentioned a bus?" She unplugged her blade and let it tumble to the floor. "I called a cab for us." Anthony appeared perplexed.

"Is your father going to take us all the way to Philly?"

Sasha shrugged. "My dad agreed when Jack decided it was time to start competing. He wasn't going to be the one to dash our hopes."

He smirked. "Well, my dreams. We already know what your fantasies are about."

Anthony shoved her. "At least they're not about Jack."

Jack was their volunteer coach, a Bulgarian firecracker who conducted sessions for free on Fridays. Every other kid in the class understood how to curse French thanks to the three of them.

"You know we have to sign up for competitions." It was the best Anthony could come up with. A fencing contest was the furthest thing from his mind. He'd been restless all day, and now she was sick to her stomach. It's the gun from the dream. I can't quit thinking about it.

"What if I claimed same-day registration was still available?" And Jack told me he wanted us to go?" Sasha smiled.

"I guess I'd say we don't have any equipment," Anthony replied. She was still distracted.

Perhaps it's an omen, she reasoned. Perhaps horrible things are on their way.

Sasha looked around. "And then I'd think, hey, we could utilize this stuff."

"And then I'd remark, 'Excellent.'" Because these gloves don't smell like someone died in them." Anthony took his off, dropping them on the floor.

Sasha smiled. "Oh my God, Anthony. You're a chicken? Is that even possible?"

"I'm not a chicken." Anthony wriggle out of the jacket, which was three sizes too big.

"You? Anthony, who has nothing to fear?" Sasha was astounded.

Anthony shrugged. "If you're wondering, I'm not afraid of a small metal blade with a rubber tip. "I'm British." I also survived a lunatic in London's subways, an explosion, and a deadly cat girl.

He'd never told Sasha about that night. It's not about the warehouse or London City. That didn't mean he didn't consider it. When everything came apart.

"All right," Sasha finally said. "We don't have to go."

They sat silently side by side. There was nothing further to say. Anthony realized how much Sasha must have wanted to attend to the tournament; Sasha rarely spoke to her father until absolutely necessary, as if he had something to do with her mother's death or the fact that she was now alone. But she is not. We have each other.

Anthony could feel Sasha's gaze on him.

"OK," Anthony answered softly. He brushed aside the emotion that had settled over her. There were no omens. The awful things had already happened, yet the dream boys had not died. They didn't exist, as far as Anthony knew.

"OK, fine. You have won. We'll go." Anthony bumped Sasha's fist as she smiled. Then he put her head on Anthony's sweaty shoulder and began cataloging the room's haphazard collection of secondhand fencing gear.

Between the tattered blades and stinky masks and over-sized jackets and broken-zippered pants, Anthony forgot about the gun and the ghost words and the girl in the dark. He stopped thinking about lads who weren't real and heroes who weren't heroic.

By the time they got into the freezing-cold showers, everything was back to normal, if living in the basement of an X like—and with—a stray cat could be considered normal. It was as normal as anything Anthony had ever known.

The frigid blast of water was absolutely mind-numbing. At the very least, clarifying.

Anthony didn't mind the cold because he needed it. It pushed away his memories and made her head hurt less, which was vital because Anthony couldn't afford to feel.

He had already felt much too much.

He realized he'd have to be his own hero.