Читать книгу Hero - Майкл Грант - Страница 10

FINDING IT HARDER and harder to think about writing fiction. Reality is too weird. I’m part of a group of superheroes, for God’s sake. Best friend can run 800 mph. Malik can make people wish they were dead. Francis moves through walls. There are silent, unseen aliens in our heads when we morph. Just the fact that I can write words like “alien” and “morph” and have them be a real thing, WTF ?

Times I think the watchers have a sense of humor or irony. Gentle, thoughtful Malik can cause agony. Driven, obsessive Shade can outrun a 787—how perfect for someone always in a hurry.

Then there’s me. How brilliantly cruel to give me the power I have. Let’s take the trans girl just starting to figure out how to be who and what she is, and give her the ability to appear as anyone of any gender, age, race . . . Not complaining—it’s so much better than what Malik got. Still.

Now I’m this famous person from an iconic photo. Millions of people who don’t know me have definite opinions about me. Expectations. I’m a hero to strangers and a mystery to myself. The personal is being obliterated. I’m in a war, and the war isn’t about me or what I feel or what I need. I get that. I know I’m just one tiny part of something huge and terrifying. I get that people are scared to death and looking for a hero.

But I am still just this one person. Just me. Cruz.

Also I’m thinking way too much about Armo.

Warning to self: heartbreak ahead.

If I live that long.