Hero Types

"Kit?"
She took out her headphones. "Yeah?"
"Do you mind if I use one of your drawings as an example in my next class?" Mr. Circus asked.
"Oh. Um, no. It's fine."
She put her headphones back in and gazed at her painting. She frowned, twisted it upside down, and continued painting. Maybe she could finish before the end of the period. It was coming out well.
It had been a good week.
She sat reading her phone under the table during lunch. Her tuna sandwich tasted great, even if it reeked. She jumped when someone spoke to her—they usually didn't.
"Do you think you're going to prom?"
"Um..." she glanced at her phone. "I don't think so."
"It's okay if you don't have a date, a lot of people go with friends."
"Oh. Do none of you have dates?"
"No."
"No, I'm going with Quentin."
"Ew, the tuba guy?"
"You could go with Brad," Bridget said. Kit sent her message and looked up.
"Um—wait, but aren't you dating Brad?"
"God, no," she scoffed. "I dumped him weeks ago. You can have him."
"Um..." she thought for a minute. "You know, he's not really my type."
"Seriously?" Bridget laughed. They all turned and watched the quarterback at his table across the cafeteria. "Girl, he's gorgeous."
"Well." She shrugged. Her phone buzzed.
"I didn't know you had a type," Yasmine said.
"Are you gay?"
"Um...no. I just like...I don't know." I guess I like people who are nice to me. Weird, right? It buzzed again. She grabbed her tray. "It's that time of the month, I'm gonna run to the bathroom."
She stood by the sink and texted till the bell rang. Just as it did, she got a message from Lucas. She smiled as she walked to her next period. She passed Bridget and her friends whispering to each other, and it didn't bother her that much. She forgot about it after a minute, though that may have had more to do with the packet of math waiting for her on her desk.
But even that was just paperwork to do when she would get home late that night. It wasn't a big deal. She could do it.
She caught the train to the CAA after school. She listened to her headphones and got a few problems done on the ride. Maybe she could even get to bed early. That would be nice.
Howe was at the desk, probably sleeping. His eyes were closed, but you never knew with him. She didn't greet him; they were both quiet and had an unspoken understanding of each other. A lot of the understandings drawn between quiet people seem to be unspoken ones.
"Kit."
It was just Lucas in the room, studying the bulletin board.
"Hey." She set her bag in her usual chair and walked over. "What's up?"
"Not sure..." he bit his lip and shook his head.
"What—Lucas?" He looked at her. "You okay?"
"Uh, yeah. Fine."
"You look sick."
He shrugged his shoulders and folded his lanky frame into a chair. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. "Everything just seems a little bit off."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"No. I mean the—" he grabbed a flyer off the table and shook it in the air. "The crime. It's weird. It's—did you know Waspwoman met the guy last night?"
"No, you mean—"
"Yes, that guy." He tossed the flyer aside and cracked his knuckles. "We're calling him the Raider, 'cause of the gas mask. Eleven people've lost their powers, including Mardie." He drummed his fingers on the table and stared into space for several minutes.
She rifled through the files. There were scribbled notes—many of them in Howe's handwriting—detailing the the approximate time of the incident. There was no sign of the man—the Raider—when the witness awoke or was taken away.
"Why would somebody want to do that?" she asked. It wasn't really a question, rather an expression of her horror, but Lucas answered.
"What're they going to do without us?" He chuckled. "The cops do their best, but they're supposed to take care of the criminals. There've always been heroes, because there've always been villains. Take one away and..." he didn't bother to finish.
"We have to catch him," she said, which was again obvious.
"I looked at your research," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not saying you're wrong," he said. "But there's not enough evidence yet to prove that you're right."
"It's—"
"I know, I know, I said yet. But it is definitely something worth looking into. Even if it's not connected, it's weird."
"So can I look into it?"
"Sure, Kit. You have my permission, or something."
"You guys look swell." Jersey pulled out his headphones and shrugged off his jacket as he took his seat. He was still in his gym clothes. "Did someone die?"
"Waspwoman met the Raider last night."
"No kidding? How many's that?"
"Eleven."
"We need to find this guy."
"I'm working on it," Lucas said. "But it'll take time. We're gonna need some help. Especially without Mardie."
"We've got Mickey," Jersey said.
"Who, let's face it, is not the most subtle person to have on your team," he pointed out. "He's great, till we have to do something without blowing the roof off the place. I've reached out to a few other organizations in the city. They're all scared. They've been in hiding for the past few weeks. Crime's skyrocketing."
"That's what he wants, isn't it," Howe said from the doorway. They glanced his way, and he shrugged. "With the heroes gone, it's pretty much open season in the city."
Lucas squared his jaw. "Not on my watch." He checked his phone and stood. "It's time to go."
Kit grabbed her jacket and looked around. "Um...are we waiting for Mickey?"
"We don't need him tonight," Lucas said, heading down the hall. Jersey made an obscene gesture and she rolled her eyes. He turned around, pulling on his coat, and called to Howe.
"Hey, how's Mardie doing?"
Howe grumbled something and ducked away. Jersey gave her a pointed look as he brushed past. She thought for a second then hurried to catch up.
"Wait. Are you serious?"
"I've got an eye for that sort of thing. I swear, I should switch professions." Jersey didn't actually have a day job, but had inherited a large amount of money from his parents and enjoyed living the high life off of it. "And that's how I know you want Mickey. You know, naked. Covered in chocolate. The works."
She hit his elbow. "Cut it out."
He paused with his hand on the door, wiggling his eyebrows. "Feisty tonight, huh?"
She pushed him outside.