Page 40 of Too Many Beds

Caleb laughs at that, pushing any emotional confusion aside enough to take the piss as is our way of life. “Explain your metaphor, please.”

“No, thank you,” I say, rapid fire, rising to meet the challenge in Caleb’s eyes. “If you can’t understand a basic utilisation of figurative language, Cal, there’s nothing I can do for you. Should have paid more attention in our English lessons.”

“You fell asleep in our English lessons!” Caleb accuses.

I cross my arms, looking down those two inches of height difference between us. “That’s because I already knew what a metaphor is.”

“Only because Mei told you,” Caleb huffs.

“She would have told you too if she thought you deserved it,” I say without sympathy. “But you threw a pen at her that day, so.” I shrug. “You reap what you sow, Cal.”

Tim, possibly sensing the pin he’s just taken out of a very specific grenade, finally does the sensible thing and tries to bow out. “Uh, I think I should leave …”

Talking is a mistake, though, and only dooms him further.

Caleb serves Tim with a face full of judgement. “I think you should have left five minutes ago, Tim, if I’m being honest. Don’t blame me for your bad life choices.”

“He did try to warn you, to be fair, mate,” I offer, just to be a prick.

Tim looks about ready to make a run for it and take his chances we won’t follow, which I would actively encourage at this point although I can’t promise the latter if the mood strikes us to give chase. Or he’s possibly considering moving to back to America. I would not encourage that one. It’s scary over there. During my time as an international superhero, I’ve been shot six times. Four of those were in America. Four. And I’ve been to several different countries overrun by insanely violent, gun-toting rogue militias.

But before Tim can leg it, he’s saved from us and plunged into far greater physical danger by the arrival of The Maker, a supervillain who until two seconds ago I thought was still locked up in one of England’s most secure prisons.

In typical supervillain dramatics, The Maker blows out the far wall of the bed shop with a blast of his weird, blue magic. Bricks and mortar explode into the shop, spraying molten debris at all the nearby civilians. Some of them are thrown backwards by the sudden pressure, their vulnerable bodies scattering across various beds and the hard marble floor.

Screams and shouts of panic crescendo through the shop as civilians scramble to escape a danger that they don’t fully understand the scope of.

Caleb and I are far enough away from the explosion that we’re able to stay on our feet and avoid taking any injury from the debris. Tim, less sturdy than us with our enhanced strength and endurance, is thrown to the ground by the initial blast that shakes the building to its foundations.

The Maker steps into the gaping hole he’s left behind in the wall, his trademark silver staff held aloft in one hand. His usual robes and cape are absent, which, when paired with his long grey hair and scraggly beard, always make him look like a badLord of the Ringscosplayer. Today he’s dressed in a grey prison uniform instead, so at least his breakout was presumably recent and he hasn’t been traipsing around the city being a nightmare for too long.

I drop down next to Tim on the ground, yanking Caleb with me so we’re partially hidden by one of the beds.

“You alright, mate?” I ask Tim, helping him up from his sprawl so that he’s kneeling beside me.

Tim nods jerkily. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He looks at me with wide, terrified eyes, which I can’t blame him for.

“It’s going to be fine,” I tell him confidently. “We’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

“Got yours?” Caleb asks, nudging me as he takes a silver domino mask out of his jeans pocket.

I stuff my hand into my own pocket and produce a similarly shaped black mask with a dark-orange stripe through the middle.

Tim stares at us in absolute shock, a mix of incredulity and hope, when Caleb and I don our vigilante masks.

It isn’t practical for us to wear our suits everywhere, but we make it a habit to take our masks out with us at all times, just in case of situations like this one.

“You’re Barricade and Crescent!” Tim hisses at us, with an almost accusatory tone.

“Not a fan?” I ask, amused at his outrage despite everything.

Tim snorts. “I might be if you stop me from getting murdered by the blue wizard.”

Speaking of, a quick glance back over at The Maker shows him prowling through the shop, stepping over bricks still flaming blue from his magic. Once he’s standing in the middle of the room, he takes his staff into both hands and raises it above his head. Inwardly, I groan, knowing what’s about to happen and not looking forward to it one bit.

“Oh, fuck,” Caleb mutters, also recognising the theatrical gesture from our past altercations with The Maker.

He’s too far away to stop it, so all we can do is watch as The Maker brings his staff down hard, cracking it against the floor like he’s spearing a sword into stone.

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