by Janin Szalkowski, 16
I hate that big blue boy scout with all my might. Why does Superman get powers, even if he isn’t real? I should have powers, I would be great. Better than Superman, that’s for sure. I would rule Newark with an iron fist! I would transform the world into a paradise of anarchy! Free healthcare! Because there are no more doctors. Or hospitals! Or money. God, it would be great. Are any labs accepting volunteers to be injected with radioactive junk? I’d do it in a heartbeat, if it meant I could rule the world. Or even a city. Ok, let’s be honest, a block. I could rule a block! I know I could. I just need to prove myself. Tonight. Tonight.
Nathan failed to prove himself that night, but he didn’t fall off any roofs. Small victories.
“Damn!” Nate cursed to himself, as he struggled to attach the final red wire of his bomb. It was an intricate thing he had spent weeks on, toiling under the counter at his day bodega job when business was slow.
It was his baby.
And it was going to work.
Click.
“Here we go …” Nate murmured, setting off the timer. One minute, one minute, and he would be infamous. Not Trippy, not the fumbling vigilante, but The Reckoning. The blight of Newark, the fearsome bandit, and the first shot in the night against that damn Mayor Russell and all his damn clandestine plans. The Reckoning wasn’t anything like Nate—The Reckoning was brave, he was manly, he did what had to be done with ease. Nate knew that as soon as the bomb went off, that’s who he would be, forever. Nate glanced down.
Thirty seconds.
God, he needed to stop monologuing.
Nate whipped his grappling hook out of his utility belt, aiming it for a billboard on a neighboring building. It read Don’t You Wish You Were Here? A perfect, photoshopped image of a clear blue beach and sandy shores. Nate had never seen a beach that wasn’t gloomy and coated with trash, and he never would if Russell kept up his shady environmental devastation. He glanced back.
Fifteen seconds.
His damn brooding! Nate gritted his teeth, aiming his grappling hook and firing—
missing the billboard by ten feet.
Ten Seconds.
His parachute might work, but it wouldn’t get him far enough from the blast. The next rooftop was too far to jump, and Nate did not feel like falling off any more buildings that week, and his bounce boots were broken (hence why all the fallings). As Nate pondered his options, he heard a distant click in the background. He turned his head.
0:00.
He scrambled, almost falling off the side of the building, before thankfully catching himself on a cheapy ‘protective’ fence. He braced for impact, hoping his suit would provide some protection, but the blast never came.
He was somehow disappointed he wasn’t blown to smithereens.
Nathan stood still, chest heaving from the stress of his not-so-near death experience, when he heard a voice fraught with dry humor
“Your bomb sucks, you know.”
Nathan turned, and there she was. The most hipster-looking chick he had ever seen, leaned up against the stairwell entrance like she belonged there. Skinny jeans, big black boots, and an acid washed tee shirt, topped off with a red beanie—was that a mustache tattoo on her index finger?!
He finally met her eyes, a shocking, watery kind of blue that went well with her dark hair.
“I thought it was pretty good …” Nate mumbled, glad his vigilante mask covered his very disappointed expression.
“It wasn’t. The wiring was all off, even if I didn’t grab this out,” she enunciated, holding that fateful red wire he spent so damn long trying to position, “It wouldn’t have gone off anyway. The internal circuitry is a mess. If you have the gall to try and blow up my building, at least do it right.” She bit out, demeanor somehow becoming even more critical.
Nate shrank into himself, at a loss for words. She was right. He was a failure. He wasn’t The Reckoning, or the bandit of Newark, or anything, really. He was just college dropout Nate who worked at the corner bodega.
“Please don’t cry. I hate when people cry. It’s weird.” The girl huffed, face scrunching up.
Nathan sniffed, a wet, snotty, I definitely haven’t been crying what that’s crazy sniff and attempted to compose himself.
“Who are you?! H-how do you know all this anyway? You took my wire off, it would’ve gone off.” Nate retorted, feeling thoroughly like a child. The girl rolled her eyes.
“No, it wouldn’t. My dad is a bomb-building army survivalist weirdo. You two would get along.” The girl quipped, crossing her arms. “I’m Miganne.”
“Megan?” Nate responded, the pronunciation strange on his tongue.
“No. M-I-G-A-N-N-E. Mee-gan. My dad is very weird.” She stated, clearly having had this conversation a million times over.
“It runs in the family, clearly.” Nate jabbed, scuffing his bounce boots on the asphalt. He was starting to feel a bit better, as at least his saboteur had a dumb name. Dumb Name Miganne paused, stilling for a moment.
“Wait. Waiiiit, I know you. You’re Trippy! I saw a picture of your dumb purple suit on Reddit the other day!” She exclaimed, eyes lighting up with realization.
Nate’s ears turned red under his cowl. “It’s not purple,” he mocked, “It’s aubergine. They’re very different.”
Miganne snorted with laughter, stepping forward. “Wow, you are reeeaally compensating for some-”
“No I’m not!” Nate bellowed, marching forward to meet her, “It’s aubergine! A purple meant to strike fear and mystery into watching eyes-”
“So you do admit it’s purple! Ha!”
“Well, I- well!” Nate acquiesced, rubbing his brow in frustration. “Fine. I guess it’s … purplish.”
Miganne hummed, clearly satisfied.
Then, a moment of silence. Nate suddenly realized the gap between them was closed, they were eye to eye, barely a foot apart.
“You have pretty eyes, you know.” Miganne murmured, averting her gaze.
Nathan whipped his head to look at her. “I- I…um. Thank… you?” he responded in an uneasy tone.
She seemed the type who didn’t compliment easily. And she complimented him. He almost smiled.
“You should really cover them up, you know. Makes you easily identifiable.” Miganne said, returning to her cold tone.
Nate paused.
“I mean, a dinky airport security scanner could reveal your … are you even famous enough to have a secret identity?”
“Of course I have a secret identity,” Nate sputtered.
Miganne laughed again. Nate liked that sound. A lot.
“I could figure it out. You seem to be the inconspicuous type,” Miganne replied smugly, finally stepping back, widening the distance. “Anyway, nice chatting, but I have work tomorrow.”
A part of Nate wanted to pout.
“Don’t blow up my building, not that you could, but don’t try.” Miganne ordered, and Nathan just nodded. She turned to leave.
“When will I see you again?” Nate sputtered, almost desperately. Miganne chuckled.
“Come up again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll show you how to build a real bomb, sweetheart.” Miganne mocked with a sly smile, mock punching the chestplate of his suit. She left. The world stood still.
Nate sputtered, talking to the ghosts on the roof, the sky, whomever. He turned, paced. Turned again. He let out a sigh, unsheathed his grappling hook, and managed to zip away.
Tomorrow.
…
Miganne was having A Morning. Alarms that never went off, coffee spilled on her by another harried commuter, a subway ride missed my mere seconds.
She was trying so hard to be nice.
It was hard. Nice meant discipline, a constant no Miganne, don’t throw your alarm clock across the room; no, Miganne, don’t yell at the man who spilled coffee on your blouse; no, Miganne, no kicking the subway partition out of rage.
Nice meant disobeying every base instinct in her mind, of forcing a smile when she wanted to stab every person around her.
But she had been down that road before, and while stabbing is fun in the moment, it meant consequences for her. And bodies to hide. And of course, prison, ew.
So Miganne was nice. Not good, she would never be good, no matter how hard she tried, but she was nice.
That was until Delaney stood up in their morning meeting, and announced a new article series she had been about to pitch herself.
Everyone liked Delaney. She wasn’t just nice, she was good. She was a good coworker, a popular Buzzfeed reporter, and well-liked by all.
Not just liked. Loved.
Miganne would never be loved.
Sometimes she wondered if something were different in her childhood, if the abusive father and the neglectful upbringing were altered, would she still be this way?
Probably. There was no use hoping. This was with her. Forever.
Miganne bubbled with rage, hands shaking under the glaring white minimalistic conference table, nails ripping into the skin of her thighs as people patted Delaney on the back, offered high fives and congratulations.
Miganne wanted to scream.
Take, hurt, show them, her thoughts echoed, but she could only claw at herself harder.
Bad Miganne.
…
Nate sulked behind the counter of the bodega, watching the tiny box TV absentmindedly. His hands ached to work on the bomb, but it was safely tucked away in the closet of his crappy one bedroom loft, gathering dust, the useless thing. Nate started to doze off, only to be thrusted back into reality by the smug face of his nemesis, Mayor Russell. Russell was a crooked man, who somehow always managed to get away with breaking the Geneva Convention with a wink and a sly, smug smile, the monopoly-man lookin’ bastard. Nate wasn’t sure if archenemies had to be a mutual relationship, but Russell would find out who Nate was soon enough. Soon.
The bell on the bodega door tinkled, but Nathan didn’t bother looking up in his intense state of brooding, instead choosing to tap away at Clash of Clans on his phone.
A minute or two later, Nathan heard a passive aggressive knock knock knock on the bodega counter. He finally looked up, and there she was.
Dumb Name Miganne. She had a surly look on her face, all harsh lines and glaring angles, and another (slightly more professional) hipster outfit. She plopped a bottle of green juice, hard boiled eggs, and saltines on the counter, the tasteless freak. Nathan stood still, sure that the slightest movement would startle her away. She only seemed to glare at him harder. She cleared her throat.
“Are you going to check me out or what?” She asked calmly, veering on the edge of impoliteness.
Nathan startled and began to rapidly scan the items, the total appearing on the register screen.
Miganne scanned her card, practically snatched her receipt out of his hand, grabbed her items and fled, the ding of the doorbell marking her exit. When she was gone, he let out a sigh of relief, safe from her badgering and nosy detective skills.
He pulled out his phone once more to resume his game, but the bell rang once more, door opening just enough for Miganne to shout, “See you tonight, Trippy!”
Well, damn.
…
Nathan paced and paced the length of the rooftop, torn between staying and confronting Miganne, or fleeing like the coward he was.
No one knew his identity—not his mom, not his roommate Mark, not even Ed the cable guy who always seemed to catch him climbing out his window in costume—but Miganne managed to figure it out in mere minutes! What did that say about him, about his villany? About his skills? Was he destined to fail before he even began? Would he never take down Rusell, never prove himself? His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.
Of course it was Miganne. Who else?
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up.” She mused, crossing her arms and looking him up and down.
“I wasn’t sure I would either. I’m still kind of questioning it.” Nate muttered self-consciously, feeling strangely naked in his aubergine (not purple!) vigilante suit.
“Did you bring it?” Miganne cut straight to the point, direct as ever. Nate nodded, gesturing towards where it was laying, nearly the same spot as yesterday.
But this time, it would work.
She seemed to circle it with a critic’s eye, before leaning down, making herself at home in his tool box, and began to work.
Miganne worked with a kind of focus and precision Nate dreamed of having. He could imagine her with that face, those sharp eyes, locked on a computer screen, writing at her fancy job, filing taxes, looking into his as they—
Nope. Mind out of the gutter, Nate! Well, he had pictured them fighting over the last bite of a shared molten lava cake at his favorite restaurant, so more of mind out of the tasteful cobblestone street than gutter, but whatever it was, highway, street, or sewer system, Nate knew he had to stay out of it.
“Why did you choose my building to explode?”
Touchy subject. Nate balked, never having realized that part of being a supervillain was making awkward smalltalk with failed victims.
“This would have been my first … exploding. Nice neighborhood, no witnesses, and I heard a rumor that some associate of Russell lives here too.” Nate stammered, now realizing how petty his ‘splodin criteria really was. “I don’t … you’re so good at this. The villain thing. I feel like everything I do is destined to fail. I wish I could be like—”
Miganne seemed to tense up, finally stopping her work on the dud.
“Don’t. Don’t wish that. You want to be evil—It’s … it’s not a good thing.” Miganne demanded, tone harsh and hurt, “I wish I didn’t have this … This thing inside of me! That tells me how to hurt people and where to twist the knife!” she thundered with an emotion.
Nate had never seen this from her.
“You aren’t like that. So stop trying to be! Just be good! You’re … you’re good. At your core, I just know you are. And that’s okay.”
They sat in stunned silence for a minute, Miganne averting her gaze, and Nathan focusing on the girl in front of him. The brilliant, steadfast girl he was determined to learn every facet of. The silence finally broke as Miganne changed topics with a different kind of intensity.
“Why don’t you like Russell? Everyone likes Russell, he looks like the damn Monopoly Man, for petesake.” Miganne asked, somewhat conversationally, but something in her pointed tone set him on guard.
“Russell is a rotten man, no matter what popularity polls say. His environmental dumping is insane, he does nothing for the people but line his own pockets and make people disappear for his own benefit. That’s why I wear the mask. I could be next.” Nathan somehow got out, without an ounce of stuttering.
Miganne’s expression remained neutral, but her twists of the wrench were somehow more … approving? Nate felt like he had won this round, for once. He was suddenly filled with a strange sense of pride—he had earned Miganne’s approval, even if just for a minute.
“I hate him too, I don’t blame you. He’s hurt a lot of people.” Miganne said with an unusual amount of sincerity. “The dud is done. Well, it’s not a dud anymore. Where are you planning to explode? Hopefully not more innocent civilian rooftops.” She joked, rising and admiring her handiwork.
“I’m … I’m not sure. What would you do?” Nathan asked, trying hard not to gaze into her too-blue eyes. Miganne chuckled to herself, evaluating her options. Sadisticly. God, they really were a great match.
“Maximum damage, right? To the right people.”
Nate nodded.
“Russell’s office, 7:30. It opens at eight, so no civilian casualties, but he’ll be there. He likes to be early.” Miganne strategized, eyes gleaming, “Right in his desk, set it off and climb out the window. Wait for the magic to happen. Boom. Literally. Problem solved.” She declared, morbidly proud.
Nate’s mouth gaped open. “That’s … perfect. Too perfect—how do you know his schedule?” Nathan questioned suddenly.
Miganne sighed. “Weird dad? Connection to Russell?” Miganne chuckled, “You are as slow as they come, Trippy.”
Nate gasped. Miganne Russell. He was in love with Monopoly Man Junior. Or rather, the killer of the Monopoly Man. Tomorrow.
At the end of the day, Miganne insisted she be the one to flip the switch. It was the right choice, poetic justice and all, no matter how much Nate complained.
Miganne had felt satisfaction often in her life, when she hit send on an article, when she finally managed the perfect slick back, but activating the countdown for the device that would finally, finally get rid of the bane of her existence had to be an all-time high. She heard his heavy footsteps, her father coming back from the bathroom, probably done snorting his illicit substance of the week, and she fled out the window where Nate was waiting with his grappling hook.
It wasn’t a sunset, or a rainbow, but the resulting blast was as beautiful as anything Miganne had ever seen. Miganne took Nate’s hand in her own, swinging gleefully as they practically skipped down the side street, never looking back. For once that voice in Miganne’s head was silent. Aside for one little thing.
She had found her match.
Rumson, New Jersey
This piece won SECOND PLACE in our 2026 Voice & Verse Writing Contest, prose ages 15-18 category.
Judge’s Note: This piece is funny and enjoyable to read while also bringing up moral questions. The characters are interesting and I enjoyed the witty dialogue.
Bridge Ink 