Page 46 of Victorious

Even with his power.

A power he didn’t even know he had until a super awkward moment with an absolute ten made him wish he could go back, find better words, and try again. And even then, it wasn’t until he touched her arm that he felt the whole embarrassing encounter right there beneath her skin, and just knew, somehow, that he could undo the damage, wind it back.

Sure, it would have been nice if he could actually go back, reverse time and space and all that shit for everyone instead of just one person’s memory. But he’d read enough comics to know how quickly that kind of thing could get out of control.

Xavi jabbed the buttons on the game, copying the sequence as it flashed across the screen. Ten symbols long, then fifteen, then twenty.

He’d been having a hard time dealing with it all—the accident, the fallout, the weird ability—until he met June.

She not only had the coolest power he’d ever seen—admittedly the only one he’d ever seen at that point, besides his own—but she took a liking to him, said they could be friends (hell, he’d just been stoked to know there were others out there like him). And then she’d passed his name to Victor, who gave him the job, and it had all been up, up, up since then. Cash in his pocket and a roof over his head. Enough money to eat, and sleep, and play.

He beat the level and the game spit out two dozen tickets. By that point, Xavi’s stomach was growling again. It didn’t matter how much he ate, he was always hungry, so he tore the tickets off, added them to the rest of the haul, and made his way toward the concession booth on the far wall.

Halfway there, he felt it.

Not a solid thing, like a hand on his shoulder, but the eerie, almost imperceptible weight of being watched.

It was probably nothing, just Victor’s paranoia rubbing off, but to be safe, Xavi changed course, heading for the prize counter instead of the food stand, trailed by digital voices goading him to step right up and play.

Xavi paused at the counter, rocking on his heels, as if trying to decide what he’d spend his tickets on, even though he wasn’t looking at the prizes.

He was looking at the mirrored surface of the wall behind them.

Behind him, the arcade was a jumbled mess of shape and color. If there were overhead lights, they were off, the arcade lit only by the neon bodies of the game machines, outlining the people playing at them.

A girl on tiptoes at a pinball table.

A pair of guys jamming buttons on a sparring game.

A few grown-ups, leaning on the penny slots or scrolling on their phones.

As far as Xavi could tell, no one was looking at him, except for the lady behind the counter, waiting for him to pick his prize.

But the bad feeling was still there.

Xavi eyed his tickets. “How much for that action figure?” he asked, knowing it cost twice as much as he had. When she told him, he smiled, and shrugged, and said, “Guess I better keep playing.”

He backtracked, turning down a row of motorcycle racers, then cutting through a gap between machines, Victor’s voice telling him to get out.

By now, the rest of the mall was closed, and the archway he’d come through was blocked by a massive metal grate, leaving only the streetside entrance and a small employees-only exit where staff went to take their smoke breaks.

That one was closer.

Xavi beelined for it, dumping his tickets in a kid’s bucket on the way.

He cut down a short hall, and shoved through the back door, into the alley, spinning to face the door and feeling like some kind of spy, until he realized no one was following him.

Xavi shook his head and sagged back against the alley wall, nervous laughter bubbling up like steam. Victor’s paranoia was clearly rubbing off on him.

His stomach growled again, and he pushed off the bricks, trying to decide between another slice of pizza or one of those kebabs on the corner when a guy appeared at the mouth of the alley, dressed in black motorcycle gear. At least, that’s what Xavi took it for, with the strange plating and the helmet that covered his head, visor tinted so Xavi couldn’t see his eyes.

“Hey man, sick helmet,” he said, because it was, and because he was hoping the guy would take it off. Say something to put him at ease. Or at least, keep walking, since there was only one clear shot out of the alley, and he was blocking it.

But the man didn’t take the helmet off.

He started walking toward Xavi, drawing a weapon as he did. A cattle prod, the tip sparking blue.

Oh shit, thought Xavi, wishing he’d listened to Victor when he told him to carry a gun, but he’d always hated weapons and he was convinced that maybe if his friends hadn’t been packing heat That Day things might not have gone sideways the way they did, and maybe if he could just get close enough to touch the guy he could—but that was its own dead end because his motorcycle sleeves ran straight down into black gloves, the kind with armored knuckles, and Xavi needed bare skin.