ƨbɿɒwʞɔɒd pinocchio
he was a real boy once—with books and bullies, spending school nights hidden at home, and weekends dodging gangs. he was ready for all of it—university, a good job, giving back to his community. he was going to make Latino magazine’s Top 25 Under 25.
“you’re still my little boy,” his mom says, squeezing his cheeks in her warm hands. he laughs and pulls away and dad is leaning on his cane in the kitchen, watching them with a smile on his face.
even now, after all of it. after disappearing for a year and coming back a monster. he wants to believe they are the family they used to be, but everything is different. they tell him be home before midnight and no crime fighting on school nights; he’s so scared that he only keeps obeying them out of habit. that someday the little voice in his head (why do you let them tell you what to do) will overtake him. the million and thirteen ways to kill your loved ones before they betray you rings in his head like a horrible song.
milagro still won’t look at him.
the el paso star looms over him as he skates down the boardwalk, the five points barely starting their evening glimmer in the gradient dusk. he weaves between packs of people, drops of blood beading on his skinned calf. the city twinkles around him, blurred in the wind, hazy with the residual heat of the setting sun. the gangs don’t touch you up here, unless you get caught in a turf war but at the high point of the season, with all the tourists and bored suburban dwellers packing nightclubs with cash, he doubts it’ll be much of an issue.
he whips around, searching through the crowd for whoever called his name. jaime stands still for a long minute before a cold hand touches his elbow and brenda is at his side, paco not far behind.
“so what’s with this clandestine meeting of the brain trust?” paco asks, looking down at jaime’s knee and fist-bumping him in respect.
“clandestine—big word,” brenda cuts in, and then sees his scrape, “how the hell’d you manage to do that? it’s so flat out here you can see all the way to downtown."
jaime rolls his eyes, “apologies, sensei, but we can’t all be ballet-trained, aikido rockstars,” he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and takes out a hardware store catalog page; he hands it to them with a frozen cheesy smile as explanation. they don’t get it.
“dad’s birthday!” jaime reminds them gently.
he laughs as paco groans and reminds him how he hates shopping for anything, especially tools. brenda starts blasting off better ideas like why don’t you make him something, or show him that science report from last week, he's always saying he wants to go back to school you could buy a book or—. jaime tucks his skateboard under his arm and feels that familiar yet distant pit in the bottom of his stomach. its a melancholic anxiety. like everything is about to end but no one will tell him ninguna pinche cosa. not one goddamn thing.
“no mames, jaime. you’re the most powerful superhero in this era and you want to give it all up?” paco grabs him by the shoulder. he always holds jaime too tight. it scares him until he remembers it should be paco that’s scared.
“well, the justice league-"
“who turned to you for help,” paco interjects.
“-has it all under control. i don’t wanna be el paso’s hero. i just wanna fix cars and take milagro for ice cream without someone attacking me.” jaime finishes. it sounded stupid even in his head. it sounds disgusting and selfish and the guilt tears him apart, but he'd trade every life he's ever saved for his own.
"mijo, duermate, tu mami tiene que ir a trabajar en la mañana.”
warm hands grip under his armpits and lift him up out of his pile of hand-me-down toys. he settles his face in the crook of his mother's neck as she nestles him into her strong arms. sleep seems like a faraway concept to a four year old jaime reyes, but he relaxes instantly against her, letting go of the hyperactive need to keep playing—if only for a moment.
he lets himself be lowered against soft, worn sheets, and even the short ride to the bed has him sticky with the desert temperature creeping in through the window. his mom’s cheeks are blended browns and pinks when she leans back to tuck him in, her curly brown hair is wild with exhaustion and humidity, baby strands plastered to the sides of her face—she is the most beautiful like this.
don’t go. he reaches out to her, and she turns the light off—forgets to leave a crack in the door, like always—and ushers him to his side of the twin bed. they lay there, over the covers in the middle of the great el paso heatwave, and she falls asleep almost instantly, but jaime stays awake. irrationally, and uncharacteristically, he is struck with fear. over what, he’s not entirely sure.
"HOLY MARY MOTHER OF CHRIST,” he screams, wings extending as he spins and flails through the air, heading straight for concussion-ville before the armor rights itself instinctively. he can’t slow down in time but he makes use of the centrifugal force of the wings and runs alongside the canyon before flipping forward and landing on his feet.
he still can’t get a grip on the line between him and the scarab. it still takes over when he doesn’t want it to, but he can definitely override the constant desire to burn everything in sight. in a way, it’s just the scarab protecting itself. if someone was holding his hand to the fire, he’d pull back too.
“i didn’t mean we should start a fire, it’s a figure of speech,” jaime groans.
“hey, what’s that move called, bore the enemy to death?” peacemaker yells from a safe distance. his black t-shirt is straining against his biceps crossed on his chest. it’s day two of the weekend training road trip—it’s basically a bi kid’s huckleberry finn wet dream, and he’s just found out the scarab’s not the only one supplying intrusive thoughts in his head. thanks puberty.
“yeah, so far it’s a success,” he calls back, “we should name it pendejo sundown, after you."
peacemaker grumbles, and jaime dances nervously from foot to foot. they play the quiet game at lunch, because peacemaker’s a jackass who likes watching jaime squirm (oh no that was a bad thought) but jaime caves, as always, and rambles about strategy and alien tech—and soon the scarab’s chiming in with questions too. it’s about as close to making it work as this will ever get..
"don't leave me here," he shouts, dizzy in the expansive vacuum of space. "mierda, pinche heroes, no me dejen aqui." he's sick in his suit again, the scarab still screaming danger in his head as they float, invisible, away from any signs of life.
he jerks awake, surprised that booster gold isn’t in his room again recruiting him for another intergalactic mission. he hasn’t seen that guy since he disappeared for a year, but then again he hasn’t really seen any superheroes lately. it’s all for the better. he knows now, the scarab’s the only one he can trust. and that’s just fine with him.
