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It was too wonderful of a day, Becky reasoned, to be this nerve-wracked.
She anxiously paced the length of her room, her heels clicking the ground in time with her heartbeat. Curls bounced on her shoulders, freshly washed and glossy from heat, a few rebellious strands escaping the ruby clips embossed in her hair. Frantic, clumsy fingers fidgeted with her velvet gloves, their shiny fabric bunching up like folded red doilies. The hectic sounds of preparation poured into her ears – rapid footfalls on polished tile, the murmur of guests, someone calling for an extra table or chair or hors d’oeuvre.
She could use an extra bit of confidence, but suspected those didn’t come packaged in quaint little vials like they did in her fantasy novels. Sighing, she crumpled onto the bed, then winced when she thought of the wrinkles that might get in her dress. She glided a hand over the gown – it held a dreamlike air to it, whimsies stitched into the threads that dotted its snowy white hem. A true Heaslip creation, and wearing it made Becky feel as though she could fly.
Well, she could fly, and certainly felt like she could burst through the azure smear above with endless vigor. Her soul soared, yet it also sunk, wary of everything that could go wrong on a day she’d been looking forward to for months. Violet had assured her that everything would go accordingly, but Becky’s life had always been one surprise after another. She was used to things going awry and knew how to adjust, but today was different. Today was special.
At that thought, giddiness spread through her body and she leaped from the bed. She was still riddled with nervous questions, but tried to shove them aside in favor of the excitement bubbling in her consciousness. To her a distraught reflection in the gilded mirror, she offered a hopeful smile.
Today was special – today, she would be a true star. Not one clad in stark red and gold, but one draped in silks and satin, one brushed with glitter and lace as she walked down the aisle.
A smile broke through her face, sparkling at the rosy image. As a child, she’d always dreamt of having a wedding, certain that the frosted cake and scalloped dresses and fun parties would overshadow the fact that five-year-old Becky wasn’t sure what a groom was.
Now she would be content getting married in an inferno, if only he was by her side.
Sappy , her brain supplied, and she giggled breathlessly, the anxiety frothing up in her like she was a bottle of champagne about to burst. After a few years of dating, her mind had finally succumbed to his cheesy, melodramatic tendencies. She wondered what he was doing now, but knew that he had to be at the altar, awaiting his bride, one head propped above the crowd as his eyes searched, waiting, anticipating.
Becky stood up and took in a deep breath – she didn’t need oxygen the way others did, but it filled her up with something besides tumultuous, woozy wine. She swept through the main doors of the hotel, shining onyx doors leading to the enormous solarium looming over her as she walked with a steady pace, her nerves bunched together in tangled ribbons of nonsense.
Violet’s soothing voice ran over her matted emotions. Her best friend looked radiant; feather-soft hair cascading down to her shoulder in gentle ripples, her nails painted a pale yellow to match the theme, a white dress wrapped around her figure in beautiful swaths of fabric that shimmered with each step so that she looked like a dancer bathed in silver. A face of smooth marble was set with two glittering emeralds, each filled with quiet excitement. “Oh, there you are. We were about to call you.”
“I was just, you know,” Becky peered up at her, not needing to finish the sentence. Violet smiled and adjusted a hair on her head, making sure it was behind the prim ruby clips.
“You look like a dream,” Violet murmured encouragingly.
“Then please, don’t let me wake up,” Becky joked. Her grin sunk a bit, tugging on her cheeks. “I feel like something’s about to go wrong, Vi.”
“Shh!” her friend shushed, pushing one delicate finger against her lips. “You’ll jinx it.”
Becky reluctantly shoved her doubts away, smiling eagerly. “Fine, fine. Is he out there?”
“He just entered,” she whispered. Violet turned to Scoops, who was busy scribbling something on his notepad. Rose stood nearby, wearing a glossy suit and pants and rolling her eyes affectionately at his enthusiasm.
“Scoops.” Violet pointed towards the door. “You’re up next.”
He nodded fervently and ripped out the sheet of paper, pressing it into Rose’s upturned palm. “Okay - these are the instructions for operating the new camera-”
“I know how to use it-”
“-And for printing the photos,” Scoops continued. “Please don’t press the buttons too hard, and make sure your hands don’t get on the lenses. Hold with both hands, unless you’re wearing the strap. Also, wash your hands before you use it – I already wiped for fingerprints, but you never know. There are some additional reminders on the paper, got it?”
“Got it,” Rose said dryly, grinning. “I’ll take extra good care of your girlfriend, don’t worry.”
“I’m not,” he chimed, swiping a kiss against her cheek. “I know you can take care of yourself.”
On that casual note, he swung open the doors and vanished into the solarium, leaving a blushing reporter in his wake. Rose stuck the note in her pocket and sauntered towards the balcony under the guise of getting a few overhead shots, grumbling under her breath.
“Are you okay, Frankie?” Violet asked as the girl stormed past them, face dark red.
“I’m fine, Vi,” she huffed. “It’s just like him to try and get me flustered before I start a job. I’ll make sure to take some embarrassing pictures of him later, see how he likes it.”
Becky shook her head fondly, thinking back to middle school, where Rose and Scoops had been the ultimate rivals, constantly trying to out-do one another by capturing the best stories first. At first, Rose had been indifferent, not addressing their competitiveness or showing any disdain towards Scoops when he got a front-page article, despite being obviously miffed. Eventually he began trying to get her cool exterior to crack by flirting – he insisted it was actually an ‘elicitation tactic’ - and she would respond with her own retorts until one of them cracked.
This, unsurprisingly, had led to a number of developments, including their sudden relationship. They’d never explicitly stated they were dating, but the way they gushed over fine newsprint or huddled together as they read the paper - eyes devouring words and their hands brushing together - said enough. They passionately pushed towards their shared dream, both supporting yet challenging one another as they climbed the same set of stairs – there was no question about that.
Becky was, however, confused as to where Violet fit in their triad, but that was a headache for another day.
A pair of heels hit the ground, and Violet glanced behind Becky. “You’re late,” she pointed out.
“I’m the best at being late,” the voice haughtily replied, stepping into view. Victoria Best smirked, her pointy stilettos striking the ground with pertinence. Like Rose, she had donned a suit for the occasion, hers a deep crimson. A string of pearls hung at her throat and dangled from her ears, like droplets of ivory suspended in time. Blonde hair spilled from her shoulders in a voluminous golden wave, her bangs pulled back into a manbun held in place by a scrunchie. A swipe of dark, smoky eyeshadow over her dipped lashes, a stroke of lip gloss over curved lips, and long nails perched firmly on both hips, her posture demanding attention.
“Beckface,” Victoria greeted.
“Victoria,” Becky responded in kind.
They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Victoria punched her shoulder lightly and she stuck out her tongue. Immature, perhaps, but she always felt like her fifth-grade self around the boisterous girl. “What took you so long?” she said between wheezes. “I thought you’d be here early?”
“I had an appointment,” Victoria drawled, pulling out a nail file from her suit pocket and scraping it against her gleaming fingertips. “I didn’t miss anything important, obviously.”
Violet appeared between them, eyes darting towards the door. “It’s our turn to go,” she reminded them, pulling Victoria towards the doors. She called for Rose, and the woman slid down the balcony railing, smoothly striding to her place in between the two girls. She set the camera down on the nearest miscellaneous seat (Scoops would have had a heart attack) and the trio stepped through the massive arch, disappearing into a wall of light.
Becky slouched. The hall was empty except for a few hotel workers shuffling things from the kitchen into the banquet and dance hall, their quiet murmurs each separate attacks on her ears. She considered shutting them out for a second so she could clear her head, but she was never just Becky, the girl trying to get some momentary peace. Today she was a bride, but she was also Wordgirl, and that meant it was her obligation to keep her senses peeled for trouble.
They wouldn’t break their promise, would they? She thought, clutching the bouquet Violet had assembled for her. The flowers seemed to mirror her emotion, stems bending regardless of the waxy white paper keeping them steady. The villains had mostly retired, either growing old or investing themselves in other worthwhile endeavors, finally tired of reexperiencing the miserable crime and jail cycle that they’d been stuck in for years. One by one they slipped into the ether, only pulling serious misdemeanors every few months and ever so slowly adapting to a new lifestyle.
Chuck was among the first, reconciling with his brother Brent and starting a business with him. Then they decided to collaborate with Mr. Big, who, after the immense success of their brand, found that he didn’t have a use for mind control anymore (Becky also suspected that Leslie had played a part in his sudden disinterest in tomfoolery.) The Butcher eventually joined in, providing the meats and increasing their profits. Granny May had decided to retire, not because she didn’t enjoy conning people, but because she’d decided to adopt her grandson Eugene and wanted to be a better influence for him.
Becky was proud of them all, and had watched from afar as they lived out their lives. She visited them on the weekends when she could, chatting over sandwiches her newly published novels. They still had their annual meetings to support any rookie villains, but had become closer friends than casual enemies over the last few years.
And one in particular had, in his typical greedy fashion, become friend and enemy and lover all at once.
Becky held a hand to the thick black wood, tracing the intricate patterns separating her from her fiancé. He was just beyond that door. She would walk up the aisle, say the vows, and they would be married in the sweet autumn. That was, if they’d kept their promise.
In middle school, when she’d auditioned for the school play and managed to get the supporting role, she had asked them not to commit any crimes on opening night, and they had obliged.
In high school, during her finals week, she’d asked them not to commit any crimes that day, and they’d obliged.
And just a few days ago, she’d notified them that she was getting married, and had asked them to not commit any crimes that day.
The day wasn’t over, but she hoped with all her might that one of them would not have a last-minute epiphany that perhaps their day was too boring; that there wasn’t enough trouble.
She didn’t want any other trouble than the man she was about to share a future with.
“Hey, Beckaroo,” came her dad’s joyful trill. He wore a suit and a grin to match, holding out his arm. “You ready?”
She stared at the doors head-on, adjusting her dress. “I’m-”
Ready or not, here I come!
Becky’s hand dropped. Her eyelid twitched.
“Becky?”
The bouquet in her hands fluttered to the ground, and a taunting cackle gnawed at her ears, mocking.
The door seemed so far away.
She bit her lip, the sweet gloss souring on her tongue. This wasn’t a villain she was familiar with – their voice was raspy and weak, amplified by some speaker that distorted its output. A newbie, who had decided that today was the most convenient day to make their debut. Had none of the other villains warned them? Had they not told them of their own mishaps and misdeeds?
No , she eternally hissed. They had. This person, whoever they were, was just stupid.
“Becky?” her father called again, concern swamping his gaze. “Are you okay?”
She barely registered his voice, because something else dawned on her. The floor beneath nearly cracked from the pressure exuding at her dainty heel. Her clenched fist tore at the pristine gloves, her muscles tense with condensed anger.
The sounds of twisted laughter weren’t coming from someplace in the city. They were coming from right above the hotel.
“Becky?”
“Sorry, Dad,” she muttered. “Something just came up.”
And in one impulsive move that her past self would have killed her for, Becky launched off the ground, punching a hole, wide and like a black eye, through the ceiling.
“Well, well, well,” the villain cackled, their metallic fingers clacking together in the most irritating manner. It made her want to pop them off their knuckles, one by one. “If it isn’t Wordgirl. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Really?” she crooned, fury crackling from her like whips of lightning. “Then I’m sure you’ve heard that I don’t like pointless interruptions.”
“But isn’t that in your job description?” they asked, tapping their chin. “No matter! I should introduce myself.” The villain bowed, thin silver hair brushing against their waist like Medusa’s snakes. Half of their face shone steel, a red eye blinking sporadically in comparison to the sharp blue on its right. A ratty, patchwork coat covered their lanky figure, and boots fitted with boosters kept them in the air. Each of their limbs were metal, polished to a perfect shine, the red eye glistening like a ruby.
They looked like one of her fiancé's projects – in that they were something useless he would have thrown in the rubbish ages ago.
“It is I,” they bowed, as if to show some measure of nonexistent respect, “Thomasine Elizabeth Gruedel!”
Wordgirl craned her head. “ Who ?”
“Ah, well, my common alias is AutoTommy.”
“Hm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “All I know you as is the villain who interrupted my wedding! ”
AutoTommy blinked. “Really? I mean, I remember that old doctor – what's his name, the man with the second brain? Anywho, he said I should really reconsider and switch to Sunday, but my inner forecast reporter tells me it’s going to rain that day, and who wants to commit crime in a downpour? Truthfully, I think I did you a good servi-”
The villain yelped with fright as a tree was hurled at them, the evergreen bristles sticking into his hair. He brushed them off, his one good eye slanting with contempt. “Well, that was impolite.”
“Impolite? Impolite ?” Wordgirl asked quietly.
“You don’t just throw a tree at someone,” he complained. “I mean, that isn’t a proper duel.”
She suddenly doubled over, laughing feverishly. He stared at her in confusion, flinching as her head snapped up and the giggles stopped.
“Duel?” she repeated. “This isn’t a duel. You’ve already lost.”
“Wh-”
AutoTommy didn’t get the chance to think, for she’d already thrown another enormous tree at him, this time swinging it like a baseball bat. She’d hoped for a home run, but instead was rudely surprised by the way all four artificial limbs of his body detached from his torso and sped around like miniature rockets – or, more appropriately, flies.
“Hah!” he shrieked vivaciously, his silver hair spreading out like sheets of rain in the torrent of wind. “Try and stop me – if you can catch me!”
Wordgirl growled and snatched his right arm out of the air, snapping it in half. Frayed flesh made of wire sparked and died inside. AutoTommy gulped.
“Cute,” she deadpanned, “but - and I’m sure someone as aware as you should know this – I've already dealt with someone just like you.”
He smiled nervously. “Y-you have?”
“Oh, yes. You might know him as a legacy in the villain's association. A bit of a robot prodigy.” A slow smile slid onto her face as she saw the realization creep onto him. “He retired a long time ago, but was one of my greatest enemies. Still is, in fact. I see him -” she yanked another one of his haywire limbs out of the air and crumpled it into a metal ball - “on a daily basis.”
“R-Really?”
“Really. And, to be honest,” she yawned, picking off one of the fingers from his dismembered arm, “you aren’t even coming close.”
AutoTommy gasped, drawing forwards. A mistake. “How - how dare you -”
“No,” she seethed, grabbing him by the shoulders. “How dare you .”
A scream frothed at his lips, the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Her fingers dug into his coat as they tore through the sky, a red bullet ripping through the sky’s skin. The wind howled and he fought against her grip. She only snarled, letting him panic, letting the anxiety build until it exploded into hysteria. Everything around them was a meaningless blur, and she could barely see his face behind the haze of rage itching at her eyes. She pushed him higher, higher, higher, until the wedding venue was but a spot in Fair City, until she was but a shining red light in the sky, a pinpoint of blood on a tapestry of soft blue.
She held him by the collar. Sweat matted strands of grey hair to his forehead. His pupils shook with alarm, then shrunk into mere dots when he glanced down.
“Now,” she purred, yanking his frightened face towards her. Her brown eyes smoldered like smoking firepits, and each word that left her mouth struck him like a poker, being branded into his skin. “You have two options. You can either take you and your limbs to jail, or I can drop you into a cage from all the way up here.”
“You - you mean that the city jail is right below us?”
She cocked her head. “I said I would drop you into a cage, not a cell. I thought the zoo would be the most appropriate holding place, don’t you?”
A monstrous blush filled his cheeks. “Who do you think you are?”
“I’m Wordgirl,” she said simply, “and you’re gone.”
With the helpful nudge of Spite, she let go of him, letting his horrified, shrill screeches fill the air until clutching him by the shirt just a few inches from the Fair City Zoo entrance, his nose brushing the concrete.
And if anyone saw a disgruntled villain cooped up in the monkey exhibit, that was nobody’s business but hers.
Finally , Tobey thought, finally .
His heart squeezed in his chest, twisting with rueful agony.
He had thought, briefly, that the ceremony might be interrupted. He’d heard through the grapevine that a plethora of new villains were entering Fair City, unaware of the superheroine it had to protect its citizens. He had spectated, along with the crowd, as she broke the villain’s metal arms like toothpicks, dragged him through the way one might tuck a wrinkled square of tissue paper in their pocket.
He’d watched as chaos unfolded in her absence, the two remaining limbs crashing through the glass chamber and sending shards flying through the air, impaling themselves into the arch over the altar. The guests screamed and ran for the doors, but one of the robot guards in attendance shielded him from the debris, and he stood, waiting for his bride.
He continued to stand as the other limb began to scratch against the wooden columns, sparks catching on its arm. He continued to stand as a fire engulfed the solarium, casting out the fall leaves shedding paper flames, the wood blackening and crumbling, the entire structure collapsing around him, leaving a million grains of glass and smoke. Yet Tobey stood, the robot humming a radio tune by his side, both artic-winter eyes searching through the darkness.
And then, like a star birthed from a nebula, she flew through the fumes plaguing the air, shining anew.
Clink , went her heels, brushing against the shattered glass bridge leading to the altar.
Their eyes met. It would be best to go inside, with the others, and finish there. But there was something about the scenery – the way a world so beautiful had gone up in flames so fast – that rooted them there.
This was where they had wanted their wedding, and this was where they would have it.
Wordgirl – Becky – stepped forward, crushing miniscule shards that glittered on the gritty ground. Ash dusted over the delicate white fabric of her gown like a blackened snowfall. Her previously prim curls were free of their pomade and sprung loosely down her shoulders, the orange flames making them shine russet bronze. Gloves a deep velvet oozed down her arms like melted rose petals, the gash in her dress rippling like spilt sherry. Her grip tightened on the bouquet of blooms Violet had picked out – a combination of red camellias, snow-white chrysanthemums, and daffodils with petals plucked from starlight. A veil of spun sugar floated around her face, and eyes like burning timber met his, twinkling with the remnants of stars.
Her hair was mussed, her lipstick smudged, her dress in ruins.
He thought she was the most ethereal thing to grace the Earth.
She was face-to-face now, at the altar with him. There should have been an officiant, but he was inside, having frantically stampeded with the others. It didn’t matter. The weeks of preparation, of writing his vows, of doing anything hadn’t truly mattered.
His vows drifted from his tongue, unsure of where to start – when he had met her, arresting her first villain, or defining words in class with that same silver tongue. When they’d had their first interaction, an argument that exploded like the finest artwork. When they’d battled, her fists punching holes in his robots, in his heart. When he’d lost, again and again. When she’d approached him as Becky, when he denied, when she’d tried and he one day accepted.
When things unfurled like a rose, spiraling into something deep and dark and sweet. When one day, he finally won, and victory tasted like her lips.
“Becky Botsford,” he murmured, holding her hands. “We’re going to get married.”
“No,” she whispered. “Present tense, Tobey. We are married.”
And there he scooped her up in his arms, golden laughter spilling from their lips, and kissed her among the dying flames.