Laser Lust

The first time I saw Galactica up close, she was bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow and grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

I was on the roof of the Meridian Building, fourteen stories up, because Youssef had called me at two in the morning to say there was a situation. That's how he talks. A situation. Like it's a weather report. I'd been in the middle of something, and I mean that literally, my hand on my cock, a girl from the club named Sana still faintly smelling of jasmine on my pillows even though she'd left hours ago. But Youssef doesn't call at two in the morning unless it matters. So I pulled on my jeans and my jacket and I went.

The Meridian Building was on fire. Not the whole thing, just the top three floors, which in this city means someone with powers was involved, because regular arsonists don't usually have the reach. I took the stairs because the elevator was out and the stairwell smelled like smoke and something chemical. By the time I got to the roof, my lungs were burning and my eyes were watering and I was cursing Youssef in three languages.

Then I pushed through the roof access door and there she was.

Galactica. Six feet of her, maybe more, standing in the middle of a ring of unconscious bodies. Her suit was that deep purple that looks black until the light hits it, and her cape was torn at the edge. The cut above her eyebrow was bleeding into her eye and she didn't seem to care. She was breathing hard. Her hands were still glowing, that faint gold shimmer that meant she was holding back, that she could level the whole block if she wanted to.

"You're late," she said.

"I'm not late. I'm exactly on time for the part where you explain what the hell happened."

She laughed. Actually laughed. And something in my chest did a thing I didn't expect.

That was three months ago. I've been her sidekick ever since. Sidekick is a generous word. I'm more like her guy on the ground, the one who talks to people she can't talk to, who finds the things she can't find with her laser eyes and her ability to fly through walls. She's the hammer. I'm the guy who figures out which nail needs hitting.

And I've been in love with her since the moment she laughed on that rooftop. Which is a problem, because she's married to Ultra Man. You've heard of him. Everyone has. He's the guy in the blue and red who catches falling planes and smiles for the cameras and has never met a problem he couldn't punch into submission. He's also, and I say this with all due respect to the man who could turn me into a red paste on the sidewalk, kind of a dick.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My name is Anis. I'm twenty-eight years old. I live in a one-bedroom apartment above a shawarma place in the East District, and I jerk off twice a day, sometimes three if I'm stressed. I'm telling you this because it's relevant. Everything about me is relevant to this story, even the parts you might not want to hear. Especially those parts.

I love women. All women. Tall ones, short ones, thin ones, thick ones, ones who laugh too loud, ones who barely speak. I love the way they smell, the way they move, the way they look at you when they've decided they want you. I love the chase and the catch and the morning after. I've been like this since I was fourteen and a girl named Farah taught me what my hands were for in the back of her father's garage.

Youssef says I have a problem. Youssef says I'm going to get myself killed one day, chasing the wrong woman. He's probably right. But Youssef also says I'm the luckiest bastard he's ever met, so I figure it balances out.

Tonight, I'm in the back booth of a bar called The Rusty Nail, which is exactly as classy as it sounds. It's the kind of place where you don't ask what's in the drink and you don't look too long at anyone's face. The kind of place where information flows like cheap whiskey. I'm here because Galactica needs to know who's been selling weaponized power suppressors on the black market, and I know a guy who knows a guy.

The guy who knows a guy is named Dmitri. He's six foot four and built like a refrigerator, with hands the size of dinner plates and a smile that's missing three teeth. He's also, and this is the important part, terrified of me. Not because I'm scary. I'm five foot nine on a good day and my right hook is nothing to write home about. But I know where his daughter goes to school, and I know about the affair he's been having with his brother's wife, and I've never told anyone. That kind of knowledge buys you a lot of cooperation.

"Anis," Dmitri says when I slide into the booth across from him. "You look like shit."

"I look fantastic. You look like you've been sleeping under a bridge."

He laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. "What do you want?"

"Power suppressors. Military grade. Someone's been moving them through the port, and I need to know who."

Dmitri's face does something complicated. Fear, maybe. Or greed. Hard to tell with the missing teeth.

"That's not a small question," he says.

"I'm not asking a small question."

He leans back, studies me with those piggy eyes. "You're working with her now. The purple one. Galactica."

"I'm not working with anyone. I'm a concerned citizen."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. I'm a concerned citizen who happens to know her. Answer the question."

He's quiet for a long moment. The bar is loud around us, some sports game on the TV, a couple of guys arguing about something that doesn't matter. I can smell beer and sweat and the faint chemical tang of whatever Dmitri's been drinking.

"There's a guy," he says finally. "Goes by the name of Kestrel. Ex-military, dishonorable discharge, been running guns and tech through the black market for years. He's got a warehouse down by the docks. Pier 47."

"How do you know this?"

"Because he tried to recruit me. Wanted me to move some product for him. I said no."

"Why?"

Dmitri's eyes go hard. "Because I may be a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. That man is crazy. Not regular crazy. The kind of crazy that gets everyone around him killed."

I file that away. "Anything else?"

"He's got a partner. Someone with powers. I don't know who, but Kestrel's not the one calling the shots. He's just the face."

That's new. That's important. I slide a roll of bills across the table, and Dmitri pockets it without looking.

"Thanks," I say.

"Don't thank me. Just don't tell anyone where you heard it."

I'm halfway to the door when he calls after me. "Anis. Be careful. That woman you're working with. She's married to Ultra Man."

"I know."

"Then you know you're playing with fire."

I don't answer. I just push through the door and into the night, where the air smells like rain and garbage and the city's endless hunger.

---

Galactica's headquarters is a converted warehouse in the industrial district, all exposed brick and steel beams and equipment that costs more than I'll make in my entire life. She doesn't call it a headquarters. She calls it "the office." Like she's a tax accountant. Like she doesn't fly through the sky shooting lasers from her eyes.

I let myself in with the key she gave me three weeks ago. The place is dark except for the glow of her monitors, a wall of screens showing news feeds, police scanners, satellite imagery. She's standing in front of them, still in her suit, her cape draped over a chair. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's got a cup of coffee in her hand that's probably cold by now.

"You're back early," she says without turning around.

"Dmitri was talkative."

She turns. The cut above her eyebrow from that first night is long healed, but I still look for it sometimes. A habit. "What did he say?"

"Kestrel. Ex-military, running the operation out of Pier 47. But he's not the boss. Someone with powers is pulling his strings."

Her eyes narrow. "Did he give you a name?"

"No. He didn't know it. Or he wasn't saying."

She nods, takes a sip of her coffee, makes a face. "This is terrible. I need to stop making coffee at midnight."

"You need to sleep."

"I'll sleep when this is over."

"That's what you said last week. And the week before."

She looks at me then, really looks, and I feel it like a hand on my chest. She has that effect. When Galactica looks at you, you feel seen in a way that's almost uncomfortable. Like she can see through your skin to the things you don't want anyone to know.

"You worry about me," she says.

"Someone has to."

"Ultra Man worries about me."

"Ultra Man worries about the version of you he keeps in his head. The one who doesn't get hurt. The one who always wins."

The words are out before I can stop them. I expect her to get angry. I expect her to tell me to mind my business. Instead, she sets down her coffee and walks toward me, and I forget how to breathe.

"You don't like him," she says.

"I don't know him."

"You don't like him."

"I think he's a lot of things you're not. And I think he doesn't understand you."

She's close now. Close enough that I can smell her, that faint ozone smell that always clings to her, mixed with something floral. Her shampoo, maybe. Her skin. I'm five foot nine and she's got two inches on me, and I have to look up slightly to meet her eyes.

"And you do?" she asks.

"I'm trying to."

She reaches out and touches my face. Just her fingertips on my jaw, light as air. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it. She probably can. Super hearing is one of her things.

"Anis," she says, and my name in her mouth sounds like something sacred.

"Don't," I say. "Whatever you're about to say. Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I know how this ends. You're married. He's a hero. I'm a guy who lives above a shawarma place and jerks off twice a day. I know what I am."

She laughs. That same laugh from the rooftop, the one that cracked something open in my chest. "You think I care about any of that?"

"I think you should."

"I think you talk too much."

And then she kisses me.

It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's the kind of kiss that says I've been thinking about this and I'm done thinking. Her mouth is warm and tastes like bad coffee, and her hands are in my hair, and I'm gripping her waist like she might disappear if I let go. The monitors are still glowing behind us, the police scanner still crackling, the whole world still spinning, but none of it matters. None of it exists. There's just her, and the sound she makes when I pull her closer, and the way her body fits against mine like it was designed for it.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark.

"That was," I start.

"Stupid," she finishes. "Incredibly stupid."

"Do you want to stop?"

She looks at me for a long moment. I can see the war going on behind her eyes, the part of her that's loyal and good and married fighting the part that's something else. Something hungry. Something that looks a lot like me.

"No," she says. "I don't want to stop."

---

We don't make it to the bed. We don't even make it to the couch. I've got her pressed against the wall by the monitors, her legs wrapped around my waist, her suit peeled down to her waist. My jacket is somewhere on the floor. My shirt is unbuttoned. Her hands are on my chest, my shoulders, my face, like she's trying to memorize me.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, and it sounds stupid, it sounds like something a teenager would say, but it's true. She's beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. The curve of her neck, the strength in her arms, the small scar on her shoulder that she got fighting something I can't pronounce. She's a goddess, and I'm a mortal who snuck into Olympus.

"Shut up," she says, but she's smiling.

I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. She gasps when I bite down, just a little, and her nails dig into my back. I want to take my time. I want to learn every inch of her. But there's a desperation in both of us, a knowledge that this might be the only time, that we're borrowing something we can't keep.

"Anis," she breathes. "Please."

I don't make her ask twice.

The sex is messy and urgent and perfect. She's stronger than me, obviously, but she holds back, lets me lead, and there's something about that trust that makes me want to be worthy of it. I lift her, carry her to the couch, lay her down on the cushions that smell like dust and old coffee. She pulls me down on top of her, and for a while there's no talking, just the sound of breathing and the slap of skin and the low moan she makes when I find the right angle.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied, and I trace patterns on her stomach while she plays with my hair.

"That was a mistake," she says.

"Probably."

"I'm going to regret this."

"Maybe."

She's quiet for a moment. "I'm not going to regret this."

I look up at her. She's staring at the ceiling, and there's something in her expression I can't read. Sadness, maybe. Or resignation. Or hope.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"I don't know. He's on a mission. Off-world. Something with the Intergalactic Council. He won't be back for two weeks."

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks."

I should say something smart. Something clever. Something that makes this feel less like the beginning of a disaster. Instead, I say, "I've wanted you since the moment I saw you on that rooftop."

"I know."

"You knew?"

"I'm not blind, Anis. I saw the way you looked at me. I've seen the way you look at me every day since."

"And you still kissed me."

"I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I've been thinking about it for weeks. Because my marriage is a performance and I'm tired of pretending."

I sit up. She sits up too, and we're face to face, close enough to kiss again.

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

"I don't know yet. But I know I'm not done with you."

That should scare me. It does scare me. But it also makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years.

"Okay," I say. "Then I'm not done with you either."

---

The next two weeks are a fever dream. I spend most nights at her place, the warehouse, and we learn each other's bodies like we're studying for an exam. She likes when I go down on her, likes when I hold her wrists above her head, likes when I talk to her while we fuck. Filthy things. Sweet things. Things I've never said to anyone else.

She likes to be on top, too. Likes to ride me slow while she watches my face, likes to see what she does to me. I've never been with a woman who paid such close attention. Most of the time, sex is a race to the finish. With her, it's a conversation.

We talk, too. In between. About her childhood, her powers, what it felt like the first time she flew. About Ultra Man, and how they met, and how she knew within a year that she'd made a mistake but didn't know how to undo it. About my family, my father who left, my mother who worked three jobs and still found time to make me dinner every night. About Youssef, who's been my best friend since we were kids and who I'd trust with my life.

"He's going to figure it out," she says one night, lying in my arms in the bed we've started calling ours. "Ultra Man. He's not stupid."

"He's not observant either."

"He's a lot of things. But he's not stupid."

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens."

She's quiet for a long time. Then, "What if I don't want to deal with it? What if I want to leave him?"

I don't have an answer for that. I want to tell her yes, leave him, be with me. But I'm not an idiot. I know what she'd be giving up. The life, the status, the safety. I'm a guy who lives above a shawarma place. I can't give her anything except myself.

"That's your decision," I say. "Not mine."

"That's a very mature answer."

"I have my moments."

She laughs and kisses me, and we don't talk about it anymore. Not that night.

---

Youssef corners me at a cafe three days before Ultra Man is supposed to come back. He's got that look on his face, the one that says he knows something and he's not happy about it.

"You're fucking her," he says. No preamble. No small talk. Just the truth, laid out on the table between us.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't. Don't lie to me. I've known you for twenty years. I know what you look like when you're in over your head."

I take a sip of my coffee. It's terrible, which is appropriate, because everything about this conversation is terrible.

"Fine. I'm fucking her."

"Anis. She's married. To Ultra Man. The guy who can bench press a building."

"I'm aware."

"Are you? Because you're acting like you're not. You're acting like this is just another one of your conquests, another girl you'll forget about in a week."

"It's not."

He stares at me. "What?"

"It's not just another conquest. I'm in love with her."

Youssef sits back like I've hit him. "You're in love with her."

"Yes."

"With a married woman. With a superhero. With a woman who could kill you with a look."

"I'm aware of the risks."

"Are you? Because I don't think you are. I think you're thinking with your dick, like always, and you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."

"There's worse than killed?"

"You could get her killed. You could get me killed. You could get everyone you've ever cared about killed. That's worse."

I don't have a response to that. Because he's right. He's always right, the bastard.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "Walk away?"

"I want you to think. For once in your life, think about the consequences before you act."

"I've done nothing but think about the consequences. I've thought about them every day since she kissed me. And I'm still here."

Youssef shakes his head. "You're a fool, Anis. A romantic fool."

"Maybe. But I'm a romantic fool who's in love."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs, the sound of a man who's given up on talking sense into his idiot friend.

"Fine. But if this blows up in your face, don't come crying to me."

"I won't."

"You will. You always do."

He's not wrong.

---

Ultra Man comes back on a Tuesday. I know because Galactica texts me that morning, a single word: "He's here." I spend the day pacing my apartment, jumping at every sound, waiting for the door to burst open and a man in blue and red to throw me through a wall.

It doesn't happen. The day passes. Then the night. Then another day. I don't hear from her. I don't text her. I just wait, and wonder, and try not to imagine what's happening in that house I've never seen.

On Thursday, she calls me. Her voice is strange, tight, like she's holding something back.

"Can you meet me?" she asks. "The usual place."

The usual place is a rooftop on the other side of the city, one we found together on a night when she wanted to show me what the world looks like from above. It's not the Meridian Building, but it's close enough. I get there before she does, and I stand at the edge, looking down at the city that never sleeps.

She lands beside me without a sound. That's one of her tricks. She can fly faster than the speed of sound but she can also land like a feather, like she weighs nothing at all.

"He knows," she says.

My heart stops. Then starts again, faster than before. "What?"

"He knows. About us. He figured it out."

"How?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. He just said he knew, and then he asked me if I wanted to stay."

"And what did you say?"

She looks at me. In the darkness, her eyes are almost black, but there's something in them that glows. Something that looks like a decision.

"I said I didn't know."

"You didn't know?"

"I told him I needed time. Time to think. Time to figure out what I want."

"And what do you want?"

She reaches out and takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is strong.

"I want you," she says. "But I don't know if I can have you. Not without losing everything else."

I look out at the city, at the lights, at the millions of people living their lives below us. I think about everything she'd be giving up. The life, the status, the safety. I think about everything I'd be giving up too, which is nothing, really. Nothing except the certainty that I'd never have to worry about being thrown through a wall by a man who can fly.

"I can't make this decision for you," I say.

"I know."

"But I can tell you that I'll be here. Whatever you choose. If you choose him, I'll walk away. I'll disappear. You'll never have to see me again. If you choose me..."

I trail off. I don't know how to finish that sentence.

"If I choose you?" she prompts.

"If you choose me, I'll spend every day trying to be worthy of you. I'll fail, probably. But I'll try."

She kisses me then, soft and slow, and I hold her like she might disappear. The city hums below us, indifferent to our small drama, and I know that whatever happens next, nothing will ever be the same.

"I need time," she says when we finally break apart. "A week. Maybe two. I need to figure out who I am without him."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Not really. But I'll try."

She laughs, that laugh, the one that started all of this. "You're a strange man, Anis."

"I've been told."

She kisses me one more time, then steps back. Her hands are glowing, that faint gold shimmer, and I know what it means. She's leaving.

"Wait," I say.

She pauses.

"Whatever you decide. I'm glad I met you. I'm glad I kissed you. I'm glad I know what it feels like to be with you."

She smiles, and there's something sad in it. Something final.

"Me too," she says.

And then she's gone, a streak of purple against the night sky, and I'm alone on the rooftop, wondering if I've just been given a gift or a curse.

I stay there for a long time. Long enough that the sky starts to lighten in the east, long enough that the city begins to stir below me. I think about her. I think about Ultra Man. I think about Youssef, who told me I was a fool, who was right.

And then I go home. Because that's what you do. You go home, and you wait, and you hope.

Two weeks later, I'm sitting in my apartment, eating shawarma and watching a movie I'm not paying attention to, when there's a knock at my door. I open it, and she's standing there, in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back, looking like any other woman on any other day.

"I decided," she says.

I step back, let her in. She walks past me, into my small apartment, and looks around at the mess. The dishes in the sink. The clothes on the floor. The posters on the walls.

"This is where you live," she says.

"This is where I live."

"It's smaller than I imagined."

"You imagined?"

"I imagined a lot of things. About you. About us. About what my life could look like if I made a different choice."

"And?"

She turns to face me. The morning light is coming through the window, catching her hair, her eyes, the small smile on her lips.

"I'm leaving him," she says. "I'm leaving the house, the life, the whole thing. I don't know what comes next. I don't know if this will work. But I know I can't keep pretending."

I don't say anything. I just cross the room and pull her into my arms, and she holds me back, and for a moment there's no past and no future, just this.

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"Me too."

"What if we fail?"

"Then we fail. But at least we'll have tried."

She pulls back and looks at me, really looks, and I feel it like I felt it that first night on the rooftop. Seen. Known. Understood.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too."

And then she kisses me, and I kiss her back, and somewhere in the distance I hear a siren, the city going about its business, oblivious to the fact that two people just changed their lives forever.

Later, we'll figure out the logistics. Later, we'll deal with Ultra Man, and the fallout, and the fact that I'm a nobody who somehow landed a superhero. Later, I'll call Youssef and tell him he was right, and he'll say I told you so, and I'll laugh because he's earned it.

But right now, in this moment, there's just her. There's just us. And that's enough.

For now, that's enough.