Juno's Sine Qua Non

While Miriam personally considered Murphy a sad little Irish creature, she could agree with the fact that the universe has an unhealthy compulsion to make things go pear-shaped. Still, she thinks, face shoved against a building, having to deal with a pissy Juno this early in the morning without at least two cups of coffee in her system is rather on-the-nose.

She grits her teeth against the hand pushing her face into the wall, laughing coldly the way Reem from  PR told her to, “B-baby, are your palms usually this sweaty or is it just around me?”

Juno sneers just as a camera shutters in the background. Nice, Miriam thinks, leaning into her hinged arms before rebounding off the wall, conveniently elbowing Juno in the gut, the media drinks up banter like fine wine. Gold star for me.

She twirls around and hooks her knees around Juno’s shoulders in the same motion, hoisting herself up and weighing down on the man, shooting them both into the pavement. It would’ve ended the battle sharpish but then Juno somehow manages to twist their positions mid-fall and drive Miriam into the ground instead.

Bruised and definitely broken somewhere, Miriam looks up at Juno where he’s scowling at her from the edge of the crater caused by the hit. He narrows his eyes at her once before launching into the sky and flying away. 

I could probably catch up to him, Miriam muses, closing her eyes as pain echoes throughout her body and blood tides over her lip. I could do it right now, get him from behind, throw him into a jail cell. Reem won’t like that, probably, says the public really likes our ‘dynamic’. Besides, who’d I fight then? I should probably ration him.

Qassim, the paramedic but more importantly, the bastard, helps her up. He makes the obligatory fleeting remark about how she’ll get ‘em next time while prodding her gums. Miriam obligatorily shakes her fist to the sky in response. 

It’s while he is saying some things about what injuries have to be treated immediately and what she could sleep on that Miriam has that familiar shade thrown over her thoughts. She listens absentmindedly to Qassim as her eyes stray to the sky where Juno is as long gone as an unburdened balloon. How pointless.

It’s the same chronic woe that haunts her heavy feet to the department and then to her cubicle where she jotted down a report and then to the chief’s desk where she slid it at the bottom of a dozen others and now, at the foggy mirror where’s she’s trying to rub away the bags under her eyes. 

It’s a phantom that seems to take terrestrial form in the shape of two gleaming brown eyes reflected in the mirror. Miriam kicks herself then, because it’s Reem and also because if she’d known she could be this dramatic she would've listened to her sister when she was twenty and pretty and getting business cards from acting agencies left and right.

Reem purses her lips and lifts a newspaper, her reflection pointedly waggling it. “Your Lois Lane is having thoughts.”

That's not something someone would want in a journalist, Miriam contemplates, that’s a dangerous thing to have in a journalist.

She says instead: “Worse than the Starbucks scandal?”

“Worse. This is a head-raiser, an attention-grabber,” Reem throws it on the counter before puckering her lips at the mirror, running gloss over them, “it’s giving me worlds of trouble. You should have words with him, get him to write a conciliatory follow-up. I’m thinking if you show up shimmying in leopard prints on his front door, we’ll get him to bend in no time.”

A grimace shows Reem exactly what Miriam thinks of that idea. “Read it,” Reem pushes before leaving in a swish of her skirt.

Miriam does after one last rub of her eyes, holding the newspaper close to make out the too-fine print.

“Heroes: Saviours Or Simply Slaves Of The Media?  

 By: Isiah Karam

 As the sun rises on our capital city, everything else seems to be hitting rock bottom. Facing record-breaking housing crises, our leaders are scrambling to set the country on solid ground but turning a horrific blind eye to the cause of it all.

In this decade, we have seen dozens of ‘Heros’ rise to the limelight, cape, and all. Countries finally taking the prerogative to capitalize on the increase of phenomenal capabilities. In a shot at professionalism, police departments all over the world are annexing new branches to their offices, a so-called Superhuman Police Unit.

While this at its bud posed minuscule issues, with the growing media frenzy on these solitary figures, the SPU has angled its officers from saving lives to taking selfies. In a past interview with a PR representative, it was admitted that ‘the flashier, the better’, a blasé confession that the destruction of countless family homes was favored in hopes of increased media coverage. 

Consider the walls of your house, consider what lies between them. This is more than the wrecking of brick and plaster, this is the extermination of memories. No matter how fast these victims are reimbursed, would they ever be able to rescue that precious photo of grandma in her thirties or the dear trunk of college memorabilia under the bed?

Sentiment aside, people hasten to argue that they protect our streets and skies, ignorant to the fact that it needed little protection before heroes arrived in their costumed glory. Every reaction has an opposite, equal reaction: heroes, no longer hiding behind the unified police front, have birthed their counterparts. Retaliation from the underbelly of our country has increased the number of flamboyant criminals. Our parents had to worry about the odd mugger or gang drive-by, we have to worry about villains with scripted laughs and laser eyes. And to the masses, it’s like the gods are fighting overhead and they who are suffering the costs.

To be frank, being a Hero stopped being heroic the second they were told to smile for the camera.”

Miriam doesn’t read the rest in favor of collapsing onto the linoleum tiles. It’s a swoon sort-of motion that inspired ‘aww’s when she was still delicate and fairy-like. The tulip of the battlefield in flowing white arresting criminals with an airy smile.  Every movement purposeful and swan-like, with bone marrow replaced by air.

But then Juno came and the first thing he did was punch her nose in mid-giggle. 

And he beat her then, making her crazy. Frustration and sweat turned her milky shoulders rough and tan, muscled her arms and thighs, and riddled her body with scars. Magazines even now showcase side-by-side her pre- and post-'breakdown’ pictures as if there was any breakdown to be had. As if she hadn’t chosen to tear through the sky instead of float, kick instead of twirl, spit instead of smile.

She gets up with the grace of an awkward buffalo, thinking of how Isiah once called her a modern Enjolras, as he theorized over why all her opponents pulled their punches, quoting Victor Hugo with his head in her lap, “I suppose they feel ‘as if they are about to shoot a flower’.”

That was when the sunlight was soft and they were still kind to each other, though. She runs water over the newspaper and walks out of the bathroom, wondering about all the walls she pounded into in righteous fury, all the parked cars she threw overhead to make a point.

Miriam leaves the department with her hands in her pockets after shouting her resignation in the general direction of the boss’ office, ignoring the frantic calls of her name. She wanders the cacophonous city and by the time her legs start protesting, the sky has adopted the black veil of night. Her stomach joins the riot when she passes by a Mcdonald’s, the familiar dietical restraint calms the grumbling before she remembers that she quit her job and by then she’s already waiting in line.

It’s while she’s searching for a table, tray in hand, autographing several napkins on the way and rejoicing in the greasy welcome of her childhood that her eyes are drawn to someone; even without the cheesy mask, she recognizes him. It’s when she recognizes him that she thinks, bastard.

I could probably get him from behind. Element of surprise and all that. Throw him over my shoulder, wrench his arm out of its socket-

Instead, she marches straightforwardly up to him, because surprise is for cowards and snakes, making him jolt mid-bite. His eyes immediately sharpen, shoulders tensing, fingers already twitching. He’s waiting for a move and Miriam is just about to lunge at him when a child runs by, others squealing after him. She stills, remembering that she’s off-duty and actually has no duties now and Juno only ever robbed supermarkets and made illegal public demonstrations and there are children with their families thinking they're safe in this yellow and red wonderland and Miriam was just about to blast Juno into the play area. 

She holds his gaze as she sets her tray down and scoots into the empty chair, forcing herself to relax despite all her hard-earned reflexes telling her to set him on glorious fire that the kids would be able to dance around while singing folk songs to his burning corpse.

She digs into her meal despite his outraged stare, looking up once and shrugging her shoulders in a ‘so what?’ gesture. Miriam notes the exact moment he thinks ‘screw it’ and goes back to his burger.

They stay quiet for a while, the crunch of fried food the only sound between them. Surprisingly, he’s the one who breaks the silence after clearing his throat, “I didn’t know you were stalking me.”

“I didn’t know your side-hustle was scaring children with your ugly mug, but here we are.”

He takes that in stride and doesn’t question her further. A few moments pass before he gestures to the open text on his phone, “You know, I thought my exes were bad, but this is downright villainous, I should have them take notes.”

Miriam recognizes the article, frowning into her drink, “That’s not it. Isiah would never twist his writing like that. It’s his passion, he’s not going to sully it with spite or something.”

Juno raises his eyebrows, “That ‘or something’ seems to translate in journalist lingo to ‘transform country into police state and ascend to the position of supreme dictatorial ruler’.”

At Miriam’s confused expression he sighs, “No, I wouldn’t expect a troll like you to read under the fold,” a handful of fries later, Juno continues, gesturing with his free hand as his eyes skim the article, “At the end here he discusses solutions to the ‘issue’, one of them being ‘the proper integration of heroes into the police force, stripping them of their singularity and placing them under the umbrella of uniformed anonymity’. Oh but right after that he goes on to say,” Juno clears his throat and fixes on a haughty tone, “‘despite all this, there is some good to come out of this individuality, a generous percentage of the country’s exports is merchandise, and shoving heroes off the limelight hastily would indeed cause economical repercussions’, that was interesting, I thought.”

Juno huffs a silent laugh then, muttering something about ‘Heroes not heroic, my ass’. Miriam gives no comment besides a good-natured shrug at this rant and goes back to thinking if she’ll be getting one of those pension things. She’s shocked a moment later at being able to muse over finance while her most violent adversary is sitting in front of her licking salt off his fingers.

She’s about to mention the novelty of the situation when Juno stands up, speaking a mile a minute, “Well this has been wonderful, let’s never do it again. Although having first-row tickets to what you think is proper dining etiquette was excellent. Apologies. I understand you didn’t have parents who taught you decent human-people manners and all that rot. By the by, was it your orphaned childhood that triggered your abilities or did you get bitten by a troll one sweltering June day? Don’t answer that, actually, I don’t care. But since you’re depressed enough to accompany me for a grand chicken- quite aggressively and unwelcome, might I add, but I think we can chalk that up to the troll bite affecting your hormones- I might as well give you advance notice on my next endeavor. This time next Thursday, I’m thinking-”

Miriam interrupts, rising from her seat as well, “Oh yes, but actually, I quit. Just this afternoon, really. I won’t be dispatched when you go off on hissy fits anymore.”

Juno stills from his earlier frenzy, eyes unreadable as he says, “Ah.” A moment passes before he turns on his heel and strides out, Miriam following him curiously into the open evening air. He looks back once but makes no objection. They walk through the dusty cold for some time before he plops down on the curb, folding into himself. His voice is disconnected when he finally speaks as if he’s thinking out loud and not meaning it to reach anyone's ears.

“Then I guess we have nothing to do with each other.” 

Miriam shrugs and wonders if she’s ever seen him look so small.