The thud of footsteps pounds in my ears as I crouch behind the stack of wooden crates. They're coming. My ears prick, alert, waiting for a sign that they are near enough for me to attack. I hear voices, growing louder, hushed whispers snaking around corners.
"You go."
"Nah man, he put you in charge, you go first."
"Fuck, you guys are a bunch of pussies. Outta my way."
I hear the steady clump of shoes on the wooden floor, and brace myself for a fight. Then, silence. No sound at all. Only my soft breathing and the faint scuffling of the other two men. All of a sudden, I am yanked out from my position behind the crates. Pulled to my feet roughly. And I find myself face to face with the ugliest motherfucker I've ever seen; his face is littered with scars, and he has what has got to be the most horrific moustache in the world. His eyes lock onto mine as he faces me, his smile bordering on manic.
"Hello, princess."
I want to wipe that smirk off his face and strangle him with it. Instead, I smile innocently, cocking my head to the side, my fingers itching to grab the blades hanging from my belt and add more scars to the collection on his face. But patience is key.
"Hey, fucker." I spit back.
He recoils slightly, but soon composes himself, his arrogant smile morphing into a leer.
"You're a cocky little thing, ain't ya? You like playing with the big boys, huh?"
I raise one eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest as I reply.
"You see, that's the difference between you and me. You think this is all a game, a fun little pastime that you can use to vent all of your pent-up sexual frustration that you never get to use with any actual women." His eyes narrow. "But for me; this isn't a game. When it comes to scumbags like you, I never play. I win."
A silence fills the space between us for a heartbeat as my words hang in the air, and then comes the attack. Moustache Man strikes first, his arm raised, his fist swerving at my face. I swat his raised fist away, grabbing his forearm and twisting, his sharp cry of pain spurring me on until I hear the satisfying crunch of bones. His men then jump into action, coming at me from all sides. I lunge, kick, punch, my fists and legs connecting with chests, thighs, stomachs, jaws. They get in a few shots too; the worst is when one of them manages to get behind me and slam me down, the air whooshing out of my lungs as I come face to face with the unforgiving floor. But I am back on my feet again in no time, and this time, I'm pissed off. I grab my knives from my belt, slashing at eyes and exposed skin, relishing each cry of pain. It's only a few moments later that I realise that both of my attackers are lying, unmoving, on the floor. But a third remains standing. It's Moustache Man. Granted, I can tell he's badly hurt from all of the blood streaming down his face, but he's limping towards me, face twisted into a mixture of a grimace and a snarl, his fist clenched around the handle of a large Samurai sword. My Samurai sword. Cheeky fucker.
"Really dude? You just don't know when to quit, do you?"
"I'm gonna g- get you, you little… bitch."
"Oh, burn. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to swear?"
My mocking tone seems to flip a switch within him; he lurches towards me, an angry yell escaping his lips as he swings the sword at my head. But he's weak and wounded, and deflecting his attack is all too easy. With one move, I duck and sweep his legs out from under him, bringing my baton smashing down on his knees, hearing the unmistakable sound of bones breaking. I almost pity him as I watch him twitching on the floor, mewling in pain. But then I remember why I'm here, and why I'm dealing with assholes like him. And then all of my guilt melts away as I lift my gun to his head, and with one final smile, I pull the trigger and watch the light leave his already dead eyes.
Oh, you might be wondering who I am by this point. That's simple.
Me?
I'm SuperBitch.
A few months earlier…
"Santana, come on! We're gonna miss the start of the movie!"
"Okay, okay, I'm coming! Jeez, someone's impatient."
But Brittany just smiled at me, that goofy smile that still makes my heart melt after ten years of being with her.
"You know how much I hate missing the beginning of films, if I do I get all confused and then I have no idea what's going on!"
"That's how I've felt for most of our marriage." I shot back, but the smile tugging at my lips let her know that I'm joking.
"Cheeky." She giggled, planting a kiss on my nose before tugging me towards the door.
"Alright, let's go. You got your movie snacks?"
She held up her chocolate and drink before grinning excitedly.
"Okay, let's do this."
And with that, she galloped out to our car, opening the passenger door and hopping into her seat, while I locked the door behind me and followed her out.
We got to the movie theatre in record time, what with her telling me to hurry up every five seconds and me not wanting to disappoint her. Luckily for us there was no queue, so we bought our tickets and headed straight in, claiming our favourite seats, right at the back of the room in the top left-hand corner. That spot is our favourite because it gives us a great view of the screen, and it also means we have space to, ahem, entertain ourselves if we find the movie getting a little boring. In Layman's terms, it's a great place to fuck without getting caught.
But anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah, the movie. It was decent, I guess, although I spent most of it caressing Brittany's thigh with my hand and trying to stop myself from letting my fingers wander too much. And before you think I'm some kind of sex addict, let me tell you about Brittany. She is literally the hottest girl I have ever seen. And not in that typical, Hollywood hot way either. She's like, super gorgeous, and sexy, and adorable, all at the same time. I really don't know how she does it. She's got these eyes, god damn it those eyes; they're like these piercing orbs of the clearest blue, I mean, looking into her eyes is like delving into the most beautiful ocean and losing yourself in the most glorious way. And her body. Whoa. I'm serious, the first time I laid eyes on her, she was wearing this top that rode up around her midriff and I could see her abs and it did wonders for her cleavage and she had on these shorts that were pulled taught on her toned thighs and… well, let's just say, she caught me like a hungry fish on a hook. But my favourite thing about Brittany is her smile. Her smile is like Christmas and cuddles and puppies and hot chocolate and marshmallows all rolled into one. It incites entire flocks of butterflies in my stomach, and I've lost count of the amount of times I've been rendered speechless just by her smiling at me.
But don't get me wrong, there's a lot more to Brittany than her looks. She's the kindest, most genuine person I've ever met. She's always looked out for me, ever since we first became friends, and believe me, most other people would've given up on me right away; I can be kind of a bitch sometimes. But not Brittany. She stuck with me, through all the bullshit and the drama that seems to follow me wherever I go, and I was lucky enough to have the honour of getting to fall in love with her and eventually call her my wife. I couldn't ask for more.
Anyhow, once the movie had finished, I wanted us to go to eat out at Brittany's favourite restaurant. And then I had plans for me to eat out something else, if you catch my drift.
But our plans were pretty much screwed the moment we stepped outside into the street, because that's when a burly man wearing a balaclava came barrelling up to us and hit Brittany with a baseball bat. I watched in horror as she crumpled to the floor, but didn't have much time to panic because the man rounded on me, lifting his bat into the air once more. But this asshole didn't know that I had been studying karate since I was ten, and let me tell you, I was pretty damn good. Long story short, by the time the fight was over, I was holding the baseball bat, and he was holding his crotch while whimpering into the pavement. A police car then pulled up to the side of the road and I let them handle the guy as I rushed over to Brittany, who was sitting up and cradling her head, a trail of blood trickling down her eye.
"Britt?! Baby, can you hear me?"
My voice cracked as I held her, using the sleeve of my jumper to dab at the rapidly darkening cut on her temple.
"San?" She mumbled, eyes cloudy.
"It's okay Britt, we're gonna get you help."
I signalled over to the paramedics who had just arrived, who hurried over and lifted Brittany onto a stretcher. She gripped onto my hand as they began leading her back towards the ambulance, and I knew she was feeling panicked.
"Britt, its fine baby. Don't panic. I'm gonna be with you the whole time."
I climbed up into the ambulance next to her, watching as they injected her with anaesthesia. As the drug began to take effect, she turned her head to face me and held my gaze, a few words slipping past her lips:
"You were incredible out there. I… I love you."
Her head then went limp, her hand relaxing in mine as we cruised towards the hospital, the siren echoing in my head like the ringing of a gong.
That was six months earlier. And I know you must be wondering who that guy was and why he wanted to hurt me and Brittany, but first, let me fill you in on a few details you may not know about me.
I'm from a small town called Lima, in Ohio. We don't have famous landmarks or people of great merit, but we do have lots of auto repair shops and a disgustingly large amount of homophobes. And as you've probably already guessed, growing up in a town like that when you're gay, well, it isn't the easiest thing, to say the least. That's not to say that I got tormented or anything like that after I came out; just that if I ever decided to walk down the corridor at school and hold Brittany's hand or something, you could pretty much guarantee that some dick was going to say something about it. Most of the time we could just brush it off, because we were so wrapped up in each other that we didn't care what other people said or thought. But the unease in our town has been growing for years now, what with gay marriage being legalised in other places all over America, and so people had started to take things into their own ignorant, homophobic hands.
And this leads us to the fucking asshat who hit my wife with a bat. After doing a bit of research while Brittany was in the hospital, I discovered a gang who had named themselves The Agents of God. Or TAG, for short. These guys were real lowlifes, using religion as a way to justify their gross hatred for anyone they deemed 'wrong' or different. The guy from the street, he was called Stefan, and he was labelled as one of the 'hitmen' of the group; the guy who does the dirty work for the people with all the money, basically. I couldn't find too much information on the ringleaders of this group, only that the founder was called Frankie Romero but no one had ever seen him before. His aim, apparently, was to 'rid the world of homosexuals and their sinful ways of life'. What a jerk. While there weren't a lot of details about him, there was, however, some information on the guys who promoted the 'group' and whose job is was to recruit new members, and after doing some more digging, I came to the conclusion that it was very likely that these were the guys who arranged the attack on Brittany and I.
Jeremy Lyle, Carl DiMagio, Bennett Hull.
These were the names listed on the website. Little did these men know, their names weren't going to be up there for much longer. After all, it's pretty difficult to be a hitman if you're dead, right?
At this point, I know what you must be thinking; one woman, taking on all of these tough men? Yeah right.
Well, like I said, I'd become a master of karate over the years, so I was already pretty confident when it came to fighting, no matter what gender my opponent was. Also, I wasn't planning on getting my vengeance without a little help.
You see, I wasn't the only one in our town who had experienced shit like this over my sexuality; a bunch of other kids from my school had all suffered during our time there and I had made friends with a few of them, and these friendships had carried over into my adult life.
There were three of us in total; well, four, if you count Britt. Our two best friends were Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry, a couple we had known since our second year of high school. They were total opposites, chalk and cheese in every way; but that's what made them work so well as a couple. Rachel helped Quinn embrace who she was, while Quinn was there to comfort Rachel whenever her emotions go out of hand. Honestly, they were adorable together, although I'd never admit that to their faces.
But basically, I called them after Brittany was settled in the hospital and told them what Jack had done to her, and they were all too willing to help me.
At first, they were sceptical of my 'let's be superheroes and kick their asses' idea. But, after a little convincing and a lot of comic book references, they agreed. I know you might think wanting to be a superhero is insane, but think about it. We get to defeat the bad guys, not get in trouble because we'll be anonymous, AND we get to do it while wearing awesome outfits. Tell me that's not the coolest thing ever.
So they said yes, and we got to work.
Training was tough at first; while Quinn had joined me in learning karate for the past few years, meaning she was a decent fighter already, Rachel was more… soft. She was one who preferred to use words when faced with conflict, which became apparent during our sparring sessions.
But, with a lot of hard work and frustration (on my part), she started improving, until she was a pretty worthy opponent for both Quinn and I, something we deemed a major accomplishment. During the weeks we spent training, Brittany was recovering at home, and TAG were still terrorising innocent people in the streets of Lima. We knew we had to act fast, before something terrible happened.
And so, a month later, we decided we were ready. After copious amounts of research and snooping, we had discovered the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town that TAG used as their base. Armed and ready, we waited until dusk before setting off, the warehouse coordinates on our GPS system and justice on our minds.
And that brings me to where I am now, standing over the body of Moustache Man, his eyes glassy and lifeless, his shirt stained with his own blood.
"Okay guys, the coast is clear."
My voice rings out over the sea of death that surrounds me, bouncing off the walls of the warehouse storage room. Quinn and Rachel rise from their hiding places behind a wall of boxes, faces taught.
"Was that… do you reckon these three are the ones you found listed on that site?" Rachel whispers, her voice soft.
"Yeah, I think that's about right." I nod.
"So, that should mean that there's only the boss man left?"
I look at Quinn, my eyebrow raised.
"In an ideal world, yes. But stay alert. Don't let your guard down. And whatever you do, show no mercy. These guys will kill us in a second if we give them a chance. Okay?"
They both nod, eyes wide but determined.
"Okay. Let's do this."
We slink over to the door leading out onto the corridor where the men ran in from, following the path until we come to a set of stairs leading up.
"Stay behind me. Watch my back." I whisper, as we begin to ascend.
Not a sound can be heard. The air hangs thick and heavy. Suddenly, a raised voice floats down from the top of the stairs, where a dark mahogany door is propped open.
"Whaddya mean, Jack got taken down by some bitch in the street and is now in the slammer? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOIN' ON, MARCO?"
A strong Brooklyn accent pervades my ears, and I creep closer, trying to peer through the chink of light in the doorframe. I can see a large desk, a pair of feet propped up on it. A man reclines in a plush leather chair, although he looks anything but relaxed as he continues yelling into the phone he is holding to his ear.
"I don't care what the cops are doing. I'm Frankie fuckin' Romero, you do what I tell you to do and you leave the cops to me. I want these people found and I want them stopped, ya hear me? I'm not having some punk-ass liberals interfering with my plans. Okay, fuckface?"
He slams the phone down, exhaling heavily. I glance back at Rachel and Quinn, and nod once. That's our signal. With that, we burst into the room, Quinn brandishing the sword, Rachel wielding my gun, and me with my fists clenched in front of my chest. No fucking around.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here."
He sits back, emitting an air of feigned nonchalance; but I can see his pulse quicken, little beads of sweat appearing on his greasy forehead.
"We're here for you, Romero." I speak lightly, although my smile is anything but friendly.
He chuckles darkly, standing up slowly.
"Ladies, ladies. Your courage is admirable, I'll admit. But it's such a shame, you coming all this way just for me to kill you. In fact, you all seem rather familiar. Do I know you ladies from somewhere?"
"Yeah." I retort. "You're the fucker who put my wife in the hospital. Remember that?"
"Oh right, the pretty blonde. Such a shame you're both destined to rot in hell, you would've made some men very happy."
Quinn has to place a hand on my arm to stop me from lunging at him and ripping out his throat as his words sear through me.
"Ooh, kitty's got claws." He jeers. "Let's see if those claws can actually scratch."
He whips out a gun from under his desk, and then everything becomes a blur.
My first connecting with his jaw.
His knee slamming into my ribs.
Quinn slashing at his torso.
Him shoving Quinn backwards.
Rachel bringing the butt of the gun down onto the back of his head.
His grunt of pained surprise as he crashes down onto the desk.
We stand around him for a moment, panting heavily as he writhes in pain. He turns to me, eyes flickering, choking on his words.
"Fu- fuck you." He sputters.
"Tsk tsk, Mr Romero. I think I need to wash your mouth out." I drawl, holding my hand out as Rachel places the gun into my upturned palm. I place the muzzle of the gun into his mouth, and without a moment's hesitation, I pull the trigger. Bang.
"Britt, you want some more soup?"
"Forget the soup, get in here now, you have to see this!"
I rush into the living room, hearing the excitement in Brittany's voice.
"Watch!"
She gestures to the news on the TV, so I perch next to her on the sofa while the newsreader continues speaking.
"…Romero and his gang were found dead in an abandoned warehouse last night. Onlookers from the surrounding houses who arrived at the scene when they heard gunshots state that three figures were seen fleeing from the building, and one lucky bystander even managed to get a brief interview with the three mystery vigilantes."
I watch eagerly as a tape begins to roll in a square in the upper right corner of the screen.
"Whoa, did you guys just defeat Romero and his gang?!"
"I guess we did, yeah."
"Who are you?"
"I'm SuperBitch."
"I'm the Captain."
"And I'm the Starlett."
Brittany gasps as the masked avengers give the crowd one more wave before taking off into the night.
"As you can see, folks everywhere are astounded by the three 'superheroes', but I think I speak for all of us when I say that we're glad to have them around to stop people like Frankie Romero. This is the Channel Five news, I'm Barbra Harris. Goodnight."
"Oh my god! This is amazing! I can't believe they just went in and defeated The Agents of God, that's so awesome! They must've been like bam, bam, bam!"
Brittany is up off the couch, throwing punches and kicking the air wildly, adding sound effects and dramatic music until I'm clutching my sides and shaking with laughter.
"Hey, wait a second." She stops suddenly, turning to me with a befuddled look. "Where were you last night when all this was going on? And how did you get those bruises on your ribs? I saw them when you got undressed for bed last night."
I panic, not wanting Brittany to find out the truth in case it upsets her. But her face drops as the truth dawns on her.
"Oh my god… you're not… but it can't be… San, are you… are you SuperBitch?"
Her words are hushed whispers, like she's can't believe she's even saying them. I simply remain silent, but this seems to be enough of an answer as her eyes widen and she sits down with a thump, her hand over her mouth.
"So, all those nights, when you said you were working late… that was you sneaking off to plan all this?"
I nod slowly.
"And Quinn and Rachel? They're in on this too?"
I nod again. Brittany simply sits for a moment, and I brace myself for the oncoming anger. But she doesn't scream. Doesn't yell. Instead, she turns to me and grins, the biggest god damn grin I've ever seen in my life.
"This… is… amazing! My wife, part of a superhero vigilante squad! Oh my god! Let me guess, you're SuperBitch, right?" I nod again, words failing me. "And Quinn, she's the Captain? And Rachel's the Starlett, of course. Oh wow, this is incredible."
"So you're not mad?" I ask, my voice hesitant.
"Well, I'm kinda mad that you went there without telling me and you could've been seriously hurt, but now that you're here and you're okay, oh, I'm just so proud of you!"
She throws her arms around me and pulls me to her, giggling before taking my face in her hands and kissing me softly. I smile against her soft lips, until I feel her moving away.
"Saaaaaan…." she begins, a coy yet cheeky smile on her gorgeous face. "I don't suppose… you haven't got your costume handy, have you?"
"It's in my bag, why?"
She smirks at me, licking her lips and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
"You- you want me to wear it?" I ask incredulously.
"I think it's pretty hot." She replies, her voice low and sultry.
"Your wish is my command." I reply, before pulling her to me and kissing her once more.
The kiss goes from languid to heated in a matter of seconds, but before things get too steamy she pulls back, eyes sparkling, and whispers against my lips:
"You may be a hero to the world when you wear a mask as SuperBitch, but to me, the real hero is you, Santana. You saved my life the moment you walked into it. You rescued me from never knowing true love. You're my superhero, forever and always."