The Bird and the Bee

Chapter 1

"You're telling me this guy ate THREE of my honey cakes?" Cassandra drummed her lacquered nails against the mahogany desk. It was the nicest desk in the nicest office of the top floor of Vexley Pharmaceuticals-as the founder and CEO of the company, she refused to settle for anything less. A smirk reached her red-red lips as Melody, one of her many worker bees, nodded, standing at attention in her doorway. "And he didn't even check for tampering? Just, what, inhaled them right in front of you like some kind of starved Victorian orphan?"

"Uh huh, uh huh!" chirped Melody with a vigorous nod. "Just like the last time! And the time before that, and the time before that..."

"Excellent," said Cassandra, her green-green eyes slitting with satisfaction. "Lord knows the Crow has been a thorn in my side since...how long has it been, Mel?"

"According to the data me and the Beehive were able to obtain from hacking the SuperThreat Task Force's records, he was assigned to your case four weeks, five days..." Melody whipped her phone out of her pocket and unlocked the screen. "Three hours and eleven minutes! And for such a short time, your proprietary complex has had a profound effect! His handlers were pretty miffed, alright-both by his overt display of gluttony and by the, ahem...results so far. But that didn't stop him, oh, no! I guess the Crow likes to do what he wants. He even left a thank-you note this time, see?" She approached the desk to slide a folded piece of paper towards Cassandra, the edges slightly crumpled. Cassandra plucked it up between two fingers, scanning the messy scrawl.

'Thanks for the snacks, Ms. Vexley. You really shouldn't have. (But please keep doing it.)'

She snorted, tossing the note into the shredder. "Well. That settles that. Keep the gift baskets coming his way."

***

Crouching on the rooftop ledge, Cory Mercer winced, regretting his life choices. Specifically, the one involving scarfing down a fourth honey cake at Task Force HQ.

Normally, the towering heights were his dearest friend. He was the kind of guy who spiraled laughing into a free-fall, just for the love of the thrill, the exhilaration of the wind whipping against his face. Now, though? He couldn't feel anything except the pinch of his usually-sleek black costume straining against his rounded middle. The bloat of it (and he'd swear on his life it was JUST a little bloat, nothing more) pushed, foreign and alien, against his thigh as he scanned the city streets below, and what's more?

Bizarrely.

He.

Was.

Still.

Hungry.

Famished, even.

"Focus," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The Buzzkill case was supposed to be simple. These mad-science megalomaniacs were always easy to track, intercept, and arrest. The bigger the ego, the swifter the fall, you know? Right now, though, all he could think of was his stomach.

Suddenly, a buzzing filled his ears, his enhanced senses kicking in. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from his head, just as a shadow flickered past the rooftop water tower. There: the familiar silhouette of Buzzkill's mechanical wing harness glinted under the moonlight, her figure crouched near the edge of the roof.

What luck...if only his 'lucky day' had picked a better time.

Her head snapped in his direction as she noticed him in turn, the lenses of her goggles glowing electric yellow. He gritted his teeth and pushed off the roof-or tried to. His flight powers struggled to overcome the unfamiliar weight of his earlier indulgence and he barely managed a wobbly hover before dropping back onto the gravel, on hands and knees, with an undignified thud.

Buzzkill's laughter was nothing short of venomous. "Rough night, Crow? You look a little...stuck." She tilted her head, her goggle lenses catching the flicker of a distant billboard. "Maybe you should lay off the midnight snacks."

Cory wiped sweat from his brow. "Funny. You're real funny." He forced himself upright, ignoring the way his belt dug into his gut. "How about you come here and say that to my face?"

She didn't. Instead, her wings snapped open with a metallic SHINK, and she was airborne, darting toward the financial district in a cackling blur of black and gold. Cory swore and kicked off after her, but his usual effortless grace was gone. Every movement felt sluggish, like wading through syrup. The cityscape below blurred as he fought to keep pace, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and he thought to himself, 'Since when did a chase wind me like this?'

Two miles later, he landed in an alleyway, knees buckling as he braced himself against a dumpster. He'd given the pursuit his best honest try, but Buzzkill was long gone, vanishing into the maze of skyscrapers like she'd never existed. He yanked off his mask, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air. His stomach churned with a dull ache that radiated through his core. "Get it together," he growled to himself, pressing a hand to his side as he trudged his way to the subway entrance.

When he got home to his musty, inner-city apartment, he devoured everything in the kitchen, which wasn't a lot, but at least it was something.

The truth was, the Task Force didn't even pay that well. If only his generous CEO admirer could see him now, disheveled and defeated, with his usually rakishly-tousled dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, deep-throating a cold hot dog wrapped in a slice of white bread like he'd just discovered what food was...

She'd be repulsed, for sure.

But what she didn't know wouldn't stop her from sending more of those goodie baskets, right?

***

Arriving home after a successful break-in at a rival laboratory, Cassandra tossed her mask onto her coffee table, poured herself a generous glass of cabernet, and settled in on the sofa for a relaxing night of 'television'. The wall-sized screen in her crisp, minimalist living room played a live feed from her drones that bounced off the floor-to-ceiling windows in the midnight darkness: the mighty Crow, now floundering in midair like a sparrow with a broken wing, his dark suit straining at the seams. She took a slow sip, savoring the dryness on her tongue. "You pesky heroes really are too easy," she murmured, tracing the rim of her glass.

Before she retired for the night, she sent Melody a text:

'Enclose a note with the next delivery for our intrepid hero. Make it say that I'm growing tired of desiring him from afar and that I'd like to meet in person for dinner this week-the man, not the mask.'

***

The next morning, Cory got his wish, and then some.

The bubbly brunette courier from Vexley Pharma arrived at his desk bearing not only another package, but a message--and what's more, she passed along the personal cell number of Cassandra Vexley herself.

All afternoon, his focus was divided. He tried to pay attention to the Crime Alert notification bar on his computer screen, but all he could think of was Cassandra's invitation. Surely, she didn't know what she was asking him for. Surely, she was merely interested in the 'idea' of the Crow, and if he met her in person, he'd disappoint. But, as he deliberated over his decision--munching his way through a tube of cream sandwich cookies the whole while--he couldn't deny he wanted to meet the woman behind all the freebies. It had been far too long since anyone had treated him this nicely. And besides, he rationalized, she'd invited him. After all she'd done for him, it wouldn't do to be rude...

And it didn't hurt that he'd seen her in the magazines and she was a total knockout.

That was that, then. He was going to go with her.

***

The restaurant was the kind of place Cory never could have afforded on his own: white tablecloths, waiters who sniffed when you asked for tap water, and a menu without prices. But when Cassandra suggested La Tour d'Or, he couldn't say no. Not when she'd already reserved a private booth near the balcony overlooking the skyline, not when she bought a bottle of wine with a name even the waiter struggled to pronounce, not when she was sitting across from him in a red dress that clung to her every curve, her lips curling into a smile every time his gaze lingered a second too long.

"Tell me," she said, twirling a strand of honey-blonde hair around one manicured finger like a schoolgirl, "what's it like being the city's most underappreciated superhero?"

Cory hesitated, then shrugged, reaching for another piece of bread to dunk in his reduction of made--madi--ugh, whatever! They put wine sauce on the veal and potatoes, and maybe he couldn't spell it or say it, but damn, was it good!

"Honestly? Kind of sucks," he confessed without thinking. "They hand me the low-priority cases, act like I should be grateful for the scraps." He tore into the warm sourdough, butter dripping onto his fingers. "Last month, I busted a whole trafficking ring, solo, and you know what my 'bonus' was? A voucher for the cafeteria."

Cassandra made a sympathetic noise, leaning forward just enough for the candlelight to catch the dip of her collarbone. "You would think that should be free for you, no?"

He shrugged. "They don't want us using it that much, for whatever reason."

"Hm. Probably a money thing; the city won't even fix a pothole these days. In any case, it's disgraceful. Someone with your talents should be treated like royalty." She nudged her barely-touched plate of scallops toward him. "Do you think you could help me out with these? I got roped into a last-minute late business lunch, and I'm afraid I'm still quite stuffed."

He didn't need to be told twice. Between bites, he rambled about the Task Force's bureaucracy, their outdated equipment, how his last partner got transferred to a cushy desk job after one too many complaints about his 'unpredictable maneuvers.' Cassandra nodded along. At each turn in the conversation, she interjected perfectly.

Sometimes, it was outrage: "They DARE?"

Others, it was flattery: "You're clearly too good for them."

It wasn't until the entree plates--so empty they almost looked licked clean--were cleared--that he even realized he'd been hogging the floor. "But what about you?" he asked. "It must be exciting, being the CEO of a major company!"

"Well, I graduated from Johns Hopkins two years early, and by twenty-two I had already patented three different medicines, and then by 25, I was the youngest CEO in the history of Apidae Pharma. Of course, then I found out they were sidelining my potentially life-saving research to peddle overpriced 'superfood' supplements...so I took over, and slapped my name on it. But it's all in Fortune Magazine; I must be boring you."

"Oh, no, not at all! I think it's brave, that you stand for something."

By the time dessert arrived-a towering chocolate torte-Cory's belt dug sharply into his waist, but the hunger was still there, gnawing at him from within. He scooped up spoonful after spoonful, his cheeks flushed from the wine and the sugar rush from the rich dessert.

"God," he groaned halfway through, fork hovering over the plate. "I shouldn't."

"But you want to," she murmured, sliding the dish closer to him.

He did.

When the check came, Cory barely registered the total-four digits, easy-before Cassandra lay her credit card down and waved it away with a flick of her wrist. "My treat," she said, her fingers brushing his as she stood. "Though I do expect something in return."

Cory looked up at her, pulling at the bottom hem of his shirt and trying to hide his shock at how tight it had gotten. "Yeah?"

She smirked. "Another date. Soon."

Later, in the back of her chauffeured car, Cory slumped against the leather seat, stomach taut and mind hazy. Cassandra traced idle patterns on his thigh, her nails sharp enough to make him shiver.

"I had a great time tonight," she said, her voice a low murmur barely carrying over the radio, almost conspiratory.

"You don't have to--HIC--lie to me," he slurred. "I made a total pig of myself."

"Nonsense...I'm sure all that heroism takes quite a lot out of you. And you've been wonderful company. I'm not lying."

"Really?"

&qu ot;You've no idea."

***

It was this banquet lunch for these corporate investors at the exclusive Pearl Ballroom. Cory was surprised to get the alert that Buzzkill had decided to strike in broad daylight, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Besides, better it be now than later: he had another date with Cassandra tonight. (It would be lucky number twelve for them, and with any luck, she'd take him back to hers again. More and more, he found himself less and less enthusiastic about the hero business, now that he had something better to look forward to.)

The villain, laughing like a maniac, was just in the middle of unleashing a swarm of cybernetic hornets upon the crowd when the Crow swooped in...if it could still be called swooping. He used to clear windows easily, but these ones must have been built especially small-maybe for ambiance or something? Whatever the reason for their narrow dimensions, his hips and stomach caught on the frame mid-flight as he entered, eliciting gasps from the crowd and a wicked grin from Buzzkill.

"What's the matter, Crow? Bit of a squeeze?"

Bracing his hands against the windowsill, he shimmied through, hovering weakly until he found his landing on his feet, and then...

The Crow lunged into the air after his target, his movements slow, barely feeling like his own. In his mind, he calculated the precision, but his execution was...

Let's just put it this way.

Buzzkill dodged effortlessly, her mechanical wings humming as she pivoted midair. A hornet-bot zipped past Cory's ear, close enough for him to feel the buzz against his skin. "You're slipping, hero," she taunted, flicking a switch on her wrist gauntlet. The swarm reconfigured into a shimmering wall between them, blocking his path.

He gritted his teeth and touched down on the ground before vaulting over a banquet table, leaping over the obstruction but sending crystal glasses toppling. The crowd shrieked, scrambling back as hors d'oeuvres skittered across the marble floor. Cory ignored them, his focus locked on the retreating Buzzkill.. He almost had her...until his boot caught on a tablecloth. The stumble was slight, but enough. His momentum carried him forward, arms windmilling, and he heard it before he felt it: the unmistakable RRRIP of fabric giving way the moment before he faceplanted.

Silence. Then a titter from the investors.

Buzzkill paused and turned in flight, her goggles reflecting the mortified flush creeping up Cory's neck. His suit had split clean up the seat, exposing a wedge of pale skin and the waistband of his boxers. Someone in the crowd choked back a laugh. "Oh, Crow," Buzzkill sighed, shaking her head. "And here I thought you were saving your best performance for me." With a theatrical bow, she fired a smoke pellet at his feet and vanished into the haze.

By the time the air cleared, Cory was alone. Well, save for fifty of the city's elite, their smartphones already snapping photos. He crossed his arms over his straining vest, suddenly hyperaware of every undone button. A woman in pearls leaned toward her companion. "I heard the Task Force cut his hazard pay," she whispered, not quietly enough. "Now it's not a wonder why."

The walk of shame to the exit took an eternity. Outside, summer heat pressed against his skin like it never used to. Cory flagged down a cab, yanking the door shut harder than necessary. "Just drive," he muttered, slouching low in the seat. His comm-link crackled: dispatch, asking for a debrief. He silenced it with a jab of his thumb.

His apartment offered no refuge. The fridge was empty as ever, save for a lone takeout container, its contents congealed. Cory stared at it, hunger warring with humiliation.

His phone buzzed.

It was Cassie.

'Running late for our date. Emergency board meeting. Rain check?' The follow-up text came seconds later: 'P.S. Saw the news. Those people are monsters. Let me make it better.'

Might as well tide himself over, he thought, and shoveled down the rubbery leftover lo mein with his hands.

Minutes later, he sank onto the couch, the leather groaning under his weight. On the screen, a news anchor replayed his blunder in slow motion, zooming in on the split seam.

"All in all, this raises serious questions about the Task Force's fitness standards," she intoned. Cory hurled the remote at the wall. It shattered with a satisfying CRACK.

***

Cory sat on the edge of the examination table, feeling overexposed even in his baggy patient gown, the paper crinkling beneath him as he shifted uncomfortably under the Force-appointed physician's narrowed glare. "Well, you've gained approximately fifty pounds in two months," the man said flatly, flipping through his chart. "And your bloodwork's a mess, but not the kind of mess I was prepared for. Triglycerides and insulin resistance are exactly as expected for a man of your...uhm..."

Cory's cheeks burned with shame. If it wasn't bad enough that he'd gotten fat, hearing the number out loud-fifty pounds-made him feel stupid on top of it. Had dating a hot billionaire really been all the distraction it took to get him to delude himself into thinking it was 'just bloating'?

"But you've got compounds in your blood I've never seen before in any lab work," the doctor continued, before dropping his voice to add, "Crow, if it's drugs, there are options...rehab facilities that admit and treat discreetly...if you nip the problem in the bud now, there's still a chance your performance might-"

"I am NOT on drugs!" snapped Cory, suddenly seething. "There must be a mistake in the results. I guess I'm just...having a bit of trouble getting used to my new center of grav-"

A sharp knock interrupted them. Commander Harrington stepped in, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "Mercer. My office. Now."

The doctor winced sympathetically. "Does he have time to put some clothes on first?"

Harrington sighed. "Fine, but make it snappy."

Minutes later, the bench notice came with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. "You're grounded," Harrington said, shoving the paperwork across her desk. "No patrols, no assignments, nothing until you're back to your operational weight." Cory stared at the sheet at the top of the stack, the words blurring.

"This is bullshit," he muttered. "Buzzkill's still out there-"

"Buzzkill," said Harrington with a pointed sneer, "does not belong to you."