Wanda Pedersen’s Reviews > They Promised Me The Gun Wasn't Loaded > Status Update

All righty then. Let's even the odds.
I wait for Vernon and Zirc to get clear, then I scrunch up my forehead and concentrate. I may be dressed like Willow Scarlet but I'm really Ninety-Nine. I hold out my hand and a glowing green hockey stick appears in it. The stick hums softly, like a light saber.
I say to Jane, "Okay, dude. It's hockey night in Canada."

Cape Tech. Nothing else could possibly need such a complex interface. But what are all the bells and whistles supposed to do? This can't be a plain old storage vault. That would be too easy. And it wouldn't be "fun." When you use Cape Tech, your key-words are "weird," "overcomplicated," and "disatrously unsafe."

On the other hand, it's ridiculous just to mill around with no strategy. And I'm Ms. Super Strategy--as good as Napoleon or a dude in his underwear playing StarCraft II.

The truth is that I do feel shame. I'm ashamed of being a crier.
Big tough Jools. Hockey enforcer. Superhero. Takes no shit from anyone. But prone to outbursts of tears. Sometimes, I don't even know why.
I hate it. Then I get mad at myself for crying, and that makes me cry harder.

Staying low, I finally shove myself through the blinder to see what's happening. Much gratuitous sound and fury: it's more than a brawl with a dozen combatants, it's a fucque du cluster a la mode.

"Anyway, Nicholas and Elaine can take care of themselves. In terms of magical strength, they're both more powerful than their father."
"That makes sense if their mother's an Elder," Shar says. "They'd stand to inherit her level of power."
"You really think Lee is an Elder?" K asks.
"Stop calling her Lee," Miranda says. "Memorize this phrase: my ex-boyfriend's bloodcurdling Precambrian mom."

I choose to conclude that we're free to believe whatever helps us through the night. I was raised a half-assed Catholic, but my percentage of Catholic assness has dropped to single digits. Now my religion is mostly "Don't be a dick," mixed with nostalgia and aspiration.

Maybe I'll make a fanny pack with useful odds and ends. Or a utility belt! Cuz nothing says "super" like someone whose belt weighs ninety-five pounds and sags down to show her butt crack.

I don't understand it. And whoopee for me. Maybe it means I won't turn into Waterloo's own Mad Genius.
Instead, I'll just be a high-IQ underachiever.
That's my niche. Fits me like a glove.

A handful of super-smart inventor types have managed to stay sane, but dozens of others spend their time prancing about in jackboots and building armies of giant zombie dinosaurs. Whenever I tell myself I'm strong enough to resist that temptation, a voice in my head says, "You can't resist Cheezies. You think you're gonna resist going evil?"