"Cell number 3," Diana said without looking up from her computer. She looked old, with the cold screen lights illuminating her face.

Jane, handcuffed, waited for Andrew to fetch the large key to open the cell. Some time ago, she would have been held by a platoon of heavily decked-out agents belonging to an unknown and random three-letter organization, to be transferred to a high-security prison without so much as seeing the inside of a regular, every day police station.

These times were over.

"Where's the bloody key?" Andrew was distracted, Diana never had her attention on Jane in the first place. She could break free, smash them to a pulp, run away and wreak havoc on the streets, carve her name into history with her letters written in burning blood, and laugh maniacally as the world was consumed in flames.

And then what?

Andrew found the key and invited Jane to open the way, which she knew like a trusted lover. She could produce a token resistance, for the principle of it, to keep up appearances so to speak. But Andrew wasn't so young anymore, the kicks he got from running after offenders was slowly but surely replaced with the groans of a body which couldn't take the strain as well anymore. And Jane liked him too much to be a bother, like a grumpy but affectionate old uncle.

"Extend your hands through the bars," click, click, "there you go. What's the deal this time?" asked Andrew.

"I escape in two days. I wanted tomorrow first, but I would miss out on Diana's kids coming to wish her a happy birthday at the station."

"A lively bunch."

"I don't know how she handles triplets."

"Like she handles everything, in strides."

They chuckled, the bars between them were no barrier, merely a support for the peculiar form of relationship they had.

Jane escaping used to do the headlines, alongside heaps of destroyed property. Problem being that the money invested in rebuilding wasn't invested in catching her, making the subsequent chase lacking in gusto, like a mouse encouraging - or even begging - the paraplegic cat to come after it.

And it pissed off Diana and Andrew who had to get used to a new workplace again and again.

"Before I forget," said Andrew, leaning against the bars, "Duncan comes to say hi afterwards."

Duncan, her sworn enemy. Thrice, she held him in her grip, could have snuffed the light of life from his eyes. Thrice, he loomed over her, mighty and justified in his decision to end her for the greater good.

It took the both of them a long, long time, and several therapy sessions with various professionals to understand why they couldn't claim the ultimate victory.

It was so simple, in retrospect. Jane leaned back against the cold wall. She could be in a palace right now, the world, or what was left of it, at her feet. Terror an integral part of the humanity's existence, her domination as natural as breathing.

And yet, she wouldn't exchange her place in the cell for such a dream.

"Hey," said Duncan, shaking hands with Andrew before Andrew left for some small-talk with Diana.

"Glad to see you," she replied. It was two hours after their last fight which left them bloody.

They saw each other more often lately, talked little, enjoyed the rival's presence in respectful silence.

If Jane succeeded in tearing down the world into chaos, there would be nothing left but chaos, and thus it would become the new standard, the new order. Then would come a day when a new troublemaker - a multicolored clown or a somber, coat-wearing vigilante - would threaten her world for their vision of disorder. Jane would be the protector then. Nothing wrong with protecting. But the metaphor, the implications, terrified her more than any hero could.

When Jane and Duncan spoke, they spoke about such fears. Not change, but a change they weren't prepared for.

It would be the old generation against the new, with herself part of the old. The world would start to go on accepting her rule as a given, and thus wouldn't notice her. She'd be part of the office furniture, disgusting the youngsters looking for novelty, for a breath of fresh air. Same for Duncan, if he won, he'd be at the top with no rival, and would be left to gather dust.

The game is all the interest. Win or lose, the game would be over then.

Diana's children would come by and sing for her, Jane and Duncan would sing along and smile, feeling the ting of time passing by, and the world telling them to let new blood catch the light.

"Nothing says we can't give them a hand, though," Jane said out loud, as if speaking to herself. Duncan smiled, knowing full well what she meant.

Tonight became one of these rare nights when instead of silence, they spoke a river of words, of meanings, of hopes and dreams, instead of remembering the old in silence. Tonight was a night when the stars shone high, lighting up the future with a grin.

True, someday, they wouldn't be able to keep up their game, they would be forced to finish it one way or another. They would shake hands, proud to have stood in each other's way so long.

And they would finish on a high note. Finish with such a glorious display it would encourage and foster the next generation.

Their game would be over.

But you can always end a game in a way that encourages onlookers to start a new one with new players.

All in all, it wasn't so bad growing old.