I: The Joys of Flight and Fight

She loves to fly. Flight is easy. It requires joy. Joy? She has plenty. But learning to fly and to throw starbolts at the same time is quite another thing. How do you maintain joy while cultivating righteous rage?

There is nothing on earth that can compare to the way those green bolts leave her hands, her eyes. . . The joy of flight is but a part of the elation she feels when she flings her second-favorite talent through the air.

It feels as if her blood is bubbling, like mustard boiling over. It is like to the orgasms she has experienced with Robin, except fiercer. Better.

Flinging death from her hands brings her back to life. It is an exquisite irony, that only the fire from her palms can quench the flames in her gut. She does not enjoy fighting until she throws starbolts.

How do you fly— the elation of the heights— and fight— the righteous rage of blood— at the same time?

Simple. You learn to love the wrath. Love the wrath. Love it.

She does not love to fight until she is airborne and throwing starbolts around as if they're the gehorshag pearls strung on the Bridal Necklace of Disassembly, tossed about to waiting women, to see who will wed next.

And then that vicious, savage joy rolls over her the way the waves roll onto the beach. She has to grit her teeth to keep from screaming that sweet and bitter combination of wrath and joy. It really is like orgasm.

And it really is better than orgasm.

She loves to fly. Flight is easy.