Mastermind

by Steven Kelliher

  “Not bad,” Blackstrike whispered, nodding appreciatively beside me. I got the impression it was some sort of game between the two of them, seeing who could produce the more quotable lines.

  I shook my head. “Right, then. Let’s go.”

  Before I turned toward the fire escape on the south side of the roof, Atlas jolted into motion. Instead of starting at a swift walk that morphed into a jog that transformed into a run, he bent at the waist and planted his left hand like a football player would. Without warning, he took off, his heavy, thudding strides threatening to crack the stones that had the misfortune of supporting his weight.

  Brave Mr. Security Chief did well to fish his standard-issue pistol out of his pants before the light-haired rookie beside him. It did neither of them any good, as Atlas extended his arms in a sick approximation of an old schoolyard game and smashed the two guards under the force of his maniacal approach.

  As the two guards fell, the others drew tasers and pistols of their own and began to fire. One sparking metal clip sank into the muscle of Atlas’s back and lit the trailing wire all the way back to its wielder’s hands. The electricity did nothing to slow him, and the guard held onto the taser too tightly. The force of Atlas’s pull tore the guard’s shoulders loose from the sockets and dragged him along in the behemoth’s wake like a puppet.

  Bullets dinged off the armored greaves on Atlas’s shoulders and arms, and he hit the glass doors of Gallant Tower with frightening force. Dark glass shattered into a blizzard of spinning shards. I heard screams issuing from the lobby and the smashing sounds of Atlas’s rampage continue inside. The guards in the square eyed one another nervously before charging toward the gap, and I saw some of the heroes on the edges finally startle into motion.

  I pressed two fingers to the receiver in my ear and gave the order.

  “Now.”

  I saw the bright blue lights arrayed against the morning sky – the projectiles from my minions’ spears from the roof of the federal building. They started slow and picked up speed as they went, and three security officers went down in the initial blast. One blue orb struck a hero in a gaudy red suit with yellow fins. He went down hard enough to let me know he was weak, and when he got up, his back smoking from the charge, he forgot Atlas’s rampage completely and focused his ire on the federal building.

  The hero – named Yellow Fin – took off at a sprint, and with each stride, his suit sprouted yellow spines, which grew longer and sharper as he ran. They would have been a deadly superpower in the hands of a villain. Hopefully Bartol and the others could stand up to it.

  The other heroes in the square were caught up in a moment of indecision. Some started toward the broken gap Atlas had torn into the tower’s lobby, while others looked up at the federal building, where my soldiers were readying for their second volley onto the streets below.

  Right on cue, the sky brightened, and a yellow beam of sunlight bisected the shadow cast by the tower. When she came to a stop before the toothy, glass-filled hole Atlas had made in the front of the tower, I recognized the light as Starshot herself rather than one of her blasts. She floated above the shards, adding her yellow light to their facets, and her presence made the guards skid to a halt and the other heroes in the vicinity hesitate.

  “Step back!” Starshot yelled with authority. The guards of Heroes’ Square did as the hero told them, and as the AI had programmed them to based on decades of comic book showdowns in which the approximations of real-world first responders were often last. I could hear sirens in the distance, and my heart beat furiously, though everything seemed to be going according to plan so far.

  “Fellow heroes,” Starshot said, looking to her left, where three players – two women in metallic satin capes and one shirtless man with an absurdly-muscled torso – stood watching her. “Please stand down. This villain is known to m—”

  A desk shot out of the broken lobby trailing a ribbon of glass dust. It would have taken Starshot out of the sky – and done significant damage – if she hadn’t seen it at the last second. Out of reflex, she brought the heels of her palms together and scrunched her knees up as she flexed, her yellow flash shattering the hurtling piece of furniture and scattering the jagged pieces about the square.

  “Whoa,” Blackstrike said.

  I tossed him a wild look.

  “Guess he’s taking your acting advice pretty seriously,” Blackstrike said.

  “If that’s the case, he went straight past Broadway and landed on method!”

  Atlas emerged from the hole he’d made in the base of Gallant Tower wearing a wry grin, and Starshot aimed her palms down at an angle, floating back into the center of the square. Hero and villain eyed one another in a scene pulled straight from an old spaghetti western, and the heroes in the vicinity gathered at the edges of the square. They wore a blend of bright colors, many donning capes even if they couldn’t fly, others bedecked in fins and masks and all sorts of mechanized contraptions.

  It was a cacophony of color made brighter as the sun climbed higher in the sky and the shadow of Gallant Tower shrank. Looking at them all, I felt bile rising, and wondered how I could have been blind enough to count myself among them in a previous build.

  But that was neither here nor there. For now, they were nothing to worry about. Those who didn’t go after my soldiers would refrain from entering the fight between Starshot and Atlas, lest they be accused of Rivalry poaching. Starshot had made her claim. Now all that remained was to watch.

  “Hear me, villain!” Starshot intoned, earning a smattering of ironic laughter from those gathered. She wasn’t one of them. Not really. “Our battle is far from over.”

  Good. Keep the others from joining in. Give it the appearance of a rivalry.

  Then the game tried to get me involved. I suspected it would because, of course, it wanted to create a show.

  Your rival Starshot has engaged Atlas in Heroes’ Square nearby. You have encountered both before. Will you enter the fray?

  Blackstrike’s eyes were flitting left to right, likely reading a similar notification. Given our previous encounter at the plant, it was no surprise. The AI was probably rubbing its proverbial hands, hoping to start a large group battle. I smirked, wondering if it had any idea what was about to take place.

  I nearly leapt out of my skin as a buzzing sound whipped past my left ear like a giant horsefly. A smattering of black-shelled, red-eyed viewer bots sped past, filling the square from all sides to document the coming PvP encounter.

  “Shall we?” Blackstrike asked as all eyes were intent on the coming clash.

  I spared a final look across the square, where I could just make out the faint white icons breaking the blue sky on the roof of the federal building as Bartol and company spread out, some heading down, some farther up, seeking to sow what chaos they could on our behalf.

  “Spunky,” I said, pressing down on the receiver once more. “You’re up.”

  “Roger that,” came Lyza’s staticky reply.

  I didn’t see the impact so much as hear it. Screams echoed from the lobby of Gallant Tower as my NPCs opened fire, spraying bullets and lobbing smoke grenades. It would be a swirling den of lead and smoke by the time we made it there. Just how I wanted it to be.

  “Come on.”

  I went over to Luther, who was still fishing in his many bags, and gestured impatiently. He looked like he wanted to bite my fingers off, but finished strapping on his utility belt, which matched my own.

  “Swarm on the right, traditional on the left,” he said. “And,” he fished into his own pouch and pulled out a familiar gun, “some stasis for good measure.”

  I nearly licked my lips.

  When the three of us got down to street level, most of the foot traffic was going in the opposite direction, spilling out onto the grid of Titan City. Sirens blared and cruisers raced around corners, but I knew it was mostly for show – the bells, whistles and pretty lights the AI triggered in celebration of any encounter, especially
one held in the sanctity of Heroes’ Square.

  We stepped gingerly over the broken shards of glass, doing our best to avoid notice, but Atlas and Starshot were doing their damnedest to put on a fine show, replete with shocks, flares and booming percussions. By the time they were done, there wouldn’t be a tile left unbroken.

  Most of the NPCs brave enough to stick around cheered with every sizzling, sun-soaked beam Starshot sent the goliath’s way. It was pleasant window dressing, even with all my pent-up cynicism, but it clashed eerily with the sounds of abject terror issuing from the embattled lobby just a few yards away.

  “More heroes inbound,” Luther said, huffing and puffing as he struggled to keep up.

  “Low-tier,” I guessed, not bothering to turn around. I knew there would be more heroes joining in once the festivities began. That was fine. That was a part of the plan. Let them play at stopping an NPC assault. Let them treat this like they would any other AI-triggered encounter. Let them swat at the waves without worrying about what swam in the depths.

  A good part of the lobby had been destroyed in Atlas’s initial ram. Pillars had been cracked and granite tiles splintered. There were chair legs missing and tables embedded into plaster walls. More importantly, there were bodies. Some were moving and some were not, and those that were did so with the panic inherent in any good comic book assault.

  There were men in suits crawling on their hands and knees, searching for lost or broken glasses and unlatched briefcases. Security guards ducked behind haphazard cover, popping up every so often to return fire; this was largely for show, as every player knew that the ‘good’ NPCs would never come too close to saving the day, lest they steal that honor – and the ensuing Fame – from the heroes.

  We moved through the smoke like wraiths. Some of the NPCs called out to us, seeing our bright colors, and wondered why we had forsaken them, right up until a bullet stopped them from worrying any longer.

  Alert: Reichert and Kay have been taken into custody.

  Sphere Update: 2 Slots Vacated. 18 of 20 Slots Filled.

  Two of Bartol’s squad. To be expected. Truth be told, I was planning to release a couple anyway. Might end up needing the space in my Sphere before the assault was through.

  I passed through the smoke and found myself midway up the center stair, Luther hacking and coughing beside me. At the top, we found Blackstrike standing with a group of familiar ne’er-do-wells before a wide set of brass double doors. There was a single silver button on a panel set into the dark marble tiles to the right of it. Luther pushed it without hesitation, and the elevator mouth slid open on silent rails.

  “Good to see you’ve made it,” Blackstrike said to Lyza, whose attempt to hide her bright spiky hair under a hood was more comical than effective. “Did you find our guy?”

  A particularly suave-looking executive approached, escorted by Brooks. He had short manicured hair and ‘BM’ embroidered on his suit jacket. He tried to pull away when he saw our dastardly-looking group, but ended up falling down, and launched into a rather pathetic scramble when he saw the guns my men leveled on him.

  “Get him up,” I said. Two of my men snatched him and held him, and I watched him whimper for a few seconds longer than I should have.

  “You want to live,” I said. No point in asking it. He forgot to nod, but I assumed his answer. I tossed my head back down toward the smoke-filled lobby, which was still a hall of terrors. “Think your chances are better down there?”

  He seemed as if he wanted to say yes. When Lyza cleared the safety on her weapon with an audible click, he thought better of it and shook his head.

  “Good.”

  A white icon appeared over his head, coming together far more quickly than many of the others I had brought into my Sphere of Influence. That was fear for you.

  Notice: Gallant Tower Building Manager has been Influenced.

  Sphere Update: 1 Slot Filled. 19 of 20 Slots Filled.

  I passed over the elevator threshold, beckoning for Blackstrike and Luther to follow. Lyza and her cohorts – three thugs wearing old, tattered gray suits and holding automatic weapons courtesy of Madam Post – awaited my instructions.

  “He’s coming with us, remember?”

  They shoved my newest accomplice into the elevator. His calm, docile look clashed oddly with his previous fear and suspicion.

  “Off you go,” I said to the others. “Onto phase two. Luther—”

  “They have it,” he said hastily, waving my concerns away.

  As if on cue, Lyza opened one side of her jacket, and I saw the slate-colored rectangular C4 charge with its red light blinking at her hip. She winked along with it and I gave her a smile as the brass doors slid closed with a hiss.

  Alert: Hobb has been killed.

  Sphere Update: 1 Slot Vacated. 18 of 20 Slots Filled.

  “Damn.” I blinked the notification away. “I liked him.” Some of the cops would get lucky shots. I just needed them to hold the lobby long enough.

  “Use that fancy card of yours,” I told the newest member of our party. “Take us to the top.”

  He slid a silver card into a slot with a red light over it. When he withdrew it, the light turned green and we felt the elevator glide into motion.

  The elevator was large enough to house an entire expedition. It was covered in ugly wood paneling and even had a suede couch taking up a good section of one wall. More potted plants filled the distant corners. They were plain and boring, and something that had long been a marker of lazy environmental design in video games dating back to the twentieth century.

  The music was to be expected, and it was such a jarring shift from the chaos that had immediately preceded it that Blackstrike let out a breathy laugh. I couldn’t help but join him, and before we knew it the two of us were nearly doubled over belly laughing at the absolute insanity of what we were about to attempt.

  Luther watched us in silent judgment, fingering the knobs on the middle of the clutch of silver balls that adorned his waist.

  It was a long way up, however. Long enough that our laughter ended a good way before the shaft slowed and came to a stop.

  I half expected to see Meteora’s stats populate before the doors opened, the AI notifying me of my impending doom at the hands of the waiting hero. Instead, they parted to reveal a short entryway in front of a glass wall. I squinted and saw a hallway beyond the glass door that looked like it separated the penthouse entryway from the glitz and glamor of the private nest of all the tier-one heroes in Leviathan’s good favor.

  “The mayor’s entertaining room,” I said.

  Blackstrike was less patient than me. He strode forward and opened the door to the mayor’s penthouse, and passed into the hallway. Luther and I regarded each other blankly before following.

  “Off with you,” I said to our new bellhop. “Keep the elevator moving. Make sure no one follows us.” He didn’t say anything, and the doors closed in front of his blank face.

  Alert: Building Manager dismissed.

  Sphere Update: 1 Slot Vacated 17 of 20 Slots Filled.

  The mayor’s penthouse – well, in name only, as we all knew whose haunt it really was – was just as over-the-top and boring as I’d imagined. White carpet and marble counters. There were crystal bottles of sparkling amber liquor like the kinds you saw in all the politicians’ nests in the movies, and a view of Titan City on three sides.

  I crossed the center of the room and came to a row of curved, ceiling-height windows. They bowed out to give the top of the tower a slightly bulbous exterior.

  “All the better to see the world below,” I whispered, more to myself than the others, as I peered down into the square. “The world and all its little ants. Those of us you preside over. Those of us you would rule.”

  A bright yellow flash lit the square, visible even from this height, even in the bright of day. A thin beam stuck Atlas on one of his armored shoulders and split into a series of tiny strings of light, shooting one of the viewer bots out
of the sky and making the spectators on the edges dance to avoid the sizzling strikes.

  When I turned around, I saw Blackstrike and Luther standing before a metal door set back into a shorter hall at the back of the room. There were cameras on the outside. Luther ignored them and set to the task of opening a control panel on the right side while Blackstrike used the opportunity to make faces at the man undoubtedly hiding inside.

  My right ear rang a second before the receiver picked up Lyza’s transmission. All that came through was static.

  “Repeat,” I said, pressing my fingers against the bud in my ear.

  “Charges…” More crackling. “Charges set!”

  “What’s the situation on the ground?”

  “Lost the team. Team… lost. Not sure…”

  “Slow down,” I said, earning a curious expression from Blackstrike and a frightened one from Luther. “What’s going on? More guards? Police? Have heroes entered the tower?”

  “Some,” she said. “But there are soldiers. Guards. Like, uber guards.”

  “What do they look like?” I asked, noting the panic in her voice. She hadn’t seemed like one given to panic. Not easily.

  “Black suits. Black masks.” More static. “A tower emblem—”

  Luther dropped a screwdriver as he picked up the message. It struck the black tiles under his knees with a resounding crack.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “The mayor’s personal guard,” he said. “An elite unit of former Special Forces operatives.”

  “Bah,” Blackstrike said. “Who cares about—”

  “Here!” Lyza screamed, but not at me. I heard gunshots ringing out of the static, short bursts of automatic fire. “Ruslan! No! All right, you bast—”

  Another burst of gunfire – this one sounding like it came from the opposite direction, from behind – and Lyza’s transmission cut out.