by Logan Jacobs
A server came by and took our drink orders.
I knew that if it had been Norma here with me, she would have ordered some kind of hazelnut caramel cinnamon non-fat whipped cream detoxified almond milk fair trade matcha powder alkalized essence of vanilla petal nonsense, but Dynamo just asked for a black coffee, like me.
After the server left, I asked her, “So, Elizabeth, are you getting what you want?”
“What do you mean?” she asked and raised her eyebrow again. When she did that, it made her look both stern and flirtatious at the same time, but I didn’t know her well enough yet to know whether the effect was intentional.
“Do you think your current employer is… giving you the maximum opportunities to help people?”
“Yes,” she answered reflexively. “Well-- I mean-- most of the time. I think. … I really wish they’d let me go after, uh, that tribal leader, and the other major… perps. I also wish that they wouldn’t assign me so many publicity events. I’m not a model or an actress, you know?
“I understand,” I said.
“I don’t want to be an icon,” she muttered. “I want to help people. I just want to…”
“Be a hero,” I finished. “A real hero.”
“… Ever since I was a little girl, it was always my dream to grow up to become one of them,” Dynamo said wistfully.
“And now you’ve achieved that dream,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s not always how I thought it would be,” she said.
Her voice sounded so weary and disappointed that I decided it was the right moment to take my shot.
“What if you could just do the crime-fighting part, and none of the publicity bullshit?” I asked. “And if you weren’t restricted by irrational company policies and your managers’ directives all the time. If you could just use your own judgment and be accountable to your own conscience. Oh yeah, and… permanently remove a lot more… public health hazards. A lot more.”
“… Permanently remove?” Elizabeth asked suspiciously. “We’re not really supposed to do that, unless it’s in self-defense, and we can’t help it. But that’s a last resort. We’re supposed to subdue them and then let the law take its course.”
“I know that,” I said.
At that point the server returned with our drinks, and we both smiled, relaxed our posture, and tried to look like we were just chatting about the weather.
After the server walked away I lowered my voice, which provided me with a nice excuse to lean in closer to the gorgeous woman, “But it doesn’t make sense. With ordinary criminals, depending on the crime, sure. I’m not saying you should get shot for stealing a bicycle or selling pot. But a supervillain? Do you know what kinds of things you have to do to get classified as a fucking supervillain? You basically have to be a mass murderer using supernatural weapons and or the technological equivalent. You have to be a psychopath hellbent on world domination or genocide or some kind of fanatical religious crusade or… or… selling the planet for profit to aliens that plan to enslave mankind. Something on that level. You can’t rehabilitate criminality on that level. Some people just plain need to die.”
“Well, some supervillains have a mental illness or have been scarred by childhood trauma,” she whispered back fiercely. “Some of them really believe that whatever crazy scheme they’re trying to pull off is actually for the greater good. I’m not perfect, I make mistakes too. I don’t have the right to decide who does or doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Yeah, no one’s perfect,” I scoffed. “… But some people are a lot more imperfect than others. Plenty of people grow up getting beaten by drunken parents. Or foster parents. But not very many of them react to that by taking drug cocktails that turn them into mutant octopuses and then trying to drown busloads of schoolchildren. And I don’t think the world has any obligation to tolerate the point zero one percent that do. It’s not even about whether they ‘deserve’ to die. That’s a philosophical question, and there’s not much point arguing it. The real question is, can we afford to let supervillains live? Are the inevitable costs in innocent lives worth it? Worth it to the Wardens so that they can say there’s no blood on their hands? Because you know what, there is blood on their hands. All the innocent civilian blood that gets spilled due to their pious inaction.”
“If we who call ourselves superheroes kill whenever we feel like it, then what makes us any different from the supervillains?” Dynamo demanded, a little too loudly. Then she took a sip from her coffee and then slammed the mug down a bit harder than necessary for emphasis.
I was reassured to see that no one turned our way at the sound of the mug slam, probably mostly because the greasy-haired teenage boy who was closest to us was now audibly blasting death metal through his headphones, and they probably just thought it was part of the music.
“We won’t kill whenever we feel like it,” I said quietly. I paused to take a leisurely sip from my own mug and then set it down very gently and deliberately. “The rules for my team are going to be that we only kill in self-defense or defense of others. We only kill villains that either have murdered already or have murderous intent.”
“Your team?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “What do you mean, your team? You can’t just assemble a team of-- of-- vigilante assassins! That’s illegal!”
“Of course I would never do that,” I replied. “By ‘team,’ I am simply referring to my group of close friends and associates, which just incidentally happens to come into contact with supervillains at a somewhat higher rate of frequency than is average across the population, and… likes to be prepared.”
“The Warden rules, and the city laws, exist for a reason,” Dynamo insisted, and her piercing turquoise eyes flashed with anger.
“The Warden rules and the city laws enable supervillains to survive and prosper throughout Pinnacle City,” I replied.
She swallowed and hesitated, so I knew that at least some part of her must feel that way too and be frustrated by it. Finally she replied, “It’s our responsibility to hold ourselves to a higher level of moral conduct than our adversaries.”
“So, do you have any intention of turning yourself into a mutant sea monster and starting to drown busloads of schoolchildren?” I asked her. “Or, I don’t know, attempting to poison the city’s irrigation system with a virus that would have rapidly transformed every single citizen into a zombie, in order to tarnish the political reputation of the current mayor and secure electoral victory for yourself? Not that zombies fucking vote anyway.”
“Of course not.”
“So, they don’t have to pull their punches, but you do?” I asked as I raised an eyebrow.
“That is the oath I swore to,” she muttered. “We are better than them. We have a moral code.”
“That makes it so they can do anything and everything to win, and you can’t do much of anything to stop them.”
“I stop them,” she said as her eyes narrowed. “I stopped them last night. You saw me.”
“And then you’ll stop the same assholes six months from now when they break out of prison,” I said.
“That’s the law,” she retorted. “That’s the conduct we heroes adhere to.”
“Then I guess your moral conduct compares pretty favorably to your adversaries’,” I said. “So does mine, in fact. Compared to a supervillain I’m a fucking saint.”
“Congratulations,” she said icily.
“Maybe I’m coming off as overly flippant right now,” I said, “but that’s just the way I talk. I’ve given the crime problem in Pinnacle City plenty of thought, and it’s something that I feel passionately about. I feel passionately that we can do better. And I’m convinced that you could be an important part of the solution, with your talents and idealism.”
“I worked hard to get to where I am,” she said. “I worked hard to earn a legitimate position as one of Pinnacle City’s foremost defenders. I’m not going to throw it all away for some egotistical bored billionaire with a hero complex who’s-
- who’s-- morally gray, at best.”
“I take offense at that description,” I said. “I don’t have a hero complex. Pah. You won’t catch me dead in neon spandex.”
“You’re really not helping your case,” she hissed.
“Look,” I said as I leaned forward. “We could talk for hours. We could probably talk all day. I’d enjoy that. But, like you said, it wouldn’t help my case. Because you’re a woman of action. So I don’t want to argue philosophy with you, I just want to show you that my methods could work in real life. This ‘tribal leader’ that you’d love to sink your teeth into? Well, I’ve identified one of his close associates, lovely chap who goes by the name The Virus, and I’m currently in the process of arranging a rendezvous with him. I’ll keep you updated on the time and place. So that you can have the chance to watch my team in action and see for yourself what you think of our crime-fighting potential.”
“Or how about I just notify my employers of illegal vigilante activities set to occur at the time and place that you give me?” she suggested.
“If you were really going to do that, you wouldn’t tell me you were going to do that,” I said as I winked at her.
“I can do it now,” she scoffed, shook her head, and crossed her arms. “You are playing a dangerous game, Miles. You don’t want The Wardens as your enemy.”
“Maybe I don’t care.” I stood up from the table, looked her straight in the eye, and smiled. Damn, she was gorgeous, even when she was glaring at me.
Especially when she was glaring at me.
“Maybe I’ll stop you,” Elizabeth growled, and the purr of her voice sent a nice shiver of arousal down my spine.
“What fun would that be?” I inquired, and then I tossed down a bill on the table and walked away.
She didn’t stop me.
Miles Chapter Eight
Over the course of the next few days, while I focused on getting as many more components of my suit as I could operational, Aileen continuously updated me with new information about The Virus.
She didn’t have quite as much information about him as I would have liked, which was partly because he had a tendency to vanish from the C.D.S.’s view for long stretches of time. It was quite possible for anyone to do that simply by traveling to an area that was remote enough not to have any public surveillance cameras, or by covering or disguising themselves thoroughly enough that computer algorithms could not recognize them, but The Virus’ frequent disappearances seemed more supernatural than that because they usually occurred suddenly when he had last been picked up in an urban location, and Aileen had never once observed him altering his distinctive appearance with so much as a change of wardrobe. So, there was that obstacle, which deprived us of the two pieces of information that I most wanted.
Firstly, I wanted The Virus to lead us to The Chief, but whatever interactions he was having with the supervillain that Aileen had pegged as his likely boss must have taken place during those stretches when he vanished from the C.D.S.
Secondly, I wanted to know what his power was. But Aileen said she never once observed him using a supernatural ability.
“But I have observed that almost every established acquaintance with whom he interacts treats him with an air of exaggerated deference which might even be described as subservience,” she remarked when I questioned her on the matter. “This may be due to his elevated position within the hierarchy of The Chief’s crime network. But it is likely at least partly attributable to the presumed consequences of incurring his displeasure.”
“So you’re telling me that you don’t know what his power is since he never seems to use it, but whatever it is, it’s probably scary as fuck?” I asked.
“The term ‘scary as fuck’ can only be defined in relation to the subjective perception of an individual or group of individuals,” Aileen replied, “but, based on the actions and body language cues of the individuals with whom The Virus interacts on a regular basis, they appear to evaluate his power as such.”
“Great,” Norma said sarcastically.
Aileen’s research was, however, extremely helpful in another way. She observed that The Virus paid a visit to his speakeasy every weekday afternoon and then ordered a Pumpkin to transport him and his black-suited sidekick back to his home.
Pumpkin was my transportation service app, which provided self-driving armored vehicles with heavily tinted windows and bar service to a select clientele. Politicians, celebrities, and mobsters often used it, and a lot of wealthy parents got their children under-twenty-one restricted accounts. And during Pinnacle City High’s prom night my entire fleet was always engaged.
Since I knew thanks to Aileen exactly where The Virus lived, I could have attacked him there, but that would have given him the home field advantage. His mansion in a genteel neighborhood was extremely well fortified and constantly manned by security guards.
Instead, I decided to fit out a very special Pumpkin just for The Virus.
I also instructed Norma to purchase a large vacant warehouse conveniently located along the same route that The Virus typically took from The Pig Puddle to his home, through my real estate holding company.
Aileen pulled up blueprints and satellite imagery of the warehouse for my reference and Norma’s so that we could brainstorm plans for equipping it so that anyone who entered it, wouldn’t get out alive again. I also had Aileen computer generate some security system proposals, and I had her calculate the likelihood of potential outcomes based on what she knew about the abilities of The Virus’ associates.
Two days later, once the three of us had come up with our final design, I called up my elite team of construction workers and engineers that had helped me build The Cellar and a few other projects around my house.
Norma and I met them at the site of the warehouse, with Aileen wired in through an earpiece I was wearing and a microphone pinned to my lapel, and the foreman reviewed the details of the plans that I had already briefed him on over the phone.
“Y’all expecting a bunch of tanks to roll in here?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Some heat-seeking missiles?”
“Nope,” I said. “Just some garden variety supervillain powers. C or D grade. Nothing that would register on the Richter scale I shouldn’t think.”
He blinked and then said, “Well, just look after yourself, Boss. I’d hate for anything to happen to you. It’s been a real pleasure working for you all these years.”
“I always look after myself,” I said, “and my people. Did your wife like the housewarming gift I sent last month?”
“Uhh, yeah,” the foreman asked as his eyes opened wide. “You know about that?”
“Of course,” I chuckled. “Mary is her name, correct?”
“Yeah, Boss,” he said as his lips widened into a smile. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I sent the gift,” I said with a shrug.
“I just thought that you had people to send those things out,” he explained.
“I get a memo every day from dear Norma here,” I said as I gestured to my mousy assistant, “but I try to get involved as much as I can. You all have value to me.”
“Wow,” he said. “Uhh, thanks Boss-- I mean Mr. Nelson. But yeah, she really liked the lawn furniture. I appreciate it.”
“You do good work for me,” I said, but then one of the foreman’s assistants walked over to us with the blueprints in his hands.
“Okay, I understand this bit with the explosives… and ah, the auto-locking barriers… but what’s the kiddie pool in the basement here for, if you don’t mind me asking?” one of the workers asked as he examined a blueprint.
“I don’t mind at all, but you’d get a lot more out of seeing it in action than just hearing about it,” I said. “If you’d like, you all are welcome to stick around and admire the results of your handiwork. If all goes according to plan and The Chief doesn’t have them otherwise engaged, I expect our targets to show up sometime tomorrow, the earlier the better so we won’t be
waiting around all day. I’ll order some pizza and beer. You can take some footage for your project portfolio to show other clients.”
The foreman glanced at the blueprint that the worker was holding up and again he chuckled and shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I appreciate the offer, but in this case, I don’t think I want to be anywhere in the vicinity of my handiwork.”
“Fair enough,” I said, I had already guessed this would be his answer, and that was why I offered.
The warehouse had two floors plus an underground basement, one staircase, one elevator, three doors, and eight windows. We needed to prepare for all potential approaches to the building. While the crew got to work, Norma and I wandered around supervising. She didn’t know as much as the crew did about any of the specialized implementations, but sometimes she had creative, one might even say sadistic, broad conceptual ideas to contribute. So Norma focused on visualizing the big picture, and I double-checked the technical aspects of their work and helped them problem-solve and adapt our original concepts to the resources on hand and the extremely rushed time frame.
The way I figured it, the traps had to do a great job, not a perfect job. The Virus, and by extension whatever thugs he commanded, were not particularly high tier supervillains. So whatever odds and ends ended up being left over after the traps had done their worst, my gloves and Aileen’s nipples could take care of.
If the traps ended up instantly killing the entire group that arrived, then that would be damaging to The Chief’s operations, since Aileen described The Virus as being one of his lieutenants. There was a slight chance The Chief would be able to trace their destruction back to us, but probably not through direct evidence. The more telling sign would be that they had been killed at all, since that wasn’t something the Wardens would do.
I wouldn’t shed a tear if the group of villains that my Pumpkin carried to this warehouse all died, but my preferred outcome was that at least one would be left alive for questioning, just like Jonah Clark had been the sole survivor from the group that invaded my house. What I really wanted wasn’t just to pick off The Chief’s supporters. I wanted information that could lead me straight to The Chief himself so that I could deal with him appropriately.