by Noah Harris
After twenty minutes or so, he arrived at the stately exterior of the Heathman. Darkness had now settled completely; the last bits of the sun had completely vanished during his brief drive. Kevin drove carefully passed the dark blue awning of the hotel, eying the lobby for any sign of the security detail that he could warn.
And just as he was about to turn the corner, he caught a glimpse of a handful of strapping, camouflaged men speaking with police officers. He slammed the brakes and waved frantically to a valet. The trim man in a black vest and crisp white shirt approached.
"Sir?" he said, waiting for instructions.
Kevin bolted from the car, made a gesture of "get in" to the valet, and began walking in brisk strides towards the doors of the hotel. Realizing that he didn't take his ticket, he made a slow loop around, snatched the ticket from the valets waiting hand, and headed back to the doors.
As soon as he walked into the lobby and felt the cool brush of air against his skin, he was struck by the elegance of the hotel. Dark, paneled wood lacquered to a mirror shine lined the walls, crystalline chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, bathing the expanse of the room in a soft, orange hue, and plush furniture was placed here and there. The crowd in the lobby was a mixture of men and women in expensive evening wear who chatted while sipping champagne from tall, fluted glasses, and serious- faced men in police gear, military fatigues, or the inconspicuous yet well-tailored suits of secret service men. The low murmur of conversation swirled with the gentle tinkling of a melodic Sonata being played at the piano.
Upon seeing the high standards of elegance to which everyone seemed to be dressed, Kevin looked down at the jeans and sneakers that he was wearing. He scolded himself for not having the presence of mind to put on something at least a little bit more formal, but once he remembered his mission, he decided that such formalities were pointless to consider.
He scanned the room and picked out the man who he thought looked like the most important person in the room, and made a beeline over to him. It was an older man, with a bald head shaved to a sheen wearing military formal wear, his chest plastered with shining, dangling metals and an array of small squares of service ribbons. He was currently speaking to a pair of formally-dressed individuals who looked no different from the dozens of other pairs of moneyed couples that filled the lobby.
"Sir! Uh, sir?" Kevin said in between gulps of breath.
The three stopped talking and turned to him. Right away, all three of their expressions turned to that of surprised scorn.
After a moment, the uniformed man spoke.
"Yes? Can we help you, young man?" "So, uh, are you the guy in charge?"
"'In charge'? In charge of what?"
Kevin waved his hand around him.
"You know, this whole thing, I have something really important to tell the senator."
The three in the group sighed, seemingly at the same time.
"You obviously don't belong here, but do you know who this man is?" said the slim man in the elegant, almost glossy tuxedo.
"He looks like the guy in charge, so that's why I'm talking to him."
The woman in the salmon-colored gown spoke in an arrogant, yet dignified tone.
"This is General Anthony Whittaker. You know, the Anthony Whittaker?"
Kevin shook his blank face.
"Well, nice to meet you, General Whitman, but I have some really, really important information about something happening tonight, and I need to talk to someone in charge. You are in charge, right?"
The general raised his fingers and made a brief gesture, as though he were rubbing a small piece of something between them.
"No, I'm not in charge, but I'm sure these two will be more than happy to speak with you." "These tw--"
Two shadows grew into a loom over the three guests. Kevin turned, and his face nearly smacked right into the chest of one of the tall, huge-chested secret service men that now stood in front of him.
"Please come with us, sir," said one of them in an almost inhumanly deep voice.
And though he seemed to be making a request, Kevin had no say in the matter. Each of the enormous men took Kevin by a wrist and began walking. Kevin had a split second to decide if he was going to walk with them, or be dragged. He chose to walk.
"Wait, where are we going? I need to talk to security--it's really important," he said, his steps barely keeping up with the huge strides of the agents.
"That's exactly what you're going to do," said the agent on the left, not turning his buzz cut-topped head around to look at Kevin.
He walked with them, attracting the attention of every guest that they passed. They walked through the lobby, past a set of huge, dark brown doors, and into a hallway of white walls and gray concrete floors. Then they turned left, then right, and then left again down the hallway, until they arrive at an inconspicuous steel door. One of the agents pulled a white keycard with a red stripe from his pocket and swiped it in front of the handle, which then opened with a click. They brought him into the room, which was a small, windowless box with a long, steel table in the middle that had two bolted-down chairs on either side. With a rough toss, they sat Kevin down in one of the chairs, fastened his wrists to the armrests with some kind of glowing wire, and left the room.
Other than the droning hum of the fluorescent lights that cast the room in a sickly white glow, no other sound could be heard. In front of Kevin was a huge, solid black sheet of glass that covered the wall. He'd seen enough TV to know that there were probably a few security agents behind there.
"Hey!" he shouted at the wall. "Someone's going to kill the Senator! You have to listen to me! Bring in someone. Jesus!"
He stopped yelling, and silence once again filled the room. Minutes passed, and Kevin began to wonder if he was simply going to be left in this room until the speech was over. But just when he felt himself become resigned to this fate, he heard the same clicking of the lock that opened the door previously.
The door opened as though it was given a gentle push from fingertips. The first thing that Kevin saw was the black combat boot; a heavy, deep black boot polished to a mirrored shine. It was followed by a long, camouflaged leg. Then the rest of the figure entered, he stood with his two feet locked together and pushed the door shut.
The man was tall that's what Kevin noticed first. It seemed like he needed to stoop to enter the room. His blond hair was cut into a classic crew style which topped his perfectly angular face. His dark, oak- colored eyes were narrow and skeptical and sat between and just above sharp, jutting cheekbones. His nose was small and pointed, and his lips were wide and as deep red as wine. But despite the hardness of his features, he exuded a certain warmth that put Kevin at immediate ease. On his shirt that seemed to stretch against the broadness of his chest were two gold bars that indicated his rank, and the name "Fridolf" stitched in black lettering.
Kevin scanned his face and recognized it immediately from the news report that he had watched earlier.
"Oh, hey!" he said, "You were on TV, like an hour or two ago!" Kevin found himself wiggling in his chair, as though he wanted to stand and greet him properly.
Lt. Fridolf didn't respond, instead looking over the informally dressed man that sat restrained in the chair.
Finally, after a few more moments of staring, he spoke.
"Yes, I was on TV. State why you're here, and why you're going up to random generals and spookin' them." His voice had a subtle Southern twang to it.
"OK, OK," said Kevin, growing agitated with excitement, "so, long story short, I just found out that my husband is an assassin. I also found out, while I was finding the other thing out, that his job is to kill the senator that's speaking tonight."
Fridolf's eyes widened, and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the edge of the steel table.
"Wait, what? How'd you find this out? How do you know? And how do I know this isn't some stupid prank?"
"Well, I don't know how acting like you know that someone's going to a
ssassinate a senator would be a prank, but it's not that."
Fridolf's glare softened.
"Well, we get a lot of nutjobs at events like these--people who swear they need to talk to the VIP, that kinda thing. And with the whole MRA thing goin' on, people 'r on a little bit of an edge."
"Oh, I don't care about talking to Senator-what's-his-face, I just don't want him to get shot by my husband."
Fridolf pushed himself off from the table, stood straight, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Well, out with it--whaddya know?"
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but when he realized that he didn't know any more details than what he had just said, he hesitated.
"I mean, that's it. My husband's going to shoot the Senator." Fridolf's face grew incredulous.
"That's it? Is he just some kinda lunatic or somethin'? Does he hate Metahumans? What's his deal?"
Kevin thought back to the call.
"No, he's getting paid. Someone called on this burner phone, and I picked it up, and someone on the end said the senator's name, and that the day was tonight, by, um, one-hundred? I don't know what that means, and that my husband was getting paid twice the amount for doing it because the senator's a senator, I guess."
Fridolf's expression turned into one of consideration.
"OK, so your husband. Does he know that you know this?" "Yeah."
"And he just let you drive over here, knowing that you knew what he was planning on doing?"
"Well, he told me that the only reason he didn't just shoot me then and there was because I guess because we're married."
Fridolf scoffed. "Ain't that sweet."
He thought again for a moment. "And you know what he looks like, and all that." "Yeah, yeah, duh, I mean, I have pictures of him on my phone."
"Good. We're gonna need 'em right away. And I'm gonna put you in a safe room 'till this whole thing blows over. I'm sure if your husband...what's his name, by the way?" "Mike. Uh, Mike Gleich."
"OK, if your husband, Mr. Mike Gleich, is around here, and finds out what you've told us, he's probably not gonna give you a second freebie, if you catch my drift."
Kevin grew cold at that idea of seeing Mike again, and seeing that face of pure anger. He shivered to himself.
"So you're gonna just stick me in a closet or something until the senator leaves?"
Fridolf shook his head.
"Nah, we'll just have you hang out with those two beefcakes that brought ya here. Don't worry, they're friendlier than they look."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Anyway, first thing's first, we need you to send a clear picture of your husband's face to us right away. Here's my number."
He pulled out a notepad, jotted something down, ripped the paper, and handed it out to Kevin. Kevin responded by giving a look of minor irritation to the glowing, silver cords that kept his wrists tied to the armrests.
"Heh, gimme a sec," said Fridolf, pulling out a keycard and swiping it over the cords, which slid into the armrests like snakes retreating from a fire.
Kevin then slid his phone out of his pocket, and after finding a close-up picture of Mike's face, he sent it to the number on the piece of paper. For a moment, his eyes hung on the picture of his husband. Fridolf held his wrist up to his face and spoke into it.
"Meechum, Williams, get in here and take our guest to the safe room...yeah, I said 'guest'...no, he's fine...right."
And with that, the two same beefy agents entered the room, with one of them gesturing to Kevin.
"OK, go on then with these two fine gentlemen. They'll keep you safe." Kevin's face turned incredulous. "So that's it?"
Fridolf matched Kevin's perplexed look with one of his own. "Yeah, that's it. Thanks for your help, ah, you know what, I didn't get yer name," he said, extending his hand towards Kevin. "I'm Lieutenant Theodore Fridolf. You can just go ahead and call me Ted."
Kevin took his hand, which felt warm and comforting in his own.
"Kevin Montrose," he said, his eyes lingering on the lieutenant's dark, brown eyes.
They shook for a moment longer than necessary before the lieutenant pulled his hand back.
"Well, anyway, I'm gonna make sure that everyone in the building knows this guy's face. Thanks for your help."
And with that, he ducked out of the room at a hurried pace, leaving Kevin alone with the two agents.
The one on the right pointed to his chest. "Williams," he said, in a low, bassy voice. The other pointed to his own, "Meechum."
Kevin noticed something about the man's hand; it had some kind of a light, purple sheen to it, some kind of strange pattern. Kevin pointed at it.
"What's going on there?" he said.
Meechum looked down at his hand and let out a sigh that seemed to suggest that he was tired of having to explain it.
"Let's walk and talk," he said in a voice that was strangely melodic for someone of his size.
And so they did, leaving the gray-walled room and heading back out into the cool corridors of the angled hallway, both men taking a position at Kevin's flanks.
"I'm sure you've heard of Incubi before," he said, his eyes fixed forward as they walked. Kevin gulped. He had heard of these strange men, and their female counterparts, Succubae. "Oh yeah, I have. So, you guys, like, sleep with people...when they're sleeping?"
Meechum turned his head towards Kevin just enough for Kevin to see a sly grin creep across his face.
"Nothing that exciting, I'm afraid. It's more that we just have a sixth sense about what people are feeling at a given moment in time. We're good at figuring out the emotions that people spend most of their energy trying to hide."
Williams spoke in his gruff voice, "Yeah, and it's a fuckin' pain in my ass. You know, there's a reason why no one says what they're really feelin' when someone asks them how's it goin', cause if we did, no one would get anything done."
partner is doing. And besides, when we ask, it's because we care."
"Yeah, yeah," said Williams with a dismissive wave, "but sometimes you just wanna say 'hi' and go on with your freakin' day."
"Like you, for example," said Meechum to Kevin, "it's obvious that you're under a great deal of stress." Kevin scoffed, "you really need some kind of power to tell me that?"
"Well, not only stressed, but feeling a great deal of personal betrayal."
Kevin was silent at this remark. They continued down the hallway, the steps of the agents' dress shoes resonating with heavy clicks as they walked.
"So why are you a secret service agent?" Kevin said, "shouldn't you be some kind of psychologist or something? And what's with the markings?"
They turned another corner.
"Just because my affinity may be for understanding how people work doesn't mean that I have to do a job like that. I like what I do. And these markings?" he said, pulling up his sleeve enough to expose winding, purple-colored tattoo-like designs that seemed to extend further up his forearm, "these are traditional markings of Incubi, they signify personal achievements, clan lineage, that sort of thing. Now that we can exist out in the open, we don't have to expend our powers making them appear invisible to your kind."
"I think they look pretty fruity, but that's just me," said Williams, which earned a good-natured chiding expression from Meechum.
Upon arriving at two large, steel doors, Meechum again pulled out his card, swiped it, and opened one of the doors.
The room they stepped into was another simple, box-like room, but with its warm lamp-lighting, furnishings of simple furniture, arrangements of leafy houseplants, and framed art of generic landscape scenes, it was a bit more hospitable.
The two men entered after Kevin. Williams laid his body across one of the couches, and Meechum went straight for the stainless steel box that, upon opening, revealed a full stock of various drinks, alcoholic and otherwise.
"Can I get something for either of you two fine gentlemen?" said Meechum, squatting in front of the humming mini-fridge.
"Yeah, get me one'a them, uh, they got any Yoohoo?"
chocolate milk? Come on. Here, have one of these protein drinks; they've got a chocolate-flavored one."
He tossed a brown bottle with a purple label at Williams, who barely caught it. "It's better for you."
Williams popped the cap, took a swig, and winced.
"I hate this-good-for-you bullshit."
Meechum smirked. The phone in his pocket buzzed, and with his purple-sliced hand, he pulled it out and answered.