by Mathy, Scott
Killing Capes: The End
By
Scott Mathy
Copyright © 2018 by Scott Mathy
Cover by Darby Davis
All rights reserved
This book is entirely a work of fiction; any similarities to individuals living or dead are coincidental and unintentional. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by electronic or physical means, without permission in writing from the author.
Scott’s infrequently updated podcast and ramblings can be found at www.nerdtalkshow.com
This book is solely dedicated to my wife, Veronica. You have been with me since the beginning of this project. You listened to my insane ideas, supported the ones that worked, gently put down the ones that sucked. You read through every word (multiple times) and gave a shy writer the confidence to put his story into readers’ hands. Without you, none of this would have happened. You’re the most ruthless editor I could ever have. And for that you have my infinite gratitude, respect, and love.
PREFACE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
PREFACE
Here we are at year three. I never thought that Killing Capes would become a trilogy. When I first started NaNoWriMo in 2016, I thought it would a stretch to turn one of my short stories into a full novel. By the time I finished, I was exhausted. The results of that month were rough – unbearably so in some places. Looking back, I think we did at least eight passes of editing on that first book before we put Darby’s cover on it and pushed it out to Amazon. I still look back on it and feel the inconsistencies in its writing. There’s a charm to it, but I think if I wrote that story today, the final product would look very different.
The sequel brought with it a whole new set of problems. Suddenly, I had to remember little details that were an afterthought when I put the first book together in a month. I had people asking if certain characters were coming back, how much of the story they’d be in, and how long I planned to keep writing them. There were expectations this time. That was terrifying. I’d like to think we lived up to at least some of those desires.
I spent quite a bit of time while wrapping up the second book thinking about that last question. Killing Capes was always about normal people finding a way to live in an abnormal world. Dwight’s restlessness, frankly horrible decisions, defeats, and victories couldn’t go on forever. I decided it was time to bring it to a close. The book you’re holding is the capstone of the Killing Capes story. Their lives may go on, but I think the story has been told, at least for me. To everyone who gave feedback, stopped me to talk about their favorite character or moments, or asked where it was all leading: from the bottom of my heart, thank you. To those last people: here’s your answer.
ONE
“How would you do it, Mr. Knolls?” The man in the white suit said quietly, his shoulders tilted forward over his latticed fingers. He gently rapped his rings against the obsidian slab of his enormous desk.
Dwight felt the man’s gaze cutting through him, his every insignificant motion under the scrutinizing judgment of the Tyrant before him. “Do what, Mr. Wulf?”
The man, if he could be called that, grinned. It was a wicked, toothy expression; there was a terrible perversion about Wulf’s smirk. “Kill them: the Powers.” He ran a hand through the wispy grays of his hair as he spoke, “The ones who threaten our stability. You’ve seen how dangerous they really are.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever thought about that. I guess it would depend on what they could do. A telepath and a speedster aren’t exactly the same.” Dwight shifted in his seat, feeling Wulf’s stare intensify.
The Tyrant pulled his hands up under his chin, “And what about Midas?”
The name was pointed directly at his heart, a carefully chosen projectile. “I really doubt I could handle that one, regardless of the assistance you’re offering.”
Wulf chuckled, “Mr. Knolls, you have no idea the resources I’m willing to commit to this little project. I assure you, if there’s a way, you’ll have what you need.”
Dwight thought for a few moments, “First, I’d find a way to get my hands on whatever space crap he’s vulnerable to. Then, I’d isolate him from his team. From there, it’s just a matter of how you want it done.”
“Nothing else?” Wulf’s sadistic grin dropped into a mocking frown, “I was expecting something with more messy details, more…personal.”
Dwight figured Wulf had done his research; he knew about Linda and their history with the Golden Guardian. He stood to leave, “Whatever revenge fantasy you’re getting at, I promise it doesn’t exist. I’ll show myself out, Mr. Wulf.”
Any semblance of hospitality disappeared in an instant, “You’ll sit back down, Mr. Knolls. I know who you really are inside. I know you’re afraid of us and our wars.” His words degenerated into a vicious growl, “You know perfectly-fucking-well what’s at stake here: the collateral damage that can happen when they – we – get out of line. The deaths.” Wulf jammed a finger down sharply on the intercom, “Miller, get in here.”
A blue-suited man entered through the double doors at the back of the massive office. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, heedless of the enormous tinted windows behind Wulf’s looming form.
Miller approached the Tyrant without any trace of hesitation in his step. “Sir,” he said emotionlessly, taking a position to the side of the black slab.
Wulf gave no regard to the newcomer, instead continuing to glare at Dwight’s reseated position. “Miller, I would like you to take your personal weapon and place it against your head.”
The man removed a black pistol from the holster hidden under the jacket of his suit. Dwight watched as he ejected the clip in full view, examined the loaded cartridge, and replaced it in the gun. The employee pulled back the slide before pressing it against his temple. He froze, awaiting Wulf’s next order.
The Tyrant cleared his throat, regaining the calmed demeanor of their initial conversation, “You see, Mr. Knolls, this is true power: not the strength to throw a car, or cross the city in a heartbeat or survive through the apocalypse. The ability to make your will manifest. This man’s life is now an insignificant commodity between the two of us.” Wulf pushed himself away from the desk. “You have the power to save it, if you act quickly.”
Pacing around the huge piece of furniture, he continued describing his demented game, “Miller here is going to represent the powerless citizens of our little city. Our conflict decides whether he gets to go home to his pathetic little family, or if I’ll have HR recruit a new coffee-boy tomorrow morning. Miller, when I say ‘five’ you’re going to pull the trigger.”
Dwight looked up at the stationary Associate, trying to break down Wulf’s potential plan. “Cut the shit; I get your point.”
Wulf casually stopped in front of Dwight. Leaning over the seat, he forcibly grabbed the arms of Dwight’s chair, boxing him in. His face loomed inches from Dwight’s, “No, you don’t. Not yet. There is a gun taped beneath your seat right this second. You have until the count of five to save this man’s life.”
With that, Wulf shoved himself away from Dwight’s chair and leaned back against the front of his desk. “One,” he said spitefully.
Dwight hesitantly reached beneath him with his right hand. Sure enough, his fingers wrapped around the cold, textured grip of another pistol, carefully placed for this moment. Without a word, he tugged it free and drew it up to point at the maniac in front of him. He stood, taking aim at Wulf’s grinning head.
Wulf
’s smile widened, “Two. There you go, Knolls. Did you know that Starpoint controls more of this city than any other corporation?”
“Wulf, stop. You don’t need to do this,” Dwight pleaded, his hand steady.
“Of course I don’t,” he laughed, “Those in power rarely need to do anything. Do you know why I’m in control of this situation – of this city, Mr. Knolls?”
He knew the gun was worthless from the moment he pulled it free, “Because you can’t die,” he said, defeated.
Wulf stepped forward, pushing the barrel of Dwight’s weapon into his own forehead. “So you believe the stories, then? Three – and that means you’re not even going to attempt to save this helpless soul? Four.”
Dwight let his arm slip down to his side, dropping the gun. Wulf stepped back, staring bitter hatred into his guest’s eyes. “No, Mr. Knolls, this is why I am in command of New Haven. Five.”
Beside Dwight, the man in the suit pulled the trigger. The Associate’s head burst with a sickening pop. Miller slumped to the floor, a wet spatter streaking across the dark tiled flooring of Wulf’s office. The weapon clattered out of his limp hand, slipping quietly onto the marble. Both firearms were quickly overtaken by the spreading crimson pool.
Wulf moved away briskly, stepping directly over the corpse of the Associate and returning to his throne. “I am already quite aware of what you’re goddamned capable of, Mr. Knolls,” he snarled quietly before replacing his hospitable disguise, “So, shall we begin discussing the terms of your employment?”
Dwight came to with a violent jerk. He was shivering; the raging winds of the mountain lashed at the minute patches of exposed skin beneath his heavy robes. The hood pulled up over his unkempt hair did little to stop the gusts from tearing at his cheeks. Even through the mask covering his mouth, his breath escaped as thick puffs of steam.
“I fink yer lads are frozen to the rock, mate,” Bernard said, leaning down into Dwight’s view. From his meditating position, Dwight noted the phantom was still wearing his usual undersized t-shirt and jeans. Clearly, his damaged mind wasn’t interested in the accuracy of its projections.
He attempted to retrain his focus on the mystical objects resting on the pedestal before him. Despite hours of concentration, they remained unchanged in the fierce storm.
The Bernard-phantom stepped between Dwight and the stationary metallic framework. “Hate to break it to ya, but you ‘aven’t got a drop of magic in ya. Pathetic.” He poked with imaginary fingers at the spherical focus crystal resting in Dwight’s frostbitten hands.
Leaping to his numb legs, Dwight roared and hurled the orb through Bernard’s illusionary face. It passed harmlessly through Bernard’s sarcastic smirk before sailing over the side of the summit. Dwight lost sight of it in the blowing snow as it cleared the rim of the stone parapet. The phantom chuckled to itself as its facial features reformed.
Bernard’s form exploded into mist as a green portal ripped into existence where he stood. Dwight knew the phantom was unharmed, merely dispersed by his mind’s attention on the imminent arrival of his host. He’d grown sadly used to the harassment from his near-fatal overdose of Bernard’s blood.
Through the swirling field of energy came the leather boots of the other Dwight: this world’s Dwight. He stepped into the fierce storm and summoned a dome of tranquility around them with the slightest of gestures at the metallic instrument.
The freezing Dwight sagged with exhaustion, relieved to be free of the storm outside of the magically held dome. “You didn’t need to come yet,” he said between ragged breaths, “I could have kept going for another hour or so.”
The magical Dwight brushed a few flakes of snow from his billowing cloak, “I sensed that you discarded the channeling sphere. I took it as a sign that you had given up.” With an open hand, he pointed a finger in the direction Dwight had thrown the orb. The crystal reemerged through the snowstorm, passed through the barrier, and settled in the magician’s hand. He turned to regard the bundled Dwight with a judgmental stare.
“It’s not working,” he admitted, “I’m confident in saying that there is no chance in hell that I can perform anything remotely close to magic.” He laid back on the cold stone, trying to catch his breath.
The Grand Arbiter levitated the ball over his hands effortlessly, before tucking it into one of his robe’s many secret pockets, “You may be right, my friend. When you came to me, I believed that there could be a chance, but now…” he trailed off, carefully plotting his next words, “…these tools are given to our youngest to determine if they have the gift. Moving them is considered the single simplest of magical feats.” He lowered a hand to Dwight. “I’m sorry.”
Dwight took the hand with his prosthetic limb. “Nah, this was always on me.” He accepted the help to his feet. “I’ll add it to the list of talents I don’t have.”
The two men headed back through the portal, crossing hundreds of miles in a single stride. Surrounding them, dozens of students sparred under the watchful tutelage of a handful of arcane masters. Brilliant bursts of magical energy reflected off of hastily formed shields. Weapons formed of flames clattered together as the young mages rehearsed for their chance to protect this world. Another handful of students trained in the art of summoning containment circles to hold hostile demonic creatures, while others prepared banishing rituals. Each pupil had a role to practice for, and a mentor to guide them. All except Dwight, who had failed even with the Grand Arbiter – this world’s “Referee,” its Dwight Knolls – leading him.
Dwight had spent months at the Arbiter’s Enclave attempting to find a shred of magical talent within himself. In that time, he only managed to become more desperate and frustrated. He sighed, comparing himself to the other students’ progress since his arrival.
He felt as stagnant as the clockwork titans lining each path and patrolling every hallway. Wordless, unthinking, fixed – they’d be as they were now until the end of time. Their hollow eyes watched every motion of the outsider as he walked with the school’s master. The arcane energy at the heart of each one flared with every magical being that crossed their routes, borrowing just the slightest hint of their power to sustain themselves. On the rare occasion when Dwight had snuck out of his room to visit the library late at night, the titans he encountered remained inert, unable to draw any nourishment from him.
There was a melodic rhythm to the enclave. The heavy pounding of the titans’ plodding footsteps vibrated through the air along with the barked instructions and hurried replies of the students. The chorus rose into the morning above the training yards. It reminded Dwight of being at boot camp, albeit one where the soldiers could incinerate a person with a gesture and a harsh-toned word.
As they passed a group of children just beginning their mystical training, the Arbiter removed the crystal sphere from his cloak. Taking hold of it with his powers, he guided the sphere into the center of their meditation circle. At first, none of them noticed the floating object. However, once a single student happened to glance up, the entire group broke concentration, taking turns to control the arcane device. Within moments, it became a game of who could perform the most elaborate dance with the sphere.
The powerless Dwight sighed heavily, again reminded that he was unable to work a magical children’s toy. Once they cleared the courtyard, both men stopped before the grand doors leading to the Enclave’s dormitory. The Arbiter placed a hand on Dwight’s shoulder, “Have faith, my friend. The multiverse is strange. I am confident that you will find your answer someday.”
“I don’t have that kind of time. My world is in immediate danger. Something is coming – maybe already there. I have to find out how to stop it.”
The Arbiter’s tone matched the one he used with his trainees, “A stone does not need to fight the storm; it allows the storm to pass around it, and is still there when the chaos is gone.”
“Uh huh, I think I read that in a bus terminal once.” Dwight wandered away, leaving the Arbiter to ponde
r what a “bus” was. The interior of the dormitories was all hand-carved wood, deep-set with shadows and the heavy musk of incense.
Upon Dwight’s arrival, the Arbiter and his most trusted masters had spent days interrogating the outsider who looked identical to their leader. While they had known of the existence of multiple universes, the sudden appearance of a visitor was new to them. Later, the Arbiter confessed his initial fears that the other Dwight had been a trick of the “Dark Lands,” wherever that was.
Once Dwight proved himself mostly harmless – at least by the standards of a school of powerful wizards – he was given a novice’s room to himself and slowly exposed to the lessons of the Enclave. With three frustrating months culminating in today’s failure, he finally had his answer.
Sliding the paper screen of his room closed, he fell backward onto the wooden cot. He pulled the haphazardly piled furs around him, still feeling the lingering chill from his mountaintop excursion that morning. From his nest, he fumbled over the side of the bed to grab his backpack. Searching the contents, he finally located the remote with its single button and light. Taking it in his hand, he stared at it for several long seconds before pressing the button. The red light began slowly blinking. He continued staring at the device before dropping it back in the pack and pushing the whole thing under his bed.
Just as he began to drift off into blissful sleep, the entire building shook beneath him. Dwight shot up in his blankets, his ears ringing with the screams coming from outside the Enclave’s walls. The cries of terrified humans were overtaken with horrible, otherworldly shrieks. While not belonging to the Husks that had destroyed Acheron, he knew their meaning: they were hunting calls.
Throwing open the door of his room, Dwight was met with a panicked rush of teachers hurrying students to safety, while others ran to defend the front gates of the school. As he stepped through, one of the residents stopped in his path. Huea’s purple robes marked her as a master. Her auburn hair was tied in a tight weave that crossed over her head, the sides around it shaved down to stubble. It was a unique style in an otherwise uniform society, individuality being a perk of rank.