Supers Box Set

by Kristofer Bartol

  “Oh, like ‘majority’ is a benchmark of success; ‘a majority of infants surviving into adolescence’ isn’t good enough; ‘the majority of European Jews surviving the Holocaust’ is a cup-half-full approach to ignoring the six million that were innocently slaughtered. What’s your ‘majority’? Fifty-two, fifty-three percent?”

  “Okay, okay, let’s not compare a federally-funded research institution to Nazi Germany.”

  “To be fair, Hitler’s experimentation groups were all funded and authorized by his state.”

  “But they were fascists—imperial, rapacious, hateful, warmongering-”

  “And America isn’t those things?”

  “Well, it-” she pauses, looking away.

  The airwaves are silent with contemplation.

  The moderator returns, “I’d like to thank Doctors DeSimone and Johannsen for their commentary.” The video feeds of the scientist and professor wipe away, leaving only the moderator on the screen. “In other news, infamous South African mercenary De Krijger was found dead today, to the relief of four government agencies, though none have yet accepted credit for the takedown, prompting many to believe it was an act of vigilantism, carried-out by one of America’s few remaining rogue supers.”

  Tessio tilts the remote at his television, changing the channel—golf, travel, food, politics—until he lands on a generic sitcom. He groans and sinks into the couch. His wife rests her hand atop his.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks him.

  He inhales through clenched teeth and spits out a sigh. “Nothing.”

  “Ray, clearly, something is bothering you.”

  “It’s- I’m fine.”

  “I’m not asking because I have nothing better to do. Just talk to me.”

  “It’s… look, it’s not a big deal, I’ll get over it-”

  “Raymond, for the love of Christ.”

  “Do you really- is this really something you want to unpack?” He mutes the television. “This is not- I don’t have the, the… What do you want me to say?”

  “Whatever it is that’s on your mind.”

  He inhales. “Well,” he begins, “you remember Frank Baumgartner?”

  “Sure.”

  “His kid is lieutenant of Homicide, starting Monday."

  "Oh," she deflates. "Oh, Ray…"

  "He’s not even in his physical prime yet and he’s leading his entire division. I mean, I know Homicide sees more action than the rest, but it’s not like I haven’t done anything.”

  “Well, he was specialized as a detective; you’ve always been a patrolman. You had your chance to move up and you didn’t want it.”

  “No, I wanted it, but they would've assigned me a new partner. I’ve been with Cesar since the Academy. He was my best man.”

  “So you’re blaming Cesar?”

  “No, I’m blaming myself, but I’m pissed-off. No, I’m not pissed-off, I’m just frustrated; very, entirely, nervously frustrated. So deeply, quietly frustrated I feel like I’m cooking from the inside out.”

  “If it’s tearing you up so badly, just ask your boss if you can be considered for the next-”

  “That offer expired a long time ago, honey. Hundreds of young bucks have proven themselves over the past decade, there’s no chance I’m still at the top of anyone’s list.”

  “You don’t have to be on any list. You have experience. You have more experience walking the beat, knowing the people, knowing the city than most of your peers. Apply that.”

  “Experience is a sword dulled by the word ‘age.’ For every extra skell and street I know the name of, there’s a reason to doubt my body, mind, and spirit.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You might not, but they do. Older guys become desk jockeys, pushing papers; data entry. Because arthritis, heart disease, or blubber slows them down. Because they forget things, or they don’t notice them. Because they’re tired, or apathetic, or so bogged-down in the system that they give-up.”

  “You’re not like that at all. You still care. It’s evident you still care.”

  “See, I know that; you know that; but if one house mouse retires and they’ve got another desk to fill, they’re not going to put the twenty-five-year-old zippy buzzcut boy in the chair; they’re going to take one of us older guys, lock us inside the precinct, and give the kid to our wizened old partner… until they replace him, too. And then we’ll both tread water behind keyboards, bored out of our minds, until we can retire and live off pension.”

  “That’s… that sounds very frustrating.”

  Tessio separates his arms, holding rigid and tense, as if carrying a boulder. He relaxes, then, and sighs, “I never told Singleton I was up for a promotion. I didn’t want him to change my mind.”

  “Change it to what?”

  He pauses. “I don’t know. Either way, I guess. I wanted it to be my decision.”

  “Seems like you would’ve been unhappy either way.”

  Tessio shrugs. “What is it they say? The grass is always greener?”

  She nods and looks away. He turns his gaze towards the television, and his brow furrows.

  The sitcom has been interrupted by a live broadcast: “BREAKING NEWS - MAYHEM IN MIDTOWN.” A nervous reporter ducks behind a stone planter outside a café. The camera peers past her, zooming-in on a crowded intersection. People run, frantic, towards and around the camera lens. In the distance, a car flips through the air, landing atop another and sliding to the pavement.

  Tessio’s wife reaches across him for the remote, restoring sound to the broadcast: a woman’s scream; metal crunching, and grinding; gunshots, rapid-fire; men yelling; a sharp whistle as a shaft of hard white light beams skyward and swipes the facade of a windowed tower, shattering a dozen panes of glass and showering the street below with crystalline rain.

  A hulking, naked man crests the hood of a taxi and stands atop it, hunched on all fours. He roars as his body balloons to twice its size, and twice more, until he fills the street—his shoulders edging the buildings on either side. He scowls, seething; seeing red through black eyes. Foam drips from his lip, soaking bared teeth. He palms and lifts a sedan, crushing it as easily as if it were an aluminum can.

  Behind the raging behemoth rises a short man with flaking, grey skin. He ascends by way of paper-thin beetle wings that sprout from his back, crisscrossing like scimitars. Another burst of gunfire echoes through the steel canyon; a dozen bullets riddle the behemoth's thigh like pin pricks. Three strike the beetle-winged man across the chest, but he does not bleed; rather, the grey skin around his wounds peels away, shedding the spent lead bullets and regenerating his crusty husk.

  An armored personnel carrier plows through a line of abandoned cars, hurtling towards the raging behemoth; unloading a heavy machine gun at the same rate that a sprinter's feet pounds pavement. The massive man raises his hand to shield his face, blocking most of the barrage with the crushed car. The bullets ricochet in every direction, tinkling like an old xylophone.

  Out from beneath the raging behemoth steps a woman with straight black hair. With a swipe of her arm, a threaded wall of hard white light materializes between the APC and the giant, and the APC screeches to a halt. The backdoor drops and fourteen soldiers in riot gear emerge, scattering amongst the wrecked cars; taking aim at the giant and his accomplices.

  The woman clenches her fists, and the lights mounted above the APC cease their flashing: ribbons of red and blue light, paused in time. She pulls more of it from the source, bending it; stringing it into colored rope with which she lashes at the soldiers. Glowing streaks of red and blue sweep over their heads and slash at their defenses, and one soldier's rifle is sliced in two.

  The beetle-winged man dives below an abandoned sedan, lifting its front end and flipping it onto its back. The soldiers adjacent retreat behind a delivery van as the turret on the APC swivels toward the beetle-winged man. It spits a lead hailstorm that pummels his grey paper skin. The wrappings are blown apart but just
as quickly repair themselves, appearing as if his torso swallows the bullets.

  The woman scoops reflected sunbeams from a skyscraper's facade and compresses them into a ball of hot white light. She uncups the ball, repulsing it; sending it screaming into the APC, to explode in a fireball.

  A helicopter swoops-in from above. The minigun mounted on its belly revs and roars. Bullets defile the giant, as he paws towards the sky. The beetle-winged man leaps into the air, speeding towards the chopper… but he's knocked away by a blue blur; something zooming through the sky, encircling the seething giant; confusing him.

  The raging behemoth's bellow is cut short by a heavy blow to the jaw; his head twists and his stance shakes. The blue blur zooms skyward and lingers high above the intersection before diving back towards the earth, colliding with the skull of the unsteady giant.

  The massive man crumples, and his naked body shrinks down to its natural size. The black-haired woman runs to his aid, pulling forth ribbons of multicolored LED light from the traffic signals above; weaving a dome of reds and greens with which to shield him. Two white pillars erupt from the headlights of a delivery truck and, with the flick of her wrist, carve the air around the blue blur, sweeping like scythes in harvest.

  The blue blur evades, serpentine, closing-in on the black-haired woman. Pedestrians poke their heads out of cover, one by one, to gaze upon the aerial ballet. They speculate as a collective, shouting to one another: “Who is that?” “Stardust?” “She would’ve ended it by now!” “Then where are the other First Responders?” “Is it Perihelion?” “He’s west coast!” “He retired!” “It’s Mrs. Metropolis!” “She can’t fly!” “Luxor?” “No! No, that’s-” One sweeping scythe of light cuts loose the billboard that hangs over the café. It creaks, bends, and falls toward the reporter and her fellow hideaways but, in an instant, the blue blur arrives beneath it, catching it; smiling.

  Someone shouts, “The Adjudicator!”

  He waggles his brow and winks for the broadcasters.

  The beetle-winged man swoops down to the black-haired woman, snagging her hand and carrying her away. She releases the dome of woven lights and, whilst flying past, scoops-up the unconscious shrunken giant. The battered trio flies down the urban canyon from whence they came, disappearing among the gleaming towers. The buzz of the beetle-winged man’s pulsating paper sails fades into obscurity.

  The blue-clad Adjudicator tosses the billboard aside with ease, and it lands with a calamitous crash in the center of the intersection. He hovers above the café for a moment, allowing the crowd to bask in his presence before descending to the curb; and the mortals surround him.

  The reporter hurdles her stone bulwark and hustles to the heaving chest of the hero. He straightens his back and mugs for the camera, stiffening his jaw and cleft chin; feathering his ruffled black coif; smoothing-out his blue spandex suit.

  “Adjudicator, Adjudicator,” the reporter begs, extending her microphone, “tell us—how did you get here so quickly? The police arrived only a moment before-”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he replies, puffing-out his chest. “I’ve got my fingers on the pulse of this fair city.” He rests his fists on his hips and extends his elbows. “Whenever evil knocks on the door of justice, I’ll be there.”

  “Wow—and tell us, when-”

  “Whenever a no-good-nik stands between this fair city and its daily operations… I’ll be there.”

  “Wonderful—so was it imposing for you to go against Hominid when he was-”

  “If the wild eyes of chaos look upon this fair city, and its people, then you’ll know," he smiles, "I’ll be there.”

  “Adjudicator, is it true that earlier this morning you didn’t-”

  “I live and breathe for this city. This mighty, fair city and its…” he looks around at the crowd; their doughy, round-eyed, gap-toothed, greasy-haired, dirtied faces look back at him. He grimaces, “people.”

  He looks back, at the intersection, where the fourteen soldiers mill among the wrecked cars, removing their riot gear; sucking pink fog from their vape pens; kicking aside metal shrapnel. A flash of light pulls his attention back to the crowd: a dopey woman apologizes for having her phone’s camera set to “auto-flash.” The hipster courier beside her hasn’t shaved in two days. An obese man wears a shirt two-sizes too-small, and his damp skin-folds hang visible. A gray-haired businessman looks at the vehicular devastation and checks his watch.

  “No threat is too,” he drones, “imposing for… me, The Adjudicator." He clears his throat. "Right, and, I, uh—no, I’ve fought Hominid before; this was a walk in the, uh, park.” His smile falters. He asks if there are any questions.

  The reporter relies on the authority of her microphone but the hero chooses a woman in the crowd.

  “Ohmygod, Adjudicator, I love you.”

  “I, uh, that’s very kind of you, but that’s not a question.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Um…” He looks away and points to a stout man.

  “Wow, Mister Adjudicator, that was a superb display of athletic prowess. My question is, do you exercise—and, if so, what do you do for your exercises?”

  Adjudicator sucks air through his teeth. “Well, my good man, I, uh,” gesturing behind him, “I exercise by fighting crime. But if you’re wondering about my physique, I must confess… I have superpowers.”

  The crowd chuckles.

  “So I’m naturally rather buff.” He pivots, “Another question?”

  An older woman jumps up and down, waving her hand. The hero points to her.

  Excited, she blurts, “Do you have a favorite song?”

  He sighs. “All Along the Watchtower, Jimi Hendrix,” he scratches at his hairline. “Any, uh… meatier questions?”

  An elderly man steps forward. He wheezes. “Sir, is it true,” averting his eyes, “that my father was your idol?”

  “Depends,” shrugs the Adjudicator, “who’s your daddy, daddio?”

  “Captain Centennial.”

  Adjudicator’s face flushes, pale. His jaw hangs. He swallows and, snapping back to reality, he takes the old man’s hand and shakes it between his. “Yes, sir, yes!" he blurts. "I- my whole life- ever since I was a kid, I looked up to Captain Centennial. He and New Glory; I always thought, ‘If I could be just an ounce as noble; an ounce as strong as those men, then I could be a great hero.’”

  “That’s very kind of you,” the old man blushes. “I’m sure he’d like to hear that from you.”

  The Adjudicator bows his head; solemn. “Yes,” he mourns, placing his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Someday we’ll both see him again, and I’ll be sure to tell him what an honor it is to embody his-”

  “Well, I’m visiting on Thursday, if you’d like to-”

  Adjudicator breaks. “What.”

  “I try to visit him once a week. He’s not as alert as he once was, but I think he still recognizes me sometimes. He likes the company, at least-”

  “Old man," he entreats, "what are you talking about.”

  “My father, of course; Captain Centennial.”

  “The one who fought Brute Soldier; Mammoth; Powerhouse.”

  “Yeah, that’s… my dad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pardon me, sir, but what do you mean ‘What do I mean’?”

  “Your dad.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s… alive?”

  The old man stares, perplexed. “Yeah, son, he’s alive.”

  “Wha- um,” he stutters, “since when?”

  “Um… nineteen-twenty.”

  “Wow, uh,” the hero chuckles, boyish for the first time in a decade. He shivers. “Can I meet him?”

  ( I | VII )

  A brass plaque rests steady, affixed to a century-old, slate-grey, hand-cut limestone wall. It reads, in embossed typeface, “Lyndhurst Retirement Home, est. 1991,” followed by a brief dedication:

  “This Gothic Revival estate (
designed in 1838 by Alexander Jackson Davis) sits upon 67 acres of Tarrytown, west of White Plains and south of Sleepy Hollow, overlooking the Hudson River. Commissioned as a residence by the then-mayor of New York City, William Paulding Jr., ownership soon passed on to merchant George Merritt (who doubled the mansion’s size in 1864) and finally, in 1880, to avaricious railroad tycoon Jay Gould who retitled the estate ‘Lyndhurst,’ owed to the array of linden trees that surround this parkland.

  “Gould died here in 1892 and, in 1961, his daughter Anna Gould donated the estate to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, who designated it a National Historic Landmark in 1966. Twenty-five years later, the site was reopened as an extended care facility for ‘those great heroes who served our nation, here and elsewhere, in approved and commendable fashions, 1900-1963,’ per the request of President George H.W. Bush in his State of the Union address, 1990.”

  The Adjudicator, dressed in denim jeans and his black leather jacket, steps away from the plaque and looks up at the limestone facade. Ornate, iron-framed windows bedeck the stone; one above the entryway hinges open, and a woman pokes her head out.

  “Hello!” she calls down. “Visiting?”

  “Uh,” he thinks, “I'm looking to place my grandfather.”

  “Wonderful! Please, come in,” she says. “I'll be with you in a second.”

  The Adjudicator salutes and passes, through the oaken doorway of stained glass, into a small foyer. There, behind the short reception desk, stands the woman from the window; a gossamer-thin cloud of white dust falls from her torso. He blenches, raising an eyebrow as he looks to the ceiling above and behind her, searching for some sort of stairwell, portal, or fireman’s pole.

  She smiles and greets him with an extended hand.

  “Hi, I'm Nancy, Head of Operations here at Lyndhurst.”

  He bends forward to return the gesture. “You got here quick.”

  She smirks and performs a false bow. She's half his height—partially owed to her hunched back—and she straightens herself, as much as she can, to compensate.

  She spins the guestbook around to face the Adjudicator, and he signs it with a pseudonym: “Jude Decatur.”