The Xtra- Volume One

by Oliver Willis

  That was me, once.

  I beckon her toward me. She looks back over her shoulder to her mother, who gives her the nod to keep going ahead. She takes the plunge and walks forward, slowly at first, but then in a kind of walk-trot as her confidence inches higher.

  I get down to one knee so I'm eye-to-eye with her by the time she gets to us.

  "Hey there, sweetie," I say.

  "Hi, X—er – Miss Xtra."

  Involuntarily, I smile at this addition of a formal title to my made-up name.

  "Just Xtra, sweetheart. No need for the 'miss.'"

  "Okay," she replies, looking back at her mom. "Mom says I should use that with grown-ups."

  "Well, mom's right. But you have special permission to just use 'Xtra' with me, okay?"

  She smiles, happy to have grown-up permission for this exchange.

  Raised her right.

  "Is that for me?"

  "Oh yes," she answers, a surprised look on her face, like she forgot she was holding the construction paper. She holds it up so I can see. I have to catch my breath for a second when I clearly see what the image is.

  One side of the drawing was a cartoonish figure, obviously a girl, flying in the air. She's colored in brown and it's a pretty close approximation of my skin tone.

  Someone's been paying attention.

  On the other end there are clouds and some small stars and a moon. Obviously, I'm up in the air.

  I like the flying too.

  Below the drawing of me is D.C., with all the classic signifiers of the capital city. The White House, Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, the Capitol and the Washington Monument.

  "Wow, this is really good. Did you draw that?"

  The girl slowly nods in the affirmative.

  "Well its great." I tilt it upward to show Taylor.

  "Taylor, look at this."

  "Amazing," she replies. I can see the beginnings of tears in her eyes and I grit my teeth so I don't do it too.

  This hits me harder than I expected. I hadn't anticipated anything like this. The crowd is one thing, the signs are another, but this little girl and her artwork, something she poured herself into so completely…

  I gulp.

  "I really appreciate this. It's beautiful. You should be proud." I look up to her mother. "Your mommy should be really proud."

  I stand up.

  "I've got to go now, but I'll see you around, okay. Just remember to look up for me, like in your great picture. I'm always up there, looking out for little girls like you. Got it?"

  "Yes, miss—Xtra," she says, catching herself.

  I tousle her hair and continue walking to the Herald-Examiner entrance, squeezing my hands into fists to keep my emotions in check. I hear Taylor sniffling next to me.

  Without these powers, this isn't possible. With them, I'm something more.

  Nobody has ever seen anything like me, and they know it. It isn't just me that has changed. Everything has changed.

  Chapter 67

  It's weird walking through the lobby now. This is where it all began. It might as well have been a million years ago the way I feel now. Instead of waiting to walk through, the crowd now parts for us like the Red Sea. The chatter stops and instead there are quiet murmurs.

  Everyone is watching us and we're the point of focus in the room. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to that. I nod to a few of them and the slight acknowledgement prompts smiles.

  They didn't notice me before. But now they do. They get what's up.

  I press the button to call the elevator. I almost pressed for the down elevator, out of habit. But I'm not headed down to the basement anymore, away from the light of day and the heart of the newspaper.

  I'm going up.

  ###

  I've seen videos of the main editorial meeting room, but I've never been up here. Unlike our cramped quarters down below, this is ultra-modern, luxurious, and spacy. There's a giant conference table in the middle of it all, with a glossy metallic sheen and pads and pens for notetaking. There are large, comfortable chairs surrounding the table, each one probably costing as much as all the furniture in the research dungeon. Times a hundred.

  The editorial board members all stand up as we walk in. They are men and women, dressed in business attire that is visibly expensive. They politely greet Taylor and shake her hand, but it's clear right away who they're here to meet.

  Me.

  These are people who meet the elite of the elite, the presidents and the wannabe presidents, senators and congressmen, other world leaders, governors, all of it.

  Here they are, meeting with me, and looking impressed while they do it. A voice deep inside me wants to scream it's so exciting.

  But luckily, I don't. I shake hands, paint a big a smile on my face, and go down the line. I firmly shake each outstretched hand, making sure I don't do something stupid like crushing their bones or yanking their arms out of their sockets.

  I'm so lightheaded with excitement I could very well make a mistake like that.

  Keep it together, girl.

  ###

  I'm sitting in the center of the conference desk, a glass of water in front of me along with a crystal jug holding more in case I want to pour any out. That's never going to happen. I'm too nervous. I feel like I'm taking a midterm exam that I didn't study for.

  Taylor tried to prep me repeatedly last week. Said I needed "media training." I nodded along with her a few hours ago just so she would quit bothering me, but now I wish I had paid attention to her.

  What if I get it wrong? What if they hate me?

  As the thought crosses my mind, I think of the crowd and the little girl. They're already in my pocket, my corner.

  "How did you get these abilities?" asks the large man sitting in front of me. It's Dennis Coram, the editorial page director.

  He's been in that position for twenty years and he's nearly an icon at this point. His big, booming voice often shows up on television panels, and he has authored some of the paper's most well-known editorials. Demanding presidential resignation. Pushing for investigations. Endorsing candidates. Condemning or praising behavior. He's done all of that, and more.

  I catch myself running through his resume in my head and rush to spit something out before they all think I'm a dullard.

  "My family. My mother."

  "She's deceased?"

  "Yes, a few years ago."

  "So this was inherited? Not a scientific experiment or something like that?"

  I had seen stories along those lines, with worried scientists concerned I was an example of genetic experimentation gone wrong. They extrapolated from my existence, asking if I was an example of human evolution, a new species, outlandish speculation like that.

  "Not a scientific experiment. My mother was an alien."

  I pause and the revelation prompts head-nodding and slight murmurs. Even in a room of the unflappable, who have seen and heard so much, that wakes them up.

  "Extraterrestrial life is real?" A woman asks. She is older than Coram, thin with a severe-looking face.

  "Yes," I answer.

  "Fascinating," Coram says. "From one of our planets? Mars? Venus."

  "I'm afraid not. Billions of miles away. My mother flew here, in a very advanced ship. It was destroyed. She met my father, then they had me."

  "Is he an alien too?" A man sitting at the corner asked.

  I think about Dad and how hilarious that is.

  Then again, I used to think Mom was normal.

  "No, just my mother. Possibly when their DNA mixed—"

  "So, you don't know?"

  "No, I don't know. Some of this information is as new to me as it is to you. I haven't had the chance to sit down in a lab and analyze it, to be honest."

  A few laughs, but also some furrowed brows. They don't want schtick. I know the kind of people they've spoken to, the weight their opinion and writings can carry. There's no time for a stand-up routine.

  "You're breaking the law," s
ays a man sitting at the other side of the table, his fingers pressed against each other to form a tent.

  "What?"

  "You're breaking the law. We have laws against vigilantism. Here in D.C., Maryland, Virginia, the other states you have operated in since you… emerged."

  I sneer at him because this sounds ridiculous.

  "Are you joking? You must be joking."

  "I don't joke, Miss Logan. Our reporters don't seem to have found an exception to the laws on the books. Everything you've been doing, you're not a registered law enforcement agent. You're a self-appointed vigilante, without rules or guidelines for her behavior."

  "I'm helping."

  "True. For now."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Miss Logan. You can fly. You can't be shot. You are stronger than anyone we've ever known."

  "Great, you watched the videos too," Taylor sarcastically injects.

  "I did. And what that means," the man replies, "Is that you're not answering to anyone. What you do, who you help – it's all up to you and your whims."

  "I'm helping."

  "On your terms."

  "Nobody else can do it."

  "Even so, we're at your mercy." It's the severe woman from earlier. She's leaning forward in her seat, and I don't like it. It's like she's threatening me.

  I could snap you like a twig.

  I don't like how the thought crosses my mind. But it happened. And I'm right. She should be like the little girl. And the crowd. And everyone who likes and shares my videos. These stuffed shirts are sitting in their smug tower, jealous of me.

  "I'm helping. People appreciate the help. I stop the crimes when they haven't even called the cops yet. I go all over this city, not just the rich areas. I fly over Southeast," I say, referring to the historically black region of the capital city.

  "Understood," the severe woman says, "but there are procedures, rules in place. A way to do things."

  "That wasn't working."

  "They've worked for hundreds of years," Coram chimes in. There is a slight, annoyed edge to his voice. I feel like it's coming from all sides.

  "Worked? It has failed. Over and over again. Maybe it works for you. The people who have the right colored skin and the acceptable address. But for the rest of us, it's been a failure. I'm putting an end to it. I'm the law. I get to decide."

  I'm surprised by how vehement my outburst is, but glad I said it. I realize the pen I held in my hand has been crushed into a plastic mush.

  How dare they.

  The board members sit in silence, eyes on me, but their expressions blank and unblinking.

  I make a cruel grin.

  "Did I stutter? Cause y'all look like I stuttered."

  New sheriff in town.

  They nod in response, apparently unsure at how to respond to my assertive response.

  I turn to Taylor, certain that this is the kind of thing she's always wanted to see. Me being assertive, at the top of my game, not shrinking away from the conflict or hiding.

  But she isn't happy. She's not mad, but there's no smile either. It's certainly not the solidarity I'm looking for.

  Instead she looks concerned, like she's been told someone is ill.

  I don't get her.

  I make a mental note to talk to her later. Straighten her out. Find out why she didn't have my back.

  I've got this.

  I turn back to the board members and lean back a little in my chair. They're all just watching me, like I intimidate them.

  "What else you got?" I ask.

  I own this room and I don't care who knows it.

  Chapter 68

  The cargo plane is the same size as the ones the military uses, but with far more advanced technology under the hood. The contractors who built it also included luxury amenities that would be more at home in the first-class cabin of a high-end airliner, or in a private jet. For most of the passengers there is plush seating, prime steaks, the finest alcohol and more. Creature comforts put in place without care for the exorbitant expense.

  That's how Madden Blanc wanted it, and that's what he got.

  In the middle of it all is a large tank made out of the same thick glass as the tank back at the Alaska facility. Inside is Danmoc, floating in the murky green water he was so at home in.

  The creature is asleep, hibernating thanks to a powerful cocktail that had been administered via his food. His caretakers had to make educated guesses about just how much would be needed to knock him out and a team of experts is on hand and on alert to monitor the animal. Just in case.

  This all occurs under Blanc's watchful eye as he sits in the nicest seat on the plane. This beast, currently in its dormant state, is a solution. He had been given the raw material by The Overseers, but it was his will, his facility, his underlings who had molded it into something usable and powerful.

  Like so much of the knowledge he had accumulated over his lifetime, Blanc had weaponized this too.

  He reads the news story on his tablet and once again he is reminded of the obstacle that has to be overcome, the impediment standing in his way. He can't have it. He won't have it.

  Carla Logan's existence is an affront to him. The Herald-Examiner praises her for her actions to help, her bravery, her strength, and even her inspiration. But it also points out "arrogance" and "carelessness" in her approach.

  Blanc doesn't like to think of himself as bigoted. After all, he has executives in his company of all races and genders and political leanings. Whoever survives to be the fittest climbs up the corporate ladder. And Madden Blanc is the ultimate survivor, the apex predator, and worthy of his spot on the top of the food chain.

  But Logan's haughty tone. Her claim to power. From a black woman, newly arrived on the scene. She isn't even thirty years old.

  She hasn't paid her dues, Blanc thinks. She wants affirmative action for power.

  It offends him to his core and combined with the dismissive way he has been treated by his alien benefactors; it roils his soul.

  The plane hits a pocket of air and the craft takes a slight bump. The water from side to side in the tank and Blanc gets a more complete view of the animal's reptilian face. Even at rest, the animal exudes savagery and death and pain.

  Good. Because how dare she? How dare The Overseers? How dare any of them?

  Blanc will take her off the board. Knock Carla Logan and her powers and her insistence on helping the undeserving down. He will revel in her death at the hands of the creature he helped to birth.

  But then there will be more to do, and Blanc has plans in place for a post-Xtra (even the name was arrogant) future.

  The Overseers think they are the only players on the chess board, with Blanc as their errand boy and simple-minded servant. They have underestimated him, like so many of those whose corpses he now stands on top of.

  Despite all the years of him executing their plan they were unaware of his own designs and plotting. Clearly, they think he is unworthy. But he is not.

  Things would start off bloody and it would just get worse from then on. But Blanc would be restored and elevated when it was all over.

  He looks at the creature again and can see the path to the new future ahead of him. He allows himself a rare smile. Things will be right.

  Chapter 69

  The children of Ezekiel Elementary School are in the middle of an intense game of tag. The adults supervising the activity on the playground are blissfully unaware, barely paying attention to what seems from their vantage point to be a game of haphazard yelling and screaming.

  But to eight-year-old Jamie, who is currently "it," this is a titanic struggle. Smaller than the other kids, he is running to-and-fro in a fruitless attempt to tag them out. He is in his predicament thanks to this slow reaction time. The little girl who tapped him was only six and a petite little thing, but Jamie never saw her coming.

  When he did, it was too late, and he might as well have been an eight-hundred-pound bear for how useless his
attempts to evade her had been.

  He has been "it" for nearly five minutes and the frustration is building. His cherubic face is covered in sweat, his little arms shooting out in repeated, frustrated attempts to tag one of the other kids, any one of them. No dice.

  The other boys and girls giggle and laugh hysterically at his abortive attempts. "Oh no," one says in a mocking tone. "Can't catch me," a group of girls taunts in light, sing-song voices.

  Their teacher looks at them and hopes they burn off enough energy doing this that by the time they get back to her classroom, they can sit and relax.

  Unlikely, she thinks, remembering not to get her hopes up. T

  hey never seem to tire out and she can see herself four decades from now having the same thoughts. The teacher watches little Jamie's latest lunge and thinks about the lumpy little mattress waiting for her back home, fantasizing about dropping down and drifting off to a dream land without pre-teen kids anywhere near.

  Bliss.

  The innocence of the children trumps everything else in the immediate area. Their laughter fills the air and it feels like nothing can penetrate this bubble of serenity.

  Jamie sees an opening with little Toby, who is paying far more attention to the caterpillar crawling on the ground near his feet than the loud game of tag.

  Jamie puts his head down and begins running full speed at Toby, expertly zig-zagging to avoid the swings and the see-saw. In seconds he is tantalizingly close. The second boy still doesn't see that he's in Jamie's sights. Jamie begins fantasizing about the perfect tag, transferring the invisible scarlet letter to his classmate and then collapsing into a heap so he can catch his breath. He hasn't run this hard in forever. Possibly ever.

  But then Toby, finally, notices him and starts to backpedal. Jamie lunges ahead and his fingers fall less than an inch short of Toby's t-shirt.

  Just a little bit of speed. Just one more burst of energy is all he will need. Just. A. Little. More.

  He pushes.

  The ground explodes.

  Chapter 70

  A plume consisting of concrete and dirt and grass shoots up into the air just a few feet away from the children, who in an instant completely forget their playground game.