SUPERPOWERED: Are YOU a Superhero or Supervillain? (Click Your Poison Book 3)
Page 20
You step into the kitchen area and raise a hand toward the cabinets in a gesture of offering. The doors shudder on their hinges, ready to open at your command.
“Can I get you something to drink?” you ask, trying to seem casual and unafraid.
“Thank you, no. What would be really great is if you could recount your thoughts, your memories of the event.”
She takes out her smartphone, presumably turning on a recording app, sets it against the kitchen bar top, and leans in towards you. She cocks her head to the side, sapphire eyes glittering. A long strand of golden hair falls across her shoulder. She’s used to disarming people with confidence and good looks, both men and women, you can tell.
But you can feel dominion over her body in an omnipotent sort of way. You could just as easily close her windpipe with your mind as you could brush the lock of hair back into place.
“I don’t remember,” you say. “I woke up confused and disoriented.”
“Is that why you fled the scene before the police arrived?”
Before you can answer, your front door explodes inward. Catherine rushes in with a storm of splinters, her clothes tattered and singed. Her eyes narrow when she sees you.
“You left those people to die!” she growls.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t lie, lying makes it worse. You’re like me, I can tell. I can see it in the way you stand taller. The experiment changed us…” Alison Argyle reclaims her smartphone and takes a video of your interaction. “Beware of villains,” Catherine says, an odd tone entering her voice.
You shake your head. “What?”
“It’s something my son said when I told him I was going to help protect the city. He said if I was going to be a hero, there would soon be villains.”
Okay, this is getting out of hand. You grab Ms. Argyle’s smartphone out of the air with your telekinesis and fling it out the window. Catherine’s eyes grow wide.
“Catherine, you have no idea what you’re—look, I suggest you leave.”
“I don’t think so. I’m taking you in,” she says, cracking her knuckles.
• She wants a villain? SO BE IT! Take Alison Argyle as a hostage.
• Fly out the window.
• It’s come to blows. Attack Catherine!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
House Rules
“Twenty on black.”
The croupier operating the roulette wheel is a frail, slight man, bald with a pencil-mustache. He nods, changes for poker chips, and sets them on the area reserved for bets on black. After signaling no new bets, the croupier drops the ball on the wheel.
You watch intently as the ball bounces along. It hops and slows; only a few more bounces before it finds a permanent home. But you’re not taking any chances. You grab the ball with your mind and bring it into a black space. The effect is sloppy, and to an outside observer, it’s like a magnet caught the ball.
The croupier blinks several times, but produces an additional $20 in chips—your winnings.
“Let it ride,” you say, clearing the excited nerves from your throat. This time you ease the ball home, and it almost looks natural. By the time you’ve won your seventh straight bet on black, it doesn’t look like you’re manipulating the ball in the least. And by doubling your money each time, over $2,500 in chips sit before you.
You’re attracting attention. Deep down, you know you should leave—take your winnings, stay unknown, and swing by every time you need $20 for a dinner out at Chili’s—but the rush is addicting. You can’t help yourself. The table floods with handsome men, beautiful women, and cocktail waitresses all vying for your attention. Hoping some of your luck will spill over on them.
“Hang on,” you say. “What’s the most I can win here?”
“Individual numbers pay out 35:1,” the croupier responds in the dry, detached tones practiced by casino dealers worldwide.
“So, if I bet it all?”
“You’d win…upwards of $100,000.”
“With one bet?”
The man nods. “I can calculate exactly how much if you—”
“No, it’s fine,” you interrupt. “Put it all on twenty, since that’s how much I started with.”
Now the crowd is thick with gawkers and onlookers. You’ve won seven times in a row, but color-betting odds are nearly 50/50 and now you’re playing with 38:1 against you.
As the wheel spins, you concentrate on the ball, pressure mounting. This isn’t merely nudging the ball to the right color; this requires deft, coordinated control. You concentrate, trying hard to read the numbers as they spin, trying to keep your mind’s eye on the ball.
Klink! you sink the ball into the twenty slot.
The casino erupts in applause and cheers—you’ve won! $89,600 to be exact, once the croupier calculates your winnings. “For security purposes,” the man says, “you can claim your winnings at the cashier’s cage. I’ll call security to escort you and—”
“I’d like to place another bet,” you say, addicted to the rush.
The entire casino floor goes silent. Then the people at the table offer a cacophony of advice:
Don’t do it!
Are you crazy?
Fuck yeah, do it!
“If you choose another single number, the payout would be…” the croupier says, consulting his calculator, “$3,136,000.”
“Do it.”
The casino erupts in cheers once more.
“I—I need to get permission for a bet that high,” he says, not before pressing something under the table.
Soon, a middle-aged Korean woman comes to relieve the croupier and take his place at the table. Her nametag reads Su-Young. As she steps into place, the man leaves without a word.
“Planet Mercury is happy to take your bet. What number would you like?” she asks.
You think for a moment. It all started with 20, but it’d be too suspicious to hit 20 again, right? The payout is three mil, so maybe the number three?
“If I lose, I’ll have nothing?” you ask.
She nods.
“Then spit on fate—I’m betting on zero.”
Everyone goes wild. People literally leap and punch the air, screaming at the top of their lungs. Casino security forms a protective ring around you and the table to preventing anyone from touching either. But you don’t need to touch anything, not physically.
The wheel spins. The new croupier drops the ball onto the board. You concentrate on the ball. Tik, tik, tik…zero! You’ve just won over $3,000,000, from a lone $20, in under ten minutes.
Once the deafening applause dies down, the new croupier pulls her fingers from an earpiece and turns to you. “Mr. Bloodnight, the casino owner, would like to personally congratulate you. Please follow me; your winnings will be safe here.”
Three security guards follow to keep your adoring fans from doing the same. The halls are opulent and gaudy, covered in crimson-and-gold wallpaper, and adorned with statue-art from antiquity. Now that you’re in the millionaires’ club, you’ll have to get used to all this.
Su-Young takes a key card from her pocket as you near a private elevator. There are no call buttons, only the card reader, which she activates. When the glittering metal doors open, she extends an arm in offering.
The two of you enter the lift, but your security escort stays behind. Inside, there are no buttons. The doors simply shut after a time and the elevator rises. It’s a private lift for penthouse access only. Not many have been invited up here, you imagine.
The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse, but you can’t see beyond the twin totems that stand before you: hulking security personnel with tailored suits and expressions so terse they make the guys you left downstairs look like weekend hobbyists.
You look to Su-Young, but the security guards part ways and allow you to enter. Waiting with two glasses of champagne is a tall man in a white suit, with the face of Chief Joseph and the ten-gallon hat of a Texas oil tycoon.
You take the champagne.
“Here’s to another member in the winner’s circle,” he says with a grin, offering his glass in toast. “We can discuss billboard appearances and high-roller perks later, but I gotta ask—what’s your secret?”
“Just my lucky day,” you say with a shrug.
His grin grows wider. “Maybe if I tell you my secret, you’ll tell me yours, huh?”
He winks and nods for you to follow. His boots click against the marble floor. With swagger in his step, Nelson Bloodnight leads you out to an enormous private balcony. The casino owner leans against the railing, next to the built-in pool, and looks out over the city. The view is breathtaking from up here—literally, as you’re forty stories in the air. The night sky glitters with reflected light from the other skyscrapers.
“See all this? We sit among the champions of industry, the other winners in this great city. But there’s one major difference between them and me. My castle is built by losers, not by winners.”
“That’s your secret? That people normally lose in your casino?”
He laughs a loud and hearty guffaw. “Heavens, no.”
Then he nods back toward the penthouse and Su-Young. When you look back, the two security pillars are right behind you. They grab you, hoist you into the air, and push you over the edge of the balcony. Your body flips with a twist of vertigo, but they grab your ankles and dangle you hundreds of feet in the air.
“My secret is that Su-Young can reliably land the ball on the roulette wheel anywhere she wants, with an accuracy no less than three slots plus or minus. Ain’t that right, Su-Young?”
He has to shout so you can hear him over the whipping wind beyond the balcony. When you look up, you see Su-Young stare down with total apathy for your situation.
“Yes, sir. I can make that ball not hit zero,” she says. “One hundred times out of one hundred.”
“You see? My secret is that I don’t gamble with high-rollers. So if you don’t want to gamble with your life, I suggest you tell me how you won.”
You reach out with your mind and feel the world around you: the wind flapping at Bloodnight’s hat, the heart beating in Su-Young’s chest, the thick skulls of the men holding you, and your own body dangling precariously in the air.
And that’s when you realize—with complete certainty—that you’re in control. You can “lift” yourself the same way you manipulated the roulette ball. You don’t have to be afraid; you can fly!
• Payback time. No one threatens you and gets away with it! The world will be better off without scum like Nelson Bloodnight in.
• Nothing rash, just scare the man a bit. Show him that some secrets are worth keeping.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
House Stark
“Okay, I’ll tell you my secret,” you say, eerily calm for someone dangling off the side of a building. With the power of mind, you reach for the thugs holding your ankles. You can feel their finger bones, tendons, and muscles—snap, you break their hands and free yourself.
Then you grab yourself, coming to hover just off the balcony.
“We’re not so different, you and I. We both appreciate the value of power,” you say, floating up to land before the man. “So I suggest you give me what’s mine, if you don’t want me to take it.”
“W-whatever you say!” he cowers.
“Good. And just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about I make this penthouse my new home?”
He nods like a frantic bobble-head.
You’ve got a new superpower—infinite money. You can now join the ranks of Batman or Iron Man, superheroes with a powerful ally: wealth. Although, truth be told, you’ve little interest in heroics. Does that make you more of a Lex Luthor?
* * *
You stare out at Mercury City, admiring your new view in the light of day. With this penthouse, you can come and go from the balcony as you please. A warm feeling creeps over you, and it’s not just from the glass in your hand.
What’re you drinking again? Doesn’t matter; what matters is that it’s from the most expensive bottle in the casino. Of course, Nelson Bloodnight will eventually want favors. Intimidate his enemies? Impress his friends? Easily done, in exchange for this life of opulence. The marriage of money and power is the most natural course there is.
The elevator doors open and the casino owner cautiously enters. Think of the devil and he appears! You didn’t imagine he’d come calling this early, but it seems the man has ambition.
“Enjoying your morning?”
“Oh yes, and this is delightful,” you say, holding up the glass. “What is it, again?”
Your head suddenly swims, your vision blurs, and you fall to one knee.
Bloodnight’s face splits with an impish grin. “That would be poison. I told you, I don’t gamble with high-rollers. I don’t know what you are, but it turns out someone is willing to pay handsomely for you….”
Then you lose consciousness, never to awaken again. Your powers apparently don’t include an immunity to poison. Or treachery.
THE END
The Human Elephant
The circus happens to be in town, set up on the outskirts of Mercury City. Your job interview ends when you unexpectedly lift the Human Cannon with one arm, and you’re hired.
You get to be called the “Strong Person” in the spirit of political correctness and gender neutrality, but it’s not a name to sell tickets, so the ringmaster changes it. You’re now known as “The Human Elephant”—a fitting name, given that payment is rendered in the form of unlimited caloric supply. In fact, after seeing you decimate the cafeteria, the mustachioed man considers letting people watch you eat as part of your act.
Eventually you find a bearded lady, settle down, and have several incredibly strong, unexpectedly gorgeous, bearded children, one of whom goes on to write a semi-successful series of gamebooks.
THE END
Human Interest
“Excuse me, you’re standing in front of my door,” you say.
Alison Argyle, reporter extraordinaire, spins around. Her blonde locks bounce and sapphire eyes glitter your way. “Alison Argyle, K-HAN news.”
“Yeah, I know….” you reply, star-struck despite yourself.
“And you are?”
You stare at your apartment door as if it might hold the answer. “Rock Star?”
She flashes a white toothy grin and extends a hand. As gently as possible, you shake hands in greeting.
“You’ve been through the wringer,” she says, noting your fire-damaged clothing. Or at least what’s left of them. Stepping closer, she touches your tattered shirt, then puts a hand on your newly muscled stomach beneath. “Are you some kind of athlete?”
“Ummm…”
“Sorry!” she blushes. “It’s just that it’s not every day I meet a genuine superhero.”
“No autographs!” you blurt before dashing inside your apartment.
In two strides, you make it over to your kitchenette and toss the groceries on the counter. At the kitchen sink, you splash your face with very, very cold water. Then, almost as if dousing your mouth after a too-spicy meal, you take a gallon of milk and chug the whole thing. Finally sated and calm, you let out a deep breath.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” You spin around. She’s inside your apartment! She continues, “I’m just going to come out and say it. I know who you are. I was investigating the campus explosion and after I took a look at the skyscraper fire news footage, I put two and two together. Aviator sunglasses aren’t the best disguise….”
• No interviews, either! Explain as calmly as you can that a hero needs privacy and that if she wants you to continue your good works, she’ll continue on her way.
• Throw off the scorched remnants of your costume and take her in your arms. She’s awakened a different kind of hunger inside you, and your appetites are ins
atiable.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hungry Hungry
A quick Internet search turns up the Competitive Hungry Omnivore Membership Program, or CHOMP (man, they really wanted that acronym to work, didn’t they?), an internationally recognized professional eating organization. Professional. Eating. Let that sink in.
There’s an upcoming hotdog competition where the grand prize winner gets five grand. For Thanksgiving, there’s going to be a $10,000 purse offered at the Planet Mercury Casino for turkey eating. You’d do that for free!
When your career kicks off, you plan on being called “The Hippo” because of your ability to swallow anything that fits into your mouth, but after your total domination at the hotdog contest, everyone calls you “The Bear.” Apparently, the last time a world champ got dominated this bad was by an actual bear in the TV show Man vs Beast.*
From that point on, you’re “The Unstoppable Bear” and sometimes called “Angry Bear” because of the ferocious nature with which you destroy your food. Eventually, your fans take to calling you Oso Pelligroso (Spanish for “Angry Bear”), mostly because it sounds awesome.
You learn that your hunger becomes more ravenous when you use your super-strength, so you take side jobs as a human demolition crew—Oso Pelligroso, el Destructo—and rip buildings apart under cover of night.
Nick Dorian joins the casino payroll with his own brand of showmanship: juggling chainsaws. He later confesses that he keeps all dozen of them flying with the power of mind. Catherine Woodall, also following your example, gets on the Planet Mercury casino staff and invents several new diabolically addictive games which part fools from their money.
And that’s about it. The three of you use your superpowers to live easy, carefree lives, not helping the world or making it a better place one bit. You win…sort of.
THE END
* This video exists. A bear nonchalantly eats a plate of hotdogs while some guy tries to beat it. An actual bear! Look it up, it’s amazing.