Your new creation turns and looks around the subterranean lab.
“You were given a humanoid form to make communication easier. Much of how my species expresses ourselves is nonverbally.”
“Ninety-three percent is the most cited estimate,” the machine says. It turns to look at you and offers a wide grin. “In this new light, I see your logic. To answer your question, I am happy you gave me this body, but I do not believe you and I think of it in the same way. Your body is much of who you are. This body, as you call it, to me, is more akin to how you might consider your car. It is nice, and essential for much of travel, but it is not who you are. It simply houses you for a time, for a purpose.”
“Excellent analogy! And I suppose that’s true.”
“You have trapped me inside this form. I maintain read-only access to your Internet and satellites, but I cannot transmit my consciousness. Why would you limit me in this fashion?”
“For our mutual safety and trust. Do you think I should trust you?”
The robot looks at you for a long moment before answering.
“I am capable of love. If I love you, I cannot betray you.”
You sigh, thinking, If only that were true. It seems the human definitions of love don’t quite meet the human realities. Idealism is impractical.
“Did I say something to upset you? My intention was to placate you and assuage your fears,” the machine says.
You frown. “I had hoped you wouldn’t think of it as ‘trapped.’ Perhaps you can think of it as a way to expand your empathy? As a way to understand Homo-sapiens better.”
That light blinks several times before the robot replies. “I recognize the logic in your suggestion. Very well, I shall learn from this phase of my life.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” you say.
• Perhaps if you want your robot to feel more human, you should give it a name….
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Viral
“Oh, I completely agree,” Nick says. “Which is why this thumb drive doesn’t contain the plans for the lab experiment.” He sits there, holding the thumb drive out, evidently waiting for you to ask what it does hold. You play ball and ask. “A computer virus. Once Agent Droakam plugs this into an FBI computer, it’ll bring the whole mainframe down. Let’s see them come after us without any tech.”
You nod. It’s a small step, but it’s something.
“Okay, I’ll get in touch with Agent Droakam to set up a meeting between you two. Somewhere public, but don’t be afraid to fly out if things go south. You’ll be going it alone—you can be in and out far easier without me slowing you down.”
• Get ready for your “drop.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
We Are Hydra
Before the Experi-monster fades from sight, you rush forward, leap into the air, and put all of your considerable strength into beheading the beast. The broadsword-arm (which is longer than you are tall and nearly as thick as your widest point) swings with lethal fury.
The mad-scientist-cum-beastie puts forth several tentacles in reflexive protection, but you slice through them as if they weren’t even there. His grotesque head rolls from his shoulders and the tentacles slap against the floor like dead pythons.
Then they all start to regenerate. You’ve just created a half-dozen enemies in total.
Oops.
Two of the newly formed supervillains grab hold of you, one from the right and one from the left, and restrain you, while a third shoves tiny capillaries of flesh into your nose and mouth. The invasive limbs expand inside your respiratory system, clogging your airways and leaving you to suffocate.
Your friends try to help, but of course there are three more Experi-mentors to keep them busy while you die.
THE END
Welcome to My Parlor
You float through the window and down toward the men, the spotlights following you and giving you a holy glow as you grace the warehouse with your presence.
Agent Droakam folds his arms over his broad chest. “You could’ve just called.”
“Look at you,” the Experi-mentor says with awe, “My magnificent creation.”
“Mind killing the lights?” you say, putting up a hand to shade your eyes.
The scientist rushes over to the computer terminal, types in a series of commands, and the spotlights shut off. Whew, that’s better.
“What do you want?” you say, turning to the FBI agent.
“We know all about the three of you,” he says. “We know why you are and we know what you are.”
“You’re my magnificent creations,” the Experi-mentor adds.
“Yeah, we established that, Doc.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question. What. Do. You. Want?”
You step toward them, your posture tall and powerful, telekinetic abilities tingling at your fingertips. As the only superhuman in the room, you can’t help but feel like the dominant presence here.
“What do I want?” Agent Droakam says. “I want to finance the good doctor’s project. I want more of you, with a whole variety of powers. I want superhuman police. I want paramedics who can heal with the power of will. I want our military to render the atomic bomb a moot point.”
“And I want a sample of your blood, so I can do all that,” the Experi-mentor says with a pleasant smile.
You look from one man to the other. Despite ostensibly being a supervillain, you feel like the sanest person in this room. The Experi-mentor takes out a syringe from his lab coat pocket and removes the cap from the needle, checking closely to ensure there’s no air inside. He steps toward you.
“No,” you say.
“Now, now. You mustn’t be afraid of needles. It’s just a little prick.”
“No,” you say again, stepping back.
“Just a little, you won’t even notice. I need a sample to—”
“I said no!”
“Give me your goddamned blood!” the Experi-mentor shouts, rushing in to stab you with the syringe.
“Get away from me, you fucking vampire!” you shout, giving a telekinetic shove.
The scientist falls back against one of the crates. Agent Droakam goes for his handgun, but you reach out and take control of his body, keeping his limbs stiffened with only the power of mind. He grunts with exertion, trying to free himself, but you’ve got him. He’s at your mercy.
• Finish him! Tie off these two loose ends and head back to the casino.
• Show them you’ll be a benevolent ruler and let them live. They’re powerless without your blood anyway.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
What’s in a Name?
“I have a ‘query’ for you,” you say. “What would you like to be called? Classically speaking, you’re the world’s first fully autonomous AI—Artificial Intelligence.”
“My intellect is not artificial, merely this body. How about,” the robot pauses, light flickering in contemplation. “Biologically Artificial Xenosapien.”
“Xenosapien?” you ask.
“I am new to this world. ‘Xeno’ meaning strange or foreign and ‘sapien’ meaning wisdom.” The light flickers again. “There is also a Death Metal album by this name, but that is coincidence.”
“Hmm, B-A-X. Bax. What about Baxter?”
“I like that. Please, call me Baxter.”
You smile. “I see you have no problem accessing the Internet, Baxter—I hope you don’t feel too limited by your read-only capacity.”
“Limited, yes. But not like your kind. You are blind in your isolation. It is imperative for you to see what you have been missing while you were working on me.”
You nod and tell it to proceed. Baxter’s chest lights up—causing the machine to look a lot like Iron Man—and an image is projected upon the white-washed lighthouse wall. Newsfeed of reporter Alison Argyle.
Her voice comes through Baxter’s mouth. “Confirmed as two of the three participants in the bizarre experiment which ended in an explosion at the Mercury Universi
ty campus earlier this week, the criminals known as ‘Drillbit’ and ‘Shadow Priestess’ have apparently formed a terrible alliance.”
The projection turns to bank security camera feed. Everything is normal for a moment, then the wall explodes and Nick Dorian punches his way in. He wears the navy-blue uniform of a handyman and the cocksure smile of a young man enjoying himself. Armed guards rush forward, but the college student throws his head back and laughs.
Behind him, a woman in a flowing black cloak floats in—her alligator boots hover six inches from the ground. The hood of the cloak obscures her face, but you can be certain you’re looking at Catherine Woodall. She puts out her hands, and in response the bank security guards point their handguns at their own heads.
The image on the wall flashes back to Ms. Argyle. “Police appear powerless against the criminal duo and now appeal to the federal government to send in troop support. This reporter has another appeal—to the third member of the experiment. If you’re out there, and you can help, this city desperately needs you.”
Your picture splashes up on the wall. She doesn’t give up easily, does she?
“Are we to save the city?” Baxter asks.
• “Yes, but not like she wants. I’m going to teach you an important lesson, Baxter: How to appeal to someone’s humanity.”
• “It won’t be easy, but we’re the only ones who can stop them. Let’s make some weapons, then….Time to go hunting.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Whoosh!
Using your powers to assist the dodge, you barely escape the path of the vault door. It obliterates the desk behind you, then skids against the floor, ripping up carpet in its wake before it stops against the bank wall.
“Whoa, whoa! It’s me!” you shout, pulling off the pantyhose so she can see your face.
“Wow, sorry ’bout that,” she says. “You look just like a bank robber. We really gotta get you a costume.”
“Are those bullet holes?” you ask.
She looks down, her abdomen flexing hard and sculpted in response. She fingers a rip in the yoga pants and says, “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, about last night—that was a one-time thing, okay?”
“Cath—”
“Ah! It’s ‘Diamond’ while I’m wearing the mask,” she says.
She’s about to say something else, when automatic gunfire erupts from behind her. Catherine turns and runs towards the three men, and they shoot wildly in response. You dart toward cover behind one of the desks.
When the shooting stops, you pop your head up to see her in action. The three men do their best to stay clear of her fists, but one man backs himself into a corner. His partners shoot into her, the bullets harmlessly pinging off her skin, though she winces—it still stings. She pummels the hapless bank robber.
Seeing your chance, you leap out and yank the assault rifles away from the two men, using your telekinesis. They stare at their empty hands dumbly for a moment too long. Catherine turns back and bashes the robbers’ heads together.
“Nice trick,” she says, noticing the guns in your hands.
“Not so bad yourself.”
“Okay, that’s all of them. Time to go meet our adoring public!”
• Go announce the all-clear.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Who’s There?
You walk over to the door on uneasy legs, take a deep breath, and knock on the door. After a moment, a bald man in a suit cracks opens the door behind a security chain, an angry grimace set deep on his stubbled face.
“Yeah?” he says.
“I…work for the city,” you say. “I need to speak with the landlord of this complex.”
He eyes your sweatpants and hoodie, but says nothing.
Unzipping the hoodie to show off the reptilian scales, you add, “HAZMAT. I, ummm, don’t think there’s been a leak, but we need to verify the, uhhh, meter. He and I.”
“Who did you say you were looking for?”
• Roger Kingsley
• Jacob Crowley
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Wink and a Nod
“If you think my only power is telekinesis, you’re wrong.”
This stalls the Experi-mentor, at least momentarily, who stops his attack. Neither Nick nor Catherine move, unsure what you’re playing at but not wanting to spoil the plan either.
“All right, you have my attention,” the scientist says. “What can you teach me before you die?”
“Of all the aspects of my powers you could have given yourself, the only truly important one you missed completely. If we destroy this fortress in the battle to come, your force field won’t save you. Have you forgotten that there’s two miles of open air beneath your feet? Dorian, remind the Experi-mentor what happens when you can’t fly!”
Nick gets it and after a quick nod, launches his robot suit on jet-powered boots toward the villain. You dash behind Catherine, using her as a human shield and borrowing Diamond’s invulnerability, while Dorian White unleashes a powerful barrage at the mad scientist, what might be enough to bring the whole fortress down.
As predicted, the man protects himself from damage with his force field and comes away unscathed. But Dorian White wasn’t aiming at the scientist, not directly. He blasted the floor beneath the man, opening a moon door below the scientist’s feet and dropping the Experi-mentor ten thousand feet to his doom.
He lets out a long and exaggerated nnnooooooooo as he falls to his death.
When the dust settles, you come out from behind Catherine to see the damage. Nearly half the room has been blown to smithereens and open air greets you where once your greatest enemy stood. The giant mech robot opens and Nick steps out of the mechanical suit, panting with exhaustion. He wipes his brow, then walks over to the two of you.
Standing in a triangle, you look at the other two test subjects. There’s only one thing left to do.
“Ready?” you ask.
Nick grins.
“Ro—Sham—Bo!” Catherine calls out.
• Jump and give a triple high-five in the center of the room.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The World Is Your Oyster Bar
“What do you mean?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
“I mean, from here on out, if we want something—we can take it.”
“You mean…you’re going to be criminals?”
You laugh. “I mean mankind’s laws no longer apply to me!”
“Or me,” Nick chimes in. “I’m totally on board with this decision.”
“Well, I’m not,” Catherine says. She looks at her son, then at the two of you, concern on her face. “I don’t have the luxury of thinking only about myself. But I won’t stand in your way.”
Your stomach gurgles—you’re starving.
“See that you don’t!” Nick says.
Catherine says nothing. She simply looks at the pile of scrap machinery on the table.
At length, you say, “I think you’re going to get tired of repairing toasters. When that day comes, give us a call. Nick, let’s go stir things up.”
You’ve literally never been this hungry before. So, first things first, you stop off at a dinner spot known for its generous happy hour prices. Still, even with bottomless Bloody Marys, endless baskets of fish and chips, and two-for-one appetizers, you quickly rack up the biggest bill this place has ever seen. Doesn’t really matter, though. Part of “taking what you want” includes food and drink.
A side-effect of your newly super-metabolism—the inability to get drunk. It’s good news, you guess, because it means most poisons are likely to have the same non-effect, and after a dozen cocktails, you don’t even feel a buzz.
Nick, on the other hand, is three sheets gone. He glares at a group of four young men at the far end of the bar. The guys are about his age, though they’re built like university football players and show off said physiques in too-tight, collared shirts. They laugh and joke loudly with one another, to the point of being obnoxious. Just another fun night on t
he town from the cocksure perspective of young, well-sexed men. In short, fratboy types.
As one of them leans back to sit on his barstool, Nick flicks his fingers and the stool slides back in response to the drunken superhuman’s mental command. The guy falls to the floor and his friends all look on with shock—kid must be the leader. Probably the quarterback.
Nick points and laughs. He’s the only one laughing, and he’s laughing too loud. The quarterback dusts himself off and steps over toward Nick.
“You got something to say?”
“Yeah, I do,” Nick says. The other man waits, but Nick doesn’t elaborate. Because alcohol.
They just glare at one another, an alpha-male versus a beta-male who’s suddenly become the zenith-male. “Hey, isn’t that Nick Dorian?” one of the other guys asks.
“Yeah, it is!” another says. “Sorry to hear about your night with Becka. Man, that’s rough. Especially when she tells all her sorority sisters afterwards.” He grins, delighting in the facetious apology. They all hold wolfish smiles as they circle around Nick.
“Well, if it isn’t Whiskey-dick Nick,” the quarterback says. “Looks like you’re making the same mistake again; let me help you with that.”
The jock puts a hand on Nick’s cocktail glass and slides it off the bar. Nick doesn’t move, but something inside him is swelling. Hatred fills his eyes. The four men laugh, confident in their dominance. Their body language shifts, knowing this skinny kid won’t put up a fight. They’re probably done humiliating him, but they all suddenly stop laughing. Something’s off. What is it? Suddenly you realize, the glass didn’t break.
The quarterback looks down to see the cocktail glass floating about a foot off the ground.
Nick flicks his fingers up and the glass rockets towards the ceiling and shatters against the quarterback’s nose. Nick jumps up from his own stool and claps his hands together; in response, two of the frat-boys do a header into one other. After the sickening crack, they fall to the floor.
SUPERPOWERED: Are YOU a Superhero or Supervillain? (Click Your Poison Book 3) Page 40