Enhanced

by Cosca, Paul

  ENHANCED

  A novel by

  Paul Cosca

  Copyright © 2017 by Paul Cosca

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact Paul Cosca at paulcosca@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Except, of course, when they are obviously not. In those cases, the author has done his best to put those people, organizations, and historical figures in contexts that would be appropriate, were they in this fictitious world.

  ISBN-13: 978-1543136135

  ISBN-10: 1543136133

  For Brie.

  CONTENTS

  ORIGIN STORIES

  A NEW WAY TO WAR

  THE LINES WE CROSS

  MY HISTORY/YOUR HISTORY

  NOTHING BUT JUNK

  AFTERMATH

  September 10th, 2001

  We wake up early, and the sky above New York City is intensely blue. But maybe that’s just the fog of memory. Maybe that’s just the kind of day I wish it had been. Maybe it rained that day. Maybe dark clouds rolled in and I had to dig through my suitcase to find the only long-sleeved shirt I packed. Maybe it was awful, but there’s no way I can think of it like that. In my mind, in my memory, the day is bright blue and glorious. Because the day after this, she dies. And no final day is allowed to be cloudy.

  We wake up early, and the sky above New York City is intensely blue. She opens her eyes and smiles when she sees me. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, letting this girl fall in love with me and loving her back is probably the worst. Neither of us will say it today. We’ve both known it for months, but there will be no grand confessions or perfect final moments. We will sleep in our separate beds and dream of a future that will never come to pass. Dream of sharing a bed. Sharing a life. We will spend our final night dreaming of one another, but I will never touch her skin in the way my fingers crave, or press my lips against hers like I’ve dreamed of time and time again.

  She wears a sun dress that dances along her thighs. Looking at her makes me feel foolish in the very best way. We spend half the day being tourists, wandering through Central park. I treat her to ice cream and she spends two hours in the gym working it off. We talk. I record the interview I’d planned, and file it away like I have with eighty-nine others.

  This is a project I’ve devoted so much of my life to...it’s all about the interviews, but what’s important to me about this day aren’t the words that are spoken, but the day itself. The way the sunlight makes her skin glow. The strength in her legs as she runs on the track. The look in her dark eyes right before we fall asleep. There’s a recording in my desk drawer with her name on it: ANTOINETTE - 9/10/01 - NYC. I know at some point I will have to sit down and transcribe it, but it’s been two years and I’ll be damned if I can bring myself to do it. I can’t, because there are ninety tapes in my office, and when I finish with hers it will all be done. And then I’ll have to admit to myself that she is dead.

  We wake up early and the sky above New York City is intensely blue. And neither of us have any idea that twenty-four hours from this moment, I will be screaming her name as glass rains down around us and she disappears in a wall of dust. We have no idea. And because we are ignorant, we are perfect.

  ORIGIN STORIES

  November 15th, 1998

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Though I’ve recently moved away, I spent most of my adult life in Chicago, which means most of my adult life has been spent in vague fear of the other major city just a four-hour drive to the east. Sure, Chicago could be rough, but you always brushed it off, safe in the knowledge that Detroit was always worse. Needless to say, I’ve never hopped in the car and headed over to the Motor City, but that’s exactly where I am today.

  For all the misgivings I had about coming, I’m pleasantly surprised by how...normal it is. Of course, I’m sticking to all the touristy areas of downtown today, but I already feel a little silly for being so down on the place.

  I’m fifteen minutes early for the interview, but as I enter the coffee shop I see that Antoinette is already here. When my agent first suggested this, I was a little dubious. I’ve been gathering interviews about the Enhanced community for years from some of the most important people around. Why did we need someone who was completely unknown? My agent put it succinctly: History doesn’t matter unless you give us someone to root for. And she was right.

  We put an ad in newspapers across the country. Nothing elaborate. Simply, “Wanted: Fit, Passionate Young Person to Become Superhero.” I figured we’d get a lot of silly replies, and we did, but I was also deeply moved by how many genuine responses we got to the idea. Superheroes haven’t been a reality in this country for a generation, but I learned there are a lot of people who still keep that dream alive in their hearts. The responses were wonderful, but none were as passionate and gripping as the one we got from Antoinette.

  She’s a pretty girl with strong, sharp features. Her tight dreadlocks are pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s dressed like she’s coming to a job interview. And suddenly I realize that this is a job interview, even if it’s a bit unconventional. And suddenly, I feel very unprepared.

  ANTOINETTE: Thank you. I just want to thank you for coming out to see me. I...uh...I hope I’m dressed okay. I read in a book once that you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, but I think I’d get some weird looks if I got on the bus in a cape, you know? Do real superheroes wear capes? I feel like you’d probably get it caught in stuff. Trip on it. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I’m nervous, I guess.

  I let her know that she is just fine. We order drinks. I have tea, she has hot chocolate.

  Thank you. I um...I’ve worked a few jobs before. I was a clerk at a grocery store and I’ve done a lot of babysitting, but obviously nothing like this. Nothing too serious. But I’ve definitely had to be responsible before. Accountable. I just...in the past year, I’ve been realizing that I don’t know what I’m going to do. Or what I can do. I’ve got lots of ideas, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do any of it. I’m stuck, and I feel like if I don’t do something really soon, I’m not going to be able to get out.

  See, when I was little, my mom tried to help with all that. She...I didn’t know this until later, but she knew my dad was Enhanced. So she stayed with a friend of hers down in Indiana, because the little hospital there wasn’t big enough to run any of the tests. And she figured if they didn’t test me right then, maybe they never would. She really tried. She did. But...

  I was eight, and there was this big group of us kids that would all run together. We weren’t bad kids or anything, but you know how kids are. They find trouble like it’s their job, you know? So one day we’re checking out this house that had been foreclosed on, because we heard there was all sorts of stuff still inside. We weren’t there to take anything, we just wanted to check it out. Curious, you know?

  I was down in the basement, and there was this huge pile of boxes. I mean, almost up to the ceiling. I don’t know what I thought was going to be down there…but it wasn’t junk. It was their life. All their stuff. Old clothes.

  Knick knacks. The kind of stuff my mom would keep on her shelves. They must have been in a pretty bad way, because this wasn’t just stuff they’d throw away. There was this one thing that caught my eye, and I picked it up so I could show my friend. It was a lion...my mom really liked lions. That was kinda her thing. So I picked it up and I lost my balance. I fell.

  I don’t know if it was that the place was in a bad neighborhood or...I don’t know, maybe everyone’s got stuff like
that. But I tumbled down that pile of boxes and when I hit, I fell on...I guess at one point it might have been, like, a post for a mailbox or something. But it was this bent, twisted piece of metal, and when I hit, it went right through me. Right through my stomach. I just remember screaming and passing out.

  I don’t remember too much. I woke up in the ambulance at one point, and I remember they had me on my side. I guess when you get something stuck in you like that, you have to keep it in. It’s a really weird thing to think about.

  When I woke up, I was out of surgery and everything. My mom was there. There was a nurse there too, and before my mom could even say a word to me, they were checking me out, making sure I was okay. And I was. I was really okay. Way way too okay. I could’ve been dead, and I should have been seriously hurt, but when they changed the bandages, there was hardly anything there.

  The doctor figured out something was up even before they got the test results back. He said that by the time I’d gotten to the hospital, my body had begun to heal around the metal post; they had to cut it out because my body was healing up so fast. Not like that was something they saw too often, but it didn’t take too much thinking to figure out what was up. I remember not really understanding what the big deal was. And my mom...she cried so much. She was so heartbroken.

  When I was young, nobody really talked about being Enhanced.

  I guess if you’ve got enough real problems, that’s not really a priority. Maybe worrying about being Enhanced is a thing for rich folks. But when...

  She sighs a little and takes a sip of her hot chocolate. She looks...not more relaxed, but the jitters have gone away. I think I’m seeing who she really is now, and not who she wants me to see.

  My mom started getting sick all the time. But it wasn’t something she was going to go to the doctor for. She worked two part-time jobs just to keep us fed. Going to the doctor would mean missing work at one or the other, and that just wasn’t going to happen. Especially with no health insurance. She ended up in the hospital, and a month later she was gone. Cancer. If she’d been able to go when she started getting sick, she’d probably still be here. I was ten, and my little brother Eli was five. He didn’t understand what was going on, and I didn’t know what to say. I just told him that she was gone for a while and I tried to keep things together. I figured if I kept the house real clean and made sure we both got to school, that we’d be able to stay in the house. A couple weeks later they came for us.

  Eli’s got a different dad than I do. So that means that I’m Enhanced, and he’s not. I didn’t think that was a big deal...it shouldn’t be...but it is. Once they put “Enhanced” on your birth certificate, on your social security card, that pretty much gives them free reign to make your life hell. Maybe if you’ve got money and nothing bad ever happens to you, then you’ll be fine. But once you’re down on your luck, they make sure you stay down.

  See, there are plenty of laws against discrimination. You can’t discriminate against someone if they’re black, or handicapped, or if they have a different religion. You can’t even technically discriminate if they’re Enhanced. But you know what that means? That means that when you say “no”, you just can’t say it’s because they’re black or handicapped or Enhanced. As long as you don’t say it, you can go on discriminating however you want, and there’s nothing they can do to stop you. So when Eli and I

  ended up in the system, a foster family took him and not me. They said “We want Eli and not Antoinette because he’s younger. Because he’s a boy. Because we can help him more.” And as long as they didn’t say those special words, the system had no problem with splitting us up. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he found a family. I really am. I talk to him, and it seems like they take really good care of him there. But...I didn’t realize just what it meant to be Enhanced in America ‘till right then. Even the word is an insult. How can they call me Enhanced and then try to drown me in the gutter?

  The foster system...I’ve been in it for seven years now. And I don’t need to go into all of it. I do my best to keep my head up, but bad things happen. That’s just how it goes. You get...hurt. Not everybody gets it that rough, but I’ve had my share of it. But I’ve been trying to make the best of it. I’ve tried to work hard. But what does it do? What am I supposed to do?

  Sir, my grades aren’t the best, but I work really hard for them. I’ve got a 3.0 grade point average that I’m really proud of, but nobody is going to give me a scholarship for that. I play ball as well as anybody, but the NCAA won’t even let Enhanced kids on the court. I’ve got two months before I age out of the system and end up on the street, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

  So I guess that brings me to the question. The one you asked me on the phone. Why do I want to be a superhero? Well...when I was young, the teachers would say that we could be anything. But for some of us, that just isn’t true. Now, anyone who wants to give me an opportunity can look at that word on my birth certificate or my social security card and think twice about it. What I want to do is help people. I want to make my part of the world better, you know? And maybe if I wasn’t Enhanced I could go and be a lawyer for poor people or a doctor in a clinic.

  But I can’t. A generation ago, they got all scared about Enhanced people, and now I don’t even have the basic tools I need to make something of myself. So if they won’t let me be what I want, then I’ll go and be the one thing they’re scared of. And maybe, as a superhero, I can do the things that I just can’t do as myself.

  July 2nd, 1993

  The pulse of Chicago pounds beneath the sidewalks today. As I make my way to the south side, the city breathes with me. It moves with me. Everyone around me, on the trains and on the streets, seems to be riding that energy just like I am. I pass by two street festivals, with the deep smell of barbecue and the smoky, familiar scent of grilling red-hots enticing me to stop. But I’ve got an appointment to meet. After so many other interviews, I’m finally going to meet Jackson Bennett.

  I stop in front of a dark, weathered building. I’ve left the frenetic energy behind, and now I’m in a section of the south side that feels quiet and tired. And just a little dangerous. So much of the south side safe and welcoming...it’s tough to see a place like this amidst all that. But the address on the front looks right, and the sign in the window says it’s the Red Squirrel. This is the place.

  The bar is dim enough that I have to stand still for a moment as my eyes adjust. The smell of cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, and I can feel my eyes watering. It’s one in the afternoon, and there are only two people in here besides myself: the bored looking barkeep watching TV, and a quiet man in the corner of the room nursing a muddy-looking drink. As I sit across from him he looks at me quickly, then nods. He stares at his drink for a long moment, the finishes it in one go. His eyes are bloodshot, either from the smoke or the liquor. Maybe both. This is Jackson Bennett.

  JACKSON: Hero. You ever hear a word so many times it just don’t mean anything? The folks that want to get in good with me, they always use that one. You was a hero, man. A hero. That’s what they say. But the more they all say, the less it means. And shit, those are the ones that want to get in good. There plenty who don’t want that at all, and I almost like those ones better. At least they’re honest. They call me a piece of shit or a freak...and that feels more like the truth.

  I try my best to hide how uncomfortable I am. This wasn’t what I was anticipating. He sweeps his arm toward me, knocking over his glass. He doesn’t notice it until it falls on the floor.

  And what the fuck do they all want from me, man? What do you want from me? Y’all want me to give you some...I don’t know. Some kind of truth that’ll make some of it better? Fuck, man. I ain’t got no shit like that. I didn’t know nothin’ back then, and I sure as shit don’t know nothin’ now. So...here I am. Is this what you wanted? Huh?

  There was...there was a man once. And he was the most amazing thing anybody’d ever seen. He done shit that jus
t didn’t seem real, but there he was. If that cat had been born in a different time, there’d be a religion around him or some shit. He was a miracle...but maybe he was a monster, too. You get what I’m saying? He was my friend...or something like it...but he also did something so horrible that it makes me bad. It makes me all ruined, just ‘cause I was there with him.

  So people, they come here and they want me to tell ‘em something. But what am I gonna say? There was a man, and nobody knew his name. They just knew Synapse, and that’s what we called him too. They knew he was amazing, and that’s what we knew too. I knew...or I thought I knew that there was somethin’ wrong with him. Nobody knew all that till afterward, but that doesn’t matter now. None of it...shit. Shit I’m not even making sense. Just look at me, man. Is this what you wanted? You wanted to talk to some drunk ass nigger who can’t even put two goddamn sentences right no more? I don’t think that’s what you wanted, man, but that’s what I got right now.

  So now you’ll go. You’ll get the fuck outta here like all the rest of ‘em and write some story about meeting some fuckin’ washed up, has-been hero who ain’t worth shit now.

  I try to tell him that I’d rather write about how he really is, not just about his troubles.

  Fuck, man. You think I ain’t heard that before? I heard all that shit. All of it. Your shit ain’t no better than all the others, man. You really want me to believe that? You wanna know what I know and hear what I got to say? Come on back in five years. If you still give a shit then...if you really is better than all those other assholes...maybe we’ll talk.

  I plan on doing exactly that.

  March 23rd, 1998

  Like a sure sign of a bad blind date, John Kelley looks nothing like his picture. In this case, however, it’s not a big deal. Not only am I not on a date, but he actually looks a good deal better than his picture made him out to be. “It’s the contacts,” he says, when I ask him about it. “People say I look better with contacts, but I just can’t stand the way they feel”. Besides lacking eyeglasses, John is slimly built and of average height. His hair is a tightly wound brown puff, and his nails are not well kept. The kind of guy who would clean up well, but is too busy to make the effort on a day to day basis.