As the guard stepped past another sailor setting down a crate, the sailor snatched the cigarette from his lips and flung the butt into the sand. Wesley's brow furrowed as his mind reached out with every ounce of strength he could muster. His weak telekinesis was barely enough to hold onto the cigarette butt, but he only needed to hold it for a second. With a tilt of his head, the butt turned in mid-air and soared straight at the soldier, hitting him in the back of the neck. Red embers and ash exploded around him and he turned toward the sailor with fury. The butt of his rifle slammed into the sailor's head, knocking him to the ground. Soon enough, the other soldiers gathered around, pinning the innocent man to the ground and binding his wrists. Wesley felt a twinge of guilt as he rushed between the food shacks and into the forest.
He waited there, deep in the tall grass, with his head down, motionless for hours. When darkness fell over him, he lifted himself from the ground and crept toward the edge of the forest. The beach was empty. The food shacks were closed for the night. The ships were gone from the docks. Seagulls picked at trash littered about. But most importantly, the soldiers were nowhere to be seen. Wesley pulled his hood over his head and started for the lights in the distance.
He knew he wasn't safe. Not by a long shot. He wasn't supposed to be there, and the Fatherlands took immigration seriously. He would need to move in the shadows and try his best not to attract attention. He knew that he shouldn't go toward the nearby work camps. His destination was far to the north, atop a mountain that overlooked the community, but Wesley was hungry. Food aboard the ship was sparse, and after laying in the dirt all day, his stomach was churning.
As he neared the walled living quarters, even at the late hour, a few people milled about on the streets. All of them appeared just as he did, with their heads down, unwilling to look into anyone's eyes. In fact, they all appeared as frightened as him.
There were no guards at the entrance and the gate remained wide open, only there to remind the people inside that it could be closed at any time. It served to lock them in more than keep others out. Once inside the walls, everything felt different. The architecture was strange. Gray and dull, with square edges to everything. Nothing existed for decoration, only utility. Posters and paintings covered the larger buildings, every one of them proclaiming the greatness of the Zharkovs. “Z for Victory!” and “The Imperator Loves Every Citizen Equally” spread across the bottom of the images in sharp, bold letters. Pictures of the old Imperator were being painted over with the image of the new Imperator. A few anti-Neo-Nipponese posters hung in windows.
The work camp was focused on shipping, keeping large warehouses full of supplies to be imported and exported to and from other domains. The streets themselves were strangely empty. Every few blocks, Wesley would notice a person scurry between buildings, only to disappear in the darkness of the alleys. It was a strange contrast to the bustling streets of the American Republic. There were barely any vehicles passing by, and those that did were either military or hauling cargo.
Wesley followed the patterns of the citizens and stuck to the alleyways as much as possible. He wasn't sure where he was going, but walked with purpose so that he wouldn't appear lost, or like he didn't belong. Soon enough, he smelled the distinct smell of grilled meat, and his stomach lunged.
He wound his way through the skinny alleyways, toward the smell, until he found a group of older men sitting behind an apartment complex. They gathered around an oil barrel filled with flames. One of them was rotating a crooked rod over the fire. Skewered on the rod, was the body of a small animal.
Wesley approached slowly, but the men noticed him right away. They looked defensive, all of them standing up and creating a wall between him and the food. Wesley held up both his hands, palms out, to show them he meant no harm.
“Hi.”
The word fumbled out awkwardly and he cursed himself for not considering his tactic before he approached them. His stomach was doing all the thinking.
One of the old men stepped forward and waved his hand as if to shoo him away.
“Nothing here for you, boy. Get.”
“I was just... I was wondering if I could buy some of your food.”
He reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet and one of the men grabbed a wooden plank leaning against the barrel.
“Whoa, whoa,” Wesley said, showing him the wallet. “I was just getting some money out to pay you.”
The men exchanged confused looks before one of them said, “Money?”
Wesley pulled out the few bills he had in his wallet and flashed them. The men exchanged glances again, but this time they didn't appear confused, they looked concerned.
“Are you... American?”
Wesley glanced around nervously. “Um... no. I mean... I'm not...”
The men stepped closer to Wesley, but they spread out like they were going to circle around him. Wesley stepped back.
“I just want some food.”
One of the men chuckled. “Your money is useless here, boy. You need ration cards. Course... you'd know that if you were a Fatherlander.”
Wesley cursed himself. He knew how the Fatherlands worked. He had done his homework before he made the trip. He was being stupid. Too tired and too hungry to think straight. He needed to be more clever, try to talk them into the idea.
“But money is still good on the black market, right?” Wesley waved the bills in the air. “I thought maybe you might want something other than...” He glanced at the meat. “What is that, anyway?”
One of the men grumbled, “Dog.”
Wesley reconsidered his level of hunger, but his stomach insisted. “Okay. Well, maybe you want some chocolate instead? Or maybe a bottle of wine? This money will get you that, right?”
The men exchanged glances again.
One of the men said in a hushed tone, “Black market? What do you think we are? Criminals?” Then he spoke louder, “We're patriots, boy.”
“I didn't say you weren't. I'm sure you're all hard working citizens of the Empire. But I'm also sure you deserve a treat once in a while.”
“And why don't you just use your own money to buy yourself something nice, eh? Why do you want this burnt dog?”
Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Do you really want to question all that? Or do you want this money?”
One of the old men smiled, showing off his missing teeth. “Oh, we're taking that money, boy. I'm just trying to figure out if I'm going to turn you into the authorities or not. Probably a reward for you, don't you think?”
Before Wesley could move, one of the men lunged at him and tackled him to the ground. His breath was knocked from his lungs. He wasn't to get his wits about him before a steel-toed boot kicked him in the face. He heard laughing as more boots slammed into his ribs. He tried to open his eyes at one point, but a fist closed them.
When they finally stopped the pummeling, one of the men said, “Should we take him down to the station?”
“Forget it. I don't want to answer any questions about why he's beat up, and I certainly don't want to get searched when we have this money on us. Do you?”
“Good point.”
“Leave him. I suddenly got a taste for some chocolate and wine.”
The men's laughter died out as they walked away, leaving Wesley laying in the middle of the paved yard. He wiped the blood from his mouth as he sat up, holding his ribs. He wasn't sure he could stand, but the sight of the cooking meat, still skewered on the metal rod above the fire, filled him with strength. He lifted himself off the pavement, every limb burning with pain.
The meat burned his fingers as he tore it from the bone, and it tasted like salted leather, but it felt good as it satiated his hunger. He ate quickly, stuffing the meat into his mouth like a ravenous animal, then ran back into the darkness.
He had never felt so unsafe before. There was nowhere to run to. No home or friends to protect him. He was alone in a world he barely understood. But it was that very fear that prop
elled him forward, because he knew there was only one hope left. There was only one place for him in a world that didn't want him: The House of Psi. And he would do whatever it took to reach it, no matter the risk or the pain he faced. He would make something of himself, no matter what.
3
CARMEN
The reflection in the mirror did nothing to remind her of who she was. The elaborately styled hair and fancy robes looked like a costume. The amount of makeup applied to her face by servants made her look years older. It all added up to the unreal feeling her life had become. Except it was real. Too real.
But there was no choice. She knew that. Perhaps if it had just been her fate she was dealing with, she may have chosen life in prison instead of pretending to be one of the royals that filled the Grand Citadel. But there was no way she was going to condemn her mother. The woman had sacrificed enough for her. The least she could do was see what this life was all about in order to save her mother's life.
Carmen glanced at the window that looked out over the Fatherlands, far below the patio, and thought to herself, “Worst case scenario? I fling myself over the railing. That'd be a nice dramatic exit for the history books.”
She chuckled to herself, but the thought was so dark, she felt guilty. And the idea of placing herself in a history book felt absurd, but that was what her life had become. Absurd. She lived in a floating castle, with servants and guards. And she was betrothed to the step-son of the Imperator. It was all so ridiculous, she laughed to herself again.
The knock on the door startled her, but she collected herself and said, “Yeah?”
When no one answered, she sighed and said, “Enter.”
The door creaked open a bit, and the tiny servant girl poked her head in. “I'm sorry to bother you, mistress, but Lady Magda has asked that you join her in the Eastern Eagle Room.”
“Magda?” Carmen said, more as an exasperated breath than a question.
She was already uncomfortable with her soon-to-be mother-in-law. The way the woman spoke, so gentle on the outside, but every sentence was sharpened to a razor's edge. She had never felt so attacked by a simple smile before.
“Yes,” Carmen said when she saw the servant girl waiting patiently. “I'll... I'll be right there.” Then, as the girl retracted her head back through the doorway, Carmen spoke out. “Wait! Where is the Eagle Room?”
The servant girl led her through room after room of gloriously decorated chambers. Each one made her feel smaller and smaller. The golden pillars and arched ceilings looked like they belonged in a cathedral rather than someone's home. Especially her own. By the time they had walked down the third flight of stairs, Carmen knew there was no way she could find her way back to her own room. The Grand Citadel was like a museum twisted into a labyrinth. A maze of gaudiness that begged you to stare in awe. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed, frightened, or annoyed, but she was pretty sure all three were appropriate.
The servant girl finally stopped and gestured at an enormous gold door, adorned with rubies. There was an eagle engraved in the center of the door, clutching a bundle of arrows. Carmen nodded at the girl and pushed open the door.
The Eastern Eagle Room was perhaps the closest thing to a casual living area in the Citadel that she was going to find. Couches with red, velvety cushions upon dark, cherry wood backs lined one wall. A few matching chairs surrounded the short table in the middle, which held a silver tea set. A plush rug made from the pelt of a polar bear lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Paintings of family members hung on the walls, each one nearly three times the size of the real person.
Maksim Zharkov, the man she was promised to, stood next to the fireplace. Maksim's nephew, Yuri, sat with his grandmother, Magda, near the tea set.
“Ah, there she is. Better late than never, my dear.” Magda stood up and hurried over to Carmen, grasping her hand. “Come in, come in. Only servants stand in doorways, you silly girl.”
Carmen blushed and followed the red-haired woman over to the couch. She glanced at Maksim, who stared back at her with a hint of sympathy. The fist-shaped scar she had left on him still mangled his cheek, causing a deformity that forced his left eye to only open halfway.
“We were having such a nice time this morning, I thought there would be no harm in asking you to join us,” Magda said, clapping her hands together. “You're practically family!”
“Oh,” Carmen said with a glance at Maksim as she sat down on one of the couches. “Thank you. I... I'm honored. Really.”
“You're the fire lady?” Yuri blurted out.
“I...” Carmen hesitated, looking around for someone to help her answer. “I mean... kind of...”
“Now, Yuri. She has a name,” Magda insisted. “Carmen Kross.”
“Actually, it's Armando,” Carmen corrected her. “Kross was my father's last name.”
“And what a father he was!” Magda said with gleeful delight. She leaned in close to Yuri and asked, “Do you know who her father was, Yuri? Do you know the name Quentin Kross?”
Yuri shook his head.
“Tsk. Tsk. I shall have to have a word with your history instructor.” Magda let out a sigh and leaned back. “I suppose you know his alter ego... Plasmax.”
Yuri perked up, sitting up straight and saying, “Oh yes! He was the end of the United States. The man who killed Grandfather. The man who was a bomb!”
“That's right, dear.”
Yuri looked at Carmen with both skepticism and excitement. “That's your father?”
Carmen glanced around the room again, searching for clues as to how to proceed, but everyone just stared back at her, waiting for her to respond.
“Well, I mean... yes? I never knew him, though. He didn't raise me or anything. He... he died before I was born.”
Yuri puffed up his chest proudly. “That's because my grandfather killed him.”
Maksim called out from the fireplace. “Yuri! That's no way to speak of the dead.”
“Don't be silly,” Magda said with a pursed smile. “I don't think Carmen is going to take offense to speaking ill of someone she never actually met. Would you dear? Besides, her father's death killed my husband as well. No one here really has the right to be offended.”
Carmen opened her mouth to speak, but truly had no words for the oddness of the situation.
“These are strange topics for tea time, Mother,” Maksim grumbled.
He stomped across the room more than stepping. He was like a wall of armor, his wide chest proudly displaying his Guardian symbol: A hammer with one blunt head, and one spiked head, surrounded by a shield. He swiped his cape to the side and sat down next to Carmen, his weight causing the sofa to creak.
“Oh, Maksim, I thought you would enjoy speaking of battles and bloodshed. You continually tell me that you should be on the Eastern front, fighting this uprising, instead of here, marrying this girl.”
Carmen glanced at Maksim, who remained silent.
Magda rolled her eyes. “I'm quite sure you have no other topics to offer.”
“I'm glad Grandfather killed Plasmax,” Yuri blurted out again.
“Yuri!” Maksim scolded.
“It's alright, dear. Let the boy speak.” Magda leaned in close again and asked, “Why do you feel that way, Yuri? Why do you think that was a good thing?”
“Because,” Yuri said with slight hesitation. “Before that... before the explosion and all those people died... the mortals thought they could still stand up to us. They thought that fighting us would somehow help them. But after Plasmax and Grandfather died, and the United States were burned off the map, people learned. They learned that there are consequences to fighting us.”
“Yes, yes,” Magda said, leaning back with a satisfied look in her eyes. “You're exactly right, Yuri. Their deaths eradicated the ignorance from the world and ushered in an age of enlightenment.”
Carmen tried to hide the horrified look on her face. The entire conversation made her sick to her stomach. They
were talking about the lives of human beings like they were footnotes.
Maksim set his fist down on the table in front of Yuri. “This can be a weapon, Yuri. This is what our family has used to rule the Empire. It is powerful. But you must respect it. You must use it with caution. Precision. Do not fling it about wildly. Do not forget the damage it can do. If you do not respect your own power, how can you expect those you rule over to respect it?”
Yuri stared at Maksim's fist. It was almost as large as Yuri's head. Then he looked down at his own tiny fist.
“Your uncle speaks the truth,” Magda said, somewhat reluctantly. “That fist can cause immense fear. But we want them to love us as well. Right?”
“Timete et amate imperium,” Yuri said, repeating the words on the Zharkovian banner. “Fear and love the Empire.”
“Exactly,” Magda said. “If they fear and love you, you will never have to use a weapon. Unfortunately, in that time of rebellion and stubbornness, it took two of the most powerful weapons to remind the world what they feared the most.”
Yuri looked down at both his fists, staring at them for a while. There was a long pause as he studied every knuckle.
“Sometimes,” he said, half mumbling to himself, “I think it'd be easier if they were gone.”
Maksim and Magda exchanged a look before Magda asked, “Who, dear? You think it'd be easier if who were gone?”
“All of them. All the people. If there was no one left to fight against us... we'd rule forever.”
Maksim looked at Carmen and for half a second, she saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes. It was the first time she thought he looked halfway human.
“Don't speak such foolishness, dear. What kind of empire would it be without anyone to rule over?” Magda asked, grabbing Yuri's hand and leading him toward the door. “Now then, that's enough family chit chat. We must be going. Your grandmother needs to pardon a certain Alliance member for her crimes against the Empire.”
“You're going to let her get away with posting that video?” Maksim said, sounding appalled by the idea.
Rise of the Supervillains Page 2