Floor to ceiling windows on one side of the apartment afforded a stunning view of the twin giants of Star Tower and the UWant Building. Parts of the glass could swing open, letting me fly out of here when I needed to. There was a kitchen, library, living room, bathroom, and a large bedroom. The huge walk-in closet in the bedroom was a quarter of the size it had been when I moved in. Three-fourths of it, walled off and concealed thanks to the carpentry skills I had picked up from Dad, contained my Heroic paraphernalia. Stored there were my red Academy graduation cape, the white cape I received with my Hero’s license, my license, and the huge gold ring with the masked man on the face of it that had come with the license.
The portal to The Mountain was also in my hideaway. With Avatar gone, The Mountain was my lair. Since the Omega spirit had passed from Avatar to me when he was murdered, I guess I had as much right to The Mountain as anyone else. I didn’t go there much, though. Seeing Mad Dog there reminded me of Hannah and how I had failed her. I pretty much only went to The Mountain to replenish Mad Dog’s food and water and to clean his cell. It was about time to go see him again. I did not look forward to it. Mad Dog’s name was descriptive—he was like a rabid dog I had adopted that I didn’t want. Sometimes I was tempted to turn him over to the authorities. That temptation passed when I thought of how I had found Hannah after Mad Dog killed her—with a hole blasted through her body and the smell of human waste mingling with cooked flesh. Then I resolved anew to keep Mad Dog imprisoned until kingdom come.
Also in the hidden area in the closet was a computer system I had paid Hacker to set up. Hacker was a Hero I had gone through the Trials with who now worked for a tech firm in Seattle. With her ability to control computers, she was the star of the firm, and made even more money than I did. One might think that, considering our history together, Hacker would have set up my computer system for free. Whoever thought that did not know Hacker.
The computer system was named Augur. It constantly monitored the Internet, radio, cell phone traffic, cable, broadcast television, and police and other government broadcasts for signs of trouble Omega might need to deal with. If I was not home, Augur alerted me where the trouble was via my communicator watch.
Tonight, Augur was quiet as a mouse. That was a good thing. Thanks to my drinking, I was in no condition to get into a fight with anything. Except maybe a breathalyzer.
I was not even in my mid-20s, yet I already had a high-tech early warning system, a teleporter to my own personal lair, and I owned a building near a major city’s downtown. I had more money in the bank than I could shake a stick at, and more flooded in from my various licensing deals by the day. The hefty sums of money I donated to various charities barely made a dent in the piles of money I was accumulating. And how could I forget—I was one of the most powerful Metas in the world. Famous to boot.
By the lights of a lot of people, I was successful.
I did not feel like a success. I felt terrible.
I paused my aimless wandering. I found myself in what was usually my favorite room—my library. Dark wood and heavy furniture adorned the room, like you might find in a men’s club a century ago. The shelves groaned under my ever-expanding book collection. One good thing about having money fall out of my ears was I could afford to buy lots of books for the first time in my life. As had been the case when I was a kid, these days most of my free time—what little there was of it—was spent reading. Books were my friends. Due to the dangerous life I lived, I was too afraid to make new human ones. I didn’t want what I had let happen to Neha and Hannah happen to someone else.
There was a price to pay for that. My talk with Angel had reminded me of what it felt like to form a personal connection with someone new. I had forgotten how good it felt. Getting a taste of it with Angel and then being without it again in my normal life was like walking back into a blizzard after warming up over a cozy campfire.
I stood in front of the library’s mantelpiece. I looked with sadness at the pictures there of my parents and Neha. Every time I looked at Neha’s picture, I felt sick that I had not reconciled with her before she died.
Above the mantel hung a framed sketch of James, my and Neha’s son who was named after my father. He had my hair and eyes, but Neha’s coloration and gently hooked Indian nose. I knew he was not real. But, thanks to the dreamworld I was in when the Omega spirit tested me to see if I was worthy of possessing the Omega suit, I had lived an imaginary alternate life in which I had been happily married to Neha and we had a son together. Though it had not been real, it had seemed real. My memories of our lives together were as concrete as the memory I had of getting out of bed this morning. More so, actually, because those memories were infinitely more precious. Thanks to that other life I remembered with Neha, when the Sentinels killed her, it had felt like losing her for the second rather than the first time.
Shortly after defeating the Sentinels, I had gone to a police sketch artist Truman had recommended. I had described James, dredging under the artist’s expert guidance small details out of my mind that I had not even known were there. The sketch above my mantle was the result. It was the spitting image of how I remembered James.
Other than my memories, the sketch was all I had of James. I missed him desperately. Seeing his birth, seeing him take his first step, hearing his first word, teaching him to throw a ball, reading to him at night, watching him grow . . . I missed it all. I also missed Neha, Dad, and Mom. To a lesser extent as I had not been as close to them, I missed Hannah and Hammer.
I took another swig of wine. I swallowed the dregs of the bottle. I did not feel the warmth of the alcohol anymore as I stared at my loved ones who were gone forever. The cold weight of loneliness pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Cold fury suddenly possessed me. I was sick of this being my life.
I flung the empty wine bottle with all the force I could muster. It shattered against the wall with a smash. My fists were clenched. My chest heaved. My hands burned even hotter than they normally did as I struggled to not lash out with my powers at something, anything. I wished there was a Rogue I could punch. I hated that Dad, Hannah, and Neha were dead because of my mistakes. I hated my life, which seemed empty, tasteless, and gray.
I hated me.
When Neha died because of me, the only thing that had kept me going, the only thing that kept me from flying into space and going until the vacuum sucked the life out of me was the Hero’s Oath. I had sworn to use my powers to protect people. I had refused to give up and violate my oath the way the Sentinels had. Learning I was the Omega, charged with protecting the world against a gathering crisis, had only enlarged the scope of my Heroic responsibility. I had assumed back then the crisis would hit soon. Days, weeks, maybe a few months at the most. But here it was, years later, and everything was exactly the same, with no crisis on the horizon. Natural disasters, street crime, alien invasions, Rogues . . . those I could deal with. But the waiting for the promised crisis, the loneliness, the isolation, the keeping secrets, the being afraid of getting close to anyone, the fear of failing again, of not being enough again . . . I didn’t know how much more of all this I could take. It was like being a lonely little kid again, only with the added responsibility of superpowers and saving the world. I felt like a pressure cooker about to explode.
I once read that sustained loneliness was as bad for your health as smoking was. I believed it. I wanted to pick up a piece of the broken bottle and use it to slit my wrists. It was not just the wine talking, though maybe the alcohol had ripped the scab off my darkest emotions. In vino veritas. I felt fragile. As if I would break like the wine bottle. I was held together only by duty, obligation, and promises to keep. I feared I’d fall to pieces if someone came along and jostled me the wrong way.
I looked down at the broken glass mess I’d made. I was suddenly disgusted with myself. Had I drunk wine, or whine? I needed to calm myself before I did something worse than breaking a bottle. I was no good to myself or anyone
else like this. I was tempted to fly around the city and clear my head, but I was too afraid of what might happen if I ran across someone to take my frustration and anger out on.
I needed to sit tight and wait for my emotions to calm and my alcohol buzz to fade. I reached for a book. I pulled from a shelf the book of poetry Neha had given me when we were the Old Man’s Apprentices. Though I’ve always been a big reader, I had not appreciated poetry overly much. When I told Neha that, she had bought me this poetry anthology. “Maybe this will class you up a little,” she had written inside the front cover above a big smiley face. I often read this book when I felt particularly lonesome for Neha and James.
I settled into the black leather recliner I normally did my reading in. I flipped the book open at random. I started reading the first thing my eyes fell on. It was the 1897 poem Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson. It read:
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
A chill ran down my spine as I closed the book. Sometimes clarity washes over you gently, like baptismal waters. Other times it bashes your head like a falling anvil. This was one of those latter times.
I was Richard Cory. The parallels between me and him were obvious. As Omega, I was famous; people admired me; women wanted to be with me; I had plenty of money. On the surface, I was the American Dream personified. And yet, like Richard Cory, I was miserable behind closed doors.
I had been serious when I had told Angel I was afraid that if he jumped, I might jump too. I was at my breaking point. Like Richard Cory, would there come some calm night when I came home and put a bullet through my head?
Despite what my Catholic upbringing had taught, I did not think there was anything inherently wrong with suicide. If my life was not my own to do with as I chose, then what was? Killing myself had occurred to me years before when I was a kid, usually when some bully at school made my life miserable. I had not gone through with it because I had known taking my life would devastate my parents, especially Dad after Mom died and it was just the two of us. When I was a kid, I had more people to think of than just myself.
Despite Mom and Dad now both being gone, I still had more people to think of than just myself. I was the Omega, charged with protecting the world. I didn’t want the responsibility. Want it or not, however, I had it. If one day I gave in to despair and killed myself before dealing with whatever the threat was the Sentinels had told me about, then I would have failed the world just as I had failed Dad, Hannah, and Neha. I was bound and determined to not fail again.
Something had to change. I needed to do something about the crushing loneliness I felt before I succumbed to a dark impulse and did something to myself the entire world might come to regret.
Due to what had happened to Hannah and Neha, I was still afraid of what might happen if I became friends—or more—with someone. But, I was starting to become even more afraid of what might happen if I didn’t.
I got up and found my smartphone.
Had a change of heart, I texted Isaac with unsteady hands. Can you give me Viola’s number?
CHAPTER 7
“Isaac says you’re a real superhero,” Viola said.
I choked on my latte. I started coughing and sputtering. Viola’s blue eyes widened in concern. “Oh my God, are you all right?” she said. She started to get out of her chair. I waved her back down. After all I had been through the past few years, it would be mighty embarrassing if a pumpkin spice latte was what did me in. Saint Peter would call me a basic bitch when I arrived at the Pearly Gates.
I reached for my glass of water and cleared my throat.
“Isaac said what now?” I asked once I could.
“He said you’re a real superhero. Because of all the money you give to charity.”
“Oh. That,” I said, relieved that Isaac had not blown my secret identity. I should have known better. Despite the fact Isaac loved to talk, he would never violate a confidence. “An uncle died a couple of years ago and left me a bunch of money. So much that the only job I have now is managing my investments. Since I didn’t earn it, I figure giving some of it away is the least I can do.” It was my go-to cover story when someone asked what I did for a living. I was so good at lying these days that it might as well have been my backup superpower. My chances at getting into Heaven were likely slipping away. My chances of getting into Congress were probably rising exponentially.
“You’re being too modest,” Viola said. “I think it’s great that you’re so generous.”
I shrugged. “To whom much is given, much will be required.” I felt like a pretentious jackass as soon as the quote was out of my mouth.
“Luke 12:48,” Viola said immediately.
I was surprised again, this time without choking on my drink. Progress. Next up, solid foods. “You know your Bible.”
“Of course. The Bible is where the voices in my head get their marching orders. They had me slaughter a ram and sprinkle its blood on an altar just the other night.” Viola saw the look on my face and paused. “That was a joke.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Your mouth says you know, but the rest of your face says otherwise.”
“It’s just that if you really did have voices in your head, it would be par for the course. I’ve had bad experiences lately with blind dates and blood.”
“There’s no way I’m letting you say that without telling me the story behind it. Spill it. The story, not blood.”
I told Viola about my ill-fated date with Candace Helwig. As I spoke, classic jazz music played softly under the hum of other conversations. The smell of roasted coffee hung in the air. We were in a Perk Up coffee shop in Astor City, not too far from my place. I had learned my lesson from meeting Candace for dinner. I had felt obligated to stay for the entire meal even though I knew when I laid eyes on Candace that she wasn’t my type. I read a newspaper article a while ago about a guy who had a boulder fall on his arm while he hiked alone in the woods. To free himself before he died of dehydration, the hiker had sawed his arm off with his pocketknife. Dinner with Candace had made me appreciate the desperation the hiker had felt.
So, instead of meeting Viola for a long dinner at night, we sat in a coffee shop in the middle of a Saturday. If Viola proposed to drink my blood as Candace had, asked to harvest my organs, spoke in tongues, tried to get me to join a cult or run for office, or did something similarly nutty, I could make a quick escape after only dropping a few dollars on coffee.
Fortunately, Viola had done none of those things so far. She seemed as different from Candace as it was possible to be. Instead of having green and orange hair, multiple face piercings, a neck tattoo, and the air of someone who hated herself and was looking for a reason to hate you too as Candace had, Viola looked and acted like a normal, well-adjusted person. She was a hair shorter than I in her high-heeled boots. She had thick golden blonde hair worn in sausage curls that cascaded down her shoulders, blue eyes flashing behind black-framed circular glasses, and a square face. She was pretty in a sexy librarian kind of way. A few years ago, I would have said she was out of my league. Now I was so used to being hit on as Omega that I had no idea what league I was in anymore. The Justice League, m
aybe, if I weren’t such a loner. And if I were a comic book character.
Viola wore black boot-cut jeans and a tight blue sweater whose V-neck revealed a hint of cleavage and occasional flashes of a pink bra. I wore the Omega suit camouflaged as a high-necked red pullover, dark blue jeans, and brown dress shoes. Casual superhero chic.
It was not gentlemanly to look at Viola’s cleavage. I discreetly did it from time to time anyway. Viola could be a disguised Rogue who had hidden weapons down there. If there was one thing I had learned over the past few years, it was that a Hero could never be too careful. The readiness is all, as Hamlet said.
“So this chick wanted to drink your blood? Is her name Dracula?” Viola asked incredulously once I’d finished telling her about Candace.
“No. Maybe Dracula’s her ancestor. It would explain the vampire neck tattoo. I didn’t stick around to find out,” I said. Viola said something in response, but I barely heard her. I was distracted by someone who had caught my eye. As I always did when I was in a public place, I sat with my back against the wall where I could see all the entrances and exits. A tall guy with greasy hair wearing a heavy, buttoned-up winter coat had just walked in.
It was an overcast fall day. Crisp, but certainly not cold. Why then was this guy dressed like he was about to brave a blizzard? What was he hiding under that coat? On top of that, the guy looked nervous: he kept licking his lips, his skin was flushed, and his eyes moved from side to side like windshield wipers as he scanned the throng of people in the large coffeehouse.
If I had a Spidey sense, it would be tingling.
I fidgeted with the cardboard sleeve encircling my latte, using the movement to cloak me activating my powers. I gave the man in the winter coat a quick scan with my telekinetic touch.
I found nothing more threatening than back acne and the beginnings of a potbelly.
Feeling sheepish, I watched as the man spotted a woman in the crowded coffee shop. He went to her, and they awkwardly shook hands. The man took his coat off, revealing a multicolored shirt that made me dizzy looking at it. Wearing it might have been a fashion crime, but it was not dangerous. Now I realized the nervous man was just a guy on a first date like me who had dressed inappropriately for the weather, not a bloodthirsty terrorist hiding a shotgun under his coat who was about to shoot the place up. I shook my head at myself. I was so used to looking for the slightest hint of danger as Omega that I was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin ro—
Rogues: The Omega Superhero Book Four (Omega Superhero Series 4) Page 7