Playing For Keeps

by Mur Lafferty

  “Poor guy,” Michelle said.

  Keepsie glared at her. “Can I get some sympathy for at least a second before you go all Stockholm Syndrome on me and are sorrier for the villain than his hostage?”

  Michelle hugged her gently, mindful of her ribs. “I do love you, lady. But I still wouldn’t kick Doodad out of bed for eating crackers.”

  Keepsie laughed at last. “Fine, fine. This guy wants to screw up the city, scare people, take hostages, and you want to reward him with sex.”

  “Someone needs to reward him for giving the heroes hell,” Michelle said. “And I volunteer to take one for the team. Two, if he’s up for it.”

  The door opened and other staff began to arrive, and Keepsie composed herself. She slipped into the kitchen and dropped the ball into the Lost and Found box that sat beside the supply closet. It would be out of the way there. And safe.

  Keepsie didn’t have a power that would help her tend bar, or cook, or fight crime. Her power was quite passive, but it served to be useful to her. Anything she owned, she kept. It was that simple. No one could take anything she owned away from her. And if they tried, they quickly abandoned their desire to steal.

  She had never considered it might be useful to someone else. She had been unable to get a job in security because no one trusted her enough to give her all of their belongings. The items in question had to belong to her, and no one would trust her without her official hero license. Doodad had given her his metal golf ball, clearly for her to protect from anyone else.

  Why did he think she was going to give it back to him?

  * * * * *

  When the bar opened at five o’clock, it filled quickly. She greeted the regulars by name.

  Her patrons talked about Doodad’s attack. People had heard about it but apparently no one had seen the televised news. Keepsie said a quiet prayer of thanks.

  As she tended bar, Keepsie kept out of the discussions.

  “The heroes are a menace to the city. Hell, arson doesn’t even do as much damage to property as one of those hero battles,” said Geoffrey, a florist.

  Vincent, Keepsie’s busboy, dishwasher, cleaning crew—and anything else that had to do with dirt—bussed a table and nodded to him, his black hair falling into his eyes.

  “What are our cops doing these days, anyway? Unemployment is up because the police don’t have anything to do,” said Stella, a human resources director. “And the damn villains can’t be that hard to catch. Hell, heroes do it.”

  “What you do when a villain shows up is wait for the damn hero to save your ass,” Barry said. He was First Wave, a generation ahead of most of Keepsie’s patrons. He’d come into his strange power late in life after an accident had severed his legs; only then had he realized he could regrow his limbs. He stared into his daiquiri. “Face it, no one has powers to match the villains except for the heroes.”

  “And no one talks about this, but I remember. Did anyone notice how we never had villains until we had heroes? If the goddamn government hadn’t messed with that drug, we wouldn’t be living in a city where you can get a building dropped on you,” said Len “Goddamn Government” Wise.

  The bell above the door tinkled, and Keepsie looked up. She smiled and waved as her two favorite regulars, Peter Ross and Ian Smith, walked in.

  Peter was a tall man in his thirties and dressed in a way that hinted that he still got his fashion tips from his mother. He took a seat at the bar beside Samantha, a newcomer to Third Wave Thursdays. Ian, a pudgy man with stringy blond hair, loved arguing with Samantha more than he loved poking fun at stuffy Peter. He eagerly grabbed the seat on her left.

  Samantha was older, Keepsie guessed around 45, and had gray streaks in her red hair. She and Ian launched immediately into a heated discussion about whether the Academy should have to pay for property damage. Keepsie grinned; they hadn’t even said hello to each other.

  Peter motioned to Keepsie, who finished pouring a beer for a man who looked uncomfortably out of place. “What can I get you, Peter?”

  “Tanqueray and tonic, please.” Peter said. He lowered his voice. “Are you all right, Keepsie?”

  Keepsie blanched. “What are you talking about?”

  “I went home early today because of the hero battle; my company’s building was damaged. I saw the news.”

  “I’m fine. Can we talk about it later?” Keepsie said, and went to make his drink. She avoided his concerned gaze as she poured the gin. Ian and Samantha were arguing loud enough to distract her from her embarrassment.

  “I’m telling you, Sam,” Ian said, slapping his hand on the bar. “They’re flying around, busting up buildings and shit, hurting civilians, and then they have the audacity to expect us to give them our tax money so they can go on and do it again tomorrow!”

  Samantha remained calm. “I’m not saying that they deserve worship, but the recent villain attacks are far and above anyone’s ability to deal with except for the Academy. No one knows where they came from, but they are definitely a force to be reckoned with.” She took a sip of her beer.

  “Ian’s right, Samantha,” Peter said. “I had one of the heroes thrown into my building today. He took out one wall of windows and injured ten of my coworkers. You won’t see that on the news.”

  “Holy shit, man, are you OK?” Ian asked.

  Peter smiled thinly. “I don’t rank a window office.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Keepsie.

  “The Academy will make sure the injured are taken care of, and they also cover the building repairs,” Samantha said.

  “And what if someone dies, can they bring them back to life?” Ian said. “Can they regrow someone’s severed arm?” He raised his beer to Barry, a couple of seats down, who grinned and toasted him back.

  Samantha raised her hands, giving up the argument. “You’ve got me. I don’t think they have any heroes that can do that yet.”

  “And what about that hostage Doodad took?” Ian said. He grinned as Michelle walked by with a tray of empty pint glasses. “I’ll bet you wish it was you up there, huh?”

  Michelle laughed. “No, sadly. But man I’d give anything to meet Doodad.”

  Peter stared at Michelle for a moment, his jaw slack. He recovered quickly. “Doodad snapped her up off the street and carried her away, but, as the news tells it, White Lightning saved her.” Keepsie glanced up; he wasn’t looking at her. “I don’t think she was hurt.”

  Ian, not catching on, groaned. “White Lightning? Who the fuck is that? A new one?”

  “So it seems. But from my office, it more looked like White Lightning attacked Doodad while he held the hostage, causing the villain to drop her. She nearly hit the ground before he caught her.”

  Michelle handed Keepsie a check and a credit card. “She’s a little bruised but she’s OK, right Keepsie?”

  Ian gaped. “You?”

  Keepsie glared at Michelle. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Whoops, I figured you’d told them.”

  “You OK?” Ian asked.

  “Do I look hurt?” Keepsie said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

  Keepsie grimaced. “I’m...fine. A little bruised, and I’ll probably never fly again, but,” her voice took on a sarcastic edge, “I got to meet a real hero!”

  Samantha smiled, but most of the others looked concerned.

  Michelle finished the credit card transaction for Keepsie. “Well, they were bound to find out anyway. And they would have been pissed if you hadn’t told them.” She took the slip and card and headed back to her customers. Keepsie sighed and watched her go.

  Ian snickered. “What, is Michelle mad you got to meet Doodad and she didn’t?”

  Keepsie forced a grin. “Actually, I think she is.”

  Peter still looked concerned. “Keepsie, did anything else happen?”

  Keepsie dropped her head and fiddled with the bar rag. “He was a real bastard. The hero, I mean. I mentioned to him—well, he figured out I was Third Wa
ve. And after he let me down he pretty much treated me like crap.”

  “Fucking heroes, think they’re better than all of us.” Ian clenched and unclenched his fists rhythmically. He took a deep breath and relaxed. “He’s just an asshole, man. A flying asshole.”

  The image of White Lightning, buff and ripped in his tight costume, with a sphincter sitting atop his shoulders, made Keepsie laugh.

  The night wore on and Keepsie kept busy, trying not to relive her afternoon’s adventure any more than necessary. She gave a few more details to Peter, Ian, and Samantha, but left out the bit about Doodad planting something on her.

  “So I said that the villains clearly come from Washington DC,” Barry’s companion said as Keepsie handed Barry another banana daiquiri. She didn’t recognize the man, and she eavesdropped as she made change for Barry’s ten.

  “What makes you think that?” asked Barry.

  The man’s voice slurred slightly, but his eyes were bright. “They’re making them in Washington to battle the terrorists, and the experiment went wrong!”

  Barry shook his head. “So, why do the villains come here where the heroes are? Wouldn’t it be easier to go somewhere that doesn’t have heroes?”

  His companion lapsed into a brief silence. “They’re from Washington, I tell you,” he said, and dug into the burger Michelle set in front of him.

  “What do you think, Keepsie?” asked Barry as she set the man’s beer down.

  Keepsie opened her mouth to answer, but froze when something on the staircase outside caught her eye. Barry followed her gaze and swore loudly.

  All conversation in the bar ceased as every eye turned to stare at the tall, glorious visitors. The heroes stopped as they got inside the door and looked around, frowning.

  White Lightning (Corn Squeezins, Keepsie thought, and smiled slightly) lead the group inside and stared at Keepsie. The Crane joined him. He was a man around forty years old with white wings and the power to stretch any part of his body. He had been the dreamboat of the Academy, but Keepsie guessed that would end as soon as White Lightning became more popular. The other was an Academy scientist; shorter and older, she wore slacks and a lab coat with the Academy insignia on the breast pocket. Her short brown hair neither flowed nor gleamed.

  “Dr. Timson, it’s been a long time,” Keepsie said, after a moment of silence.

  “Laura, we’re here to make sure you’re all right. The Academy is obligated to pay the medical bills of anyone hurt during a powered altercation.”

  They didn’t look like they were there to check on her. Why would she need muscle for that?

  “Took you long enough,” Keepsie said. She checked the clock on the wall. “The attack was at least six hours ago.”

  “We were just concerned, Laura. White Lightning had to file his report; he didn’t have your full name. It took some time to find you.”

  Keepsie laughed. “The Academy is right across the street from here. The sign for my bar, ‘Keepsie’s Bar,’ is right outside.”

  “Yes, you are called Keepsie now, aren’t you?”

  “You knew that when I applied at the Academy, Doctor.”

  “Secret identities are for heroes, Laura.”

  An annoyed rumble passed through the bar. Keepsie chewed on her lower lip a moment, then said, “I guess you’ll have to go arresting every Christopher called Chris and every Michelle called Shelley. I didn’t know that nicknames were illegal.”

  “Very well, Keepsie,” Timson said, “We came for another reason; we need to talk. Do you have an office?” She looked around.

  “This is a bar.”

  Dr. Timson sighed and stepped forward to close the distance. The patrons of the bar made no pretence of their eavesdropping. “We need your help. The villain Doodad has stolen an object of some importance from the Academy. After hearing about his attack earlier today, I think that Doodad targeted you specifically. We think he planted the device on you for, ah, safe keeping, so to speak. We need it back.”

  Keepsie grinned, delighted. “You want the help of a Third Wave power? I never thought I’d see the day. That’s awesome!”

  Dr. Timson smiled back, looking relieved. She took a step forward, “Yes, very much so, your talent would be of great help right now.”

  Keepsie leaned forward, still smiling. “No.”

  Tension in the bar increased. Keepsie squirmed inwardly, there was no backing down now. Not in front of her customers and friends.

  The heroes glanced at each other, but only the doctor spoke. “White Lightning said you might react this way.”

  White Lightning met Keepsie’s eyes without flinching.

  “He’s smarter than I gave him credit for. What did you think my reaction would be, doctor?”

  “Well, I expected you to want to serve your city. You seemed quite dedicated to that, once.”

  “You know, you people just don’t get it. You say you want to educate people with powers, to teach them to use their power for good, to help people. Maybe the Third Wavers can’t fly or shoot laser beams, but we’ve still got powers no one else has. And you wanted us to register those powers so you could track them.”

  Timson opened her mouth, but Keepsie continued. “You gave us hope that we’d be heroes once we registered. That one day we’d put on a costume, serve the public, be worshiped. But Third Wavers are just not powerful enough for you. No hero license for us. But when you realize you need us, you come asking for help in the name of goodness, or God, or country.”

  She paused, enjoying the looks on the heroes’ faces. “Well screw that. You have people who can talk to animals or run faster than cheetahs or call lightning to hit people and deafen their hostages. You don’t need me.”

  “Hell yeah!” shouted Ian, pounding his empty glass on the bar. Everyone took up his cheer.

  Timson stood impassively.

  When the noise had died down, Timson spoke in a tight voice. “Keepsie, I don’t think you understand. We need you. We need that piece you’re protecting.”

  “Hey Ian,” Keepsie said. He grinned. “Suddenly they need me. Would you come if they ever needed you?”

  Ian made a face. “Maybe to keep the city’s janitors busy.”

  “What did they say when you applied at the Academy to obtain a hero’s license?” she asked.

  Ian didn’t meet her eyes, the shame apparent on his face, but he spoke clearly. “After they tested my power they told me that I was disgusting and unsanitary and clearly couldn’t fight for the city, simply on the basis that the cleanup costs would be monumental. They said they would never need something so foul. But they gave me my very own hero name. ‘Feculent Boy.’”

  “Wonderful. Flattering,” Keepsie said, facing Timson. “And you, yourself, told me my power was so weak it could never be of any use to anyone. You need to be careful what you tell the young and impressionable, doctor, it may come back to bite you.”

  White Lightning’s face reddened and Keepsie felt giddy at the risk she’d taken. Years of bitterness, pouring out of her. It felt good. She didn’t think he would attack her, but lightning in a basement bar would be bad for business.

  Timson looked at Ian. Her lip curled and she swallowed, saying, “Not everyone has what it takes to be a hero.” She tried to continue, but boos and hisses from the bar patrons drowned her out.

  “You are extremely lucky that you just ended up with a bitter man instead of someone truly evil, Timson,” Keepsie dropped the honorific purposefully. “Ian is a good man. And he’s the most powerful Third Waver I know. And you guys dumped him in the gutter.

  “So let’s get down to business.” Keepsie leaned forward on the bar. “What will you give me for doing this favor for you? My own license? Money? The respect they get?” She waved her hand at the heroes.

  Timson cleared her throat. “There is the greater good to think about—” she began, and the bar booed her loudly again.

  Keepsie laughed. “Does White Lightning use his powers for the greater
good, or does he get money from my taxes so he can protect everyone?”

  “Including you!” White Lightning said. “I saved your sorry life today!”

  Keepsie snorted. “And now I owe you? Does everyone in Seventh City owe you? No. We pay our taxes and that pays your salary. And really,” she added, looking his perfectly shaped body up and down, “I really can’t respect anyone who names himself after moonshine.”

  Her audience laughed and White Lightning clenched his fists.

  “I offered you my services once,” Keepsie said to Timson. “You said no. I moved on. No takebacks. Now, are you going to order a drink or am I going to have to ask you to leave?”

  “Keepsie, the object belongs to us,” Timson said. “You can’t keep it.”

  Keepsie slammed her hand flat on the bar. “That is where you are one hundred percent wrong, Dr. Timson. You said it yourself, keeping something safe is the only thing I do well, and if keeping it makes life tough for you, then I will be proud to keep it. Thanks to my ‘useless’ talent, there is no way you can take it.”

  The heroes stood uncomfortably as she stepped out from behind the bar, walked over the door, and put the CLOSED sign in the window. She opened the door and waited.

  “There are ways we can make you give it to us,” White Lightning growled.

  “No, there aren’t.”

  “Kinda losing your ‘hero’ routine there, aren’t you, dude?” Ian said. He got off his bar stool and started rolling up his sleeves. Peter put his hand on Ian’s arm as White Lightning stepped forward.

  “Try it, little man,” he said.

  “Don’t,” Peter said. After a pause, Ian sat down again. Dr. Timson put her hand out as well to stop White Lightning. She gave Keepsie a long look and then motioned the heroes to leave.

  Keepsie had only heard such applause in her dreams.

  3

  Peter watched Keepsie down drink after drink, at first celebrating with her, and then, as she got drunker, becoming more concerned.