Playing For Keeps

by Mur Lafferty

  She looked at the bar where Michelle was pouring herself a beer from the tap. Keepsie caught her eye and, seeing the look of anguish on Michelle’s face, sighed.

  “All right. You stay. But—”

  He interrupted her. “I know, I know. Fuck up again and I’m toast, I know. I won’t let you down again, Keepsie.”

  “Make yourself useful, then,” she said. “We need watches at both doors. You take one, choose someone to join you, and put two more on the other.”

  He gave a quick nod and turned from her.

  Keepsie stared at the table. Her eyes felt very dry. She knew Peter was still there. “Are you sure about him?”

  “I’m sure,” he said. His voice sounded strained.

  “Good.” She cradled her head on her arms.

  “Pete—come on. I need you to watch with me,” Ian said.

  You were supposed to choose Michelle, you ass. One thing was supposed to have gone right, Keepsie thought. The bar was very quiet around her as she let the exhaustion carry her away.

  22

  Ian perched on the steps near the street and took a cigarette pack out of his jeans pocket. Peter raised his eyebrow.

  “You smoke now?”

  Ian lit it, fumbling with a lighter’s child lock. He pulled some smoke into his mouth, held his breath, and coughed. Peter fought the urge to laugh.

  “Fits my new persona as a bad boy,” Ian said, waving the cigarette.

  Peter remained silent.

  “Fine. My sister says it calms her. I thought it might work for me. All this crazy shit going on, I figured if these little security blankets can help my sis, they might help me, you know?”

  Peter shook his head slowly. “It’s really not a good time to get yourself addicted to something. And why would you pick up such a filthy habit? It makes you smell.”

  Ian started laughing. “No, I wouldn’t want to be considered filthy or smelly, no, that would be bad!” He dropped the cigarette and held his stomach, gasping for breath.

  Peter chuckled. “All right, point taken. But that’s a pretty flimsy reason.”

  “Oh, so peer pressure is a better reason?” Ian said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Why do you do what you do, Peter? Why are you addicted to being so uptight? That t-shirt is the most laid back thing I’ve ever seen you in, and it’s not even yours. Do you even own a t-shirt, Pete?”

  Peter looked at the shirt—her t-shirt. He’d forgotten he was wearing it. “It’s just me. Why do you do the things you do?”

  Ian grinned. “I’m a slob and not afraid to admit it. Don’t dodge the question. What’s behind the jacket and starched shirt?”

  Peter reached over and took Ian’s pack of cigarettes from him. He knocked one out and lit it with ease. “Someone who doesn’t like carrying others’ secrets, especially when they don’t tell them to him. Someone who doesn’t like seeing the world falling out of control all around him. An ex-smoker who hates to see a non-smoker butcher the fine art of slowly killing yourself. Is that sufficient?” He inhaled deeply and reveled in the brief high that overtook his head.

  “Dude. You were a smoker?”

  “You zero in on the least important part of that, don’t you?”

  “No, seriously. You?”

  Peter looked down at the cigarette. “It does an excellent job of dulling the sense of smell.”

  Ian scanned the deserted street. “So why’d you quit?”

  “Filthy habit. The only thing I could smell was myself.”

  “So did you find out all your own dirty secrets at that point?”

  Peter snorted. “Yes, I discovered I was a smoker who was slowly killing myself and denying a skill I had.”

  “But you never really did use that part of yourself, did you?”

  Peter didn’t answer. He looked over the dark street, and couldn’t decide whether he preferred the daytime when he could be depressed about all the obstacles in his way that he could see: heroes, villains, thermonuclear women, and the like, or the night when he could be terrified that one of more of those things would be lurking in the shadows.

  Light of Mornings’ glow still shone over the buildings, and Peter assumed the fight still raged. The Academy was deserted, dust still lingering from the destruction of the previous battle. Even Doodad’s drones had deserted the place.

  “What are we doing out here?” he asked.

  “Fantasizing about naked Winona Ryder?” Ian asked.

  Peter laughed. “Like the dangerous shoplifters, do you?”

  “Nah, I am thinking of her in ‘Heathers.’”

  “Hm. So teenaged murderer in love.”

  “Yeah,” Ian said.

  “So what else are we doing out here?”

  “Waiting for something to happen, I suppose.”

  “And what are we supposed to do when it does?”

  Ian rolled up his sleeves, his grinning face heavily shadowed from the light inside the bar. “I’m all set.”

  Peter shook his head and stared at the door. “I’m not. I can’t—”

  Ian interrupted him. “Hey, what’s Clever Jack up to?”

  Peter looked at him blankly. “How should I know?”

  Ian handed him a bloody handkerchief. “Got it off him after you told me your new and improved powers.”

  Peter took it distastefully, holding it by the corner. “Thanks, I’ll treasure it always.” “So where is he? Is he dead from concussion?”

  Peter waved him silent. After they’d agreed to leave him to follow and make sure Keepsie was all right, Peter had seen Ian staunch the blood from Clever Jack’s head but hadn’t thought of why. Now, holding the wet handkerchief in front of him, he wished for the millionth time that he had been born with another power. Or better, none.

  He didn’t need to bring the gore-splattered rag close to get a good whiff of the coppery scent. He closed his eyes and nearly went blind with the light.

  He reflexively threw the bloody handkerchief at Ian, and Ian made a disgusted noise. “What the fuck, dude? What did you see?” he asked.

  Peter rubbed his eyes, the stairwell looking pitch black to his contracted pupils. “He’s conscious. He’s with her.” Ian looked towards the park, which had finally gone dark. “That is not good news.” Peter winced at the memory. “Yes. They’re...being rather intimate.” Ian whistled. “With a concussion? If he weren’t pure evil, I’d salute him.” “I’m surprised he survived,” Peter said. Ian grimaced. “Luck.” Peter nodded. “Should we tell someone?” Ian asked.

  Peter looked down the stairwell to the door of the bar, about the only thing his still hazy eyes could make out. “Who could we tell? What would they do?”

  “Right,” Ian said.

  They lapsed into silence.

  After another half hour, Peter got up. “I’m going to check on the other group. See what’s going on in the alley.”

  “And look in on Keepsie on the way, of course,” Ian said in a stuffy Peter imitation.

  Peter stared blankly at Ian without the familiar squirm of embarrassment in his chest.

  “Of course.”

  * * * * *

  Looking in on Keepsie proved to be a pointless venture. She was sleeping on the table. Peter took two steps towards her when a hiss stopped him.

  Colette stood in the kitchen door, frowning. He flushed and shoved his hands into his pockets. She raised her eyebrows at him and beckoned him to her.

  They went into the empty kitchen. Peter avoided her gaze, but swore when he saw the feast she’d prepared.

  “Great Christ, Colette, you really do cook when you’re stressed!” he said. The prep counter was filled with cheeseburgers, hot dogs, steaks, baskets of cheese fries, chicken fingers, nachos— both with jalapenos and without—and salmon patties.

  Peter hadn’t even known that the bar served salmon patties.

  Colette crossed her arms. “You need to let her sleep.”

  Peter looked up and met her eyes. “I know. I just wanted to check—
”

  “I know what you wanted to do,” she said. “Let her sleep. She doesn’t need you clucking around her like a mother hen. She’s tougher than that.”

  Peter bristled. “I really don’t think I’m a mother hen. She needs support.”

  “Give it a rest, Peter. You’re not as secret as you think you are.”

  Peter shook his head slowly. “We are not doing a good job at this hero thing. Or villain thing. I’m not sure. Whatever it is, with half our team drunk and the other half passed out already...”

  Colette pulled up a folding chair and motioned for him to sit. She grabbed a stool for herself and looked at him pointedly.

  “Why are we all sitting here hiding in a bar while the heroes are dying? We should be leaving town.”

  Peter eyed her coolly. “We don’t have a car. Public transport shuts down when there’s a big battle. But the bigger thing is that Keepsie feels responsible for all of this, and she doesn’t want to leave. She wants to fix it. I have no idea how she plans on doing this, but…” He trailed off.

  Colette stood and began folding filthy kitchen dishcloths. “So now what?”

  “Ian and I keep watch, I suppose. If there’s a direct threat to us, then we, uh, deal with it.” Peter stood, folded the chair and sat it against the wall.

  Colette stacked the cloths, ketchup and grease stains visible on the neat pile, and moved back to the grill. She turned the gas on and began forming more hamburgers from a bowl on the counter. “Well, it sounds like the heroes and villains have enough to deal with. They shouldn’t bother with us anymore.”

  Peter felt the breath leave his lungs. He looked at Colette with wide eyes.

  “That would be the case, yes. Except that Keepsie has their drug. So they’ll be looking for it.”

  23

  Peter left a white-faced Colette and went out the back door. The concrete steps rose at a sharp angle to the alley behind the bar, and he wondered how Keepsie got any deliveries without the deliverymen breaking their necks. Michelle sat on the back steps alone, silhouetted by a streetlight. She looked around when he closed the back door.

  A siren screamed past them. “I guess the normals are doing more than just hiding in their houses,” Michelle said.

  “The emergency crews are usually out in times of crisis, even if the Academy says to stay inside,” Peter said. “I guess we’re all rebelling from the heroes today.”

  “Yeah, that was a super-great idea.”

  “In hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t,” Peter said.

  Michelle nodded. “How’s it going in there?”

  “Colette is cooking a feast in absence of anything else to do. Ian is on watch. Everyone else is either drunk or resting.”

  “So we’re all prepared for another attack.” Her sarcastic remark wasn’t a question.

  Peter felt inexplicably angry. “What do you suggest we do, then? Go back out there? Fight the Light of Mornings with my nose and your bar tray and Ian’s feculent powers?”

  Michelle didn’t flinch. She waved her hand at him and shushed him.

  Peter listened. He didn’t hear anything, but his ears were still ringing from Clever Jack’s pointblank gunshot. Michelle stood up and trotted to the top of the steps. She faced the street and then dashed out of Peter’s view.

  “Michelle!” he said as loudly as he dared, which ended up being a hoarse whisper.

  She returned in an instant, breathing heavily.

  “Get inside. We need to get Ian inside. This does not look good.”

  * * * * *

  Ian was bellowing when they got inside the kitchen. “Where the

  hell is Peter?”

  “Here,” Peter said, emerging with Michelle from the kitchen.

  “It got worse,” Ian said.

  Keepsie stirred from her nap and looked up. Her face was creased from sleeping on her arm and her eyes were half-slitted. “God, what now?”

  “You still have Doodad under control, right?” Michelle said.

  Keepsie rubbed her face. “Of course. Why?”

  “Mechs,” Ian said.

  “Huge,” Michelle said.

  Keepsie jumped to her feet and ran to the men’s room, took a peek inside, and returned, frowning. “How is that possible? He can’t use his powers under my control.”

  The Librarian, previously unnoticed, stood. “You have to tell me everything you know about the drug Jack took.”

  “Why should we tell you?” Ian asked.

  “This shouldn’t be happening. None of this should be happening.”

  “Will you tell us what you know about it?” Keepsie asked.

  The Librarian held her gaze for some time before dropping her eyes and nodding.

  “The drug is a stronger version of Zupra, designed to make stronger humans in utero.”

  “Well, it certainly helped Jack out in the Academy,” Keepsie said. “And he’s not in utero.”

  The Librarian nodded. “I believe Jack knows something about that drug that even I do not know. Possibly something Dr. Timson had planned without telling me.”

  Ian laughed. “Something’s going on in the Academy that you don’t know? That must really burn.”

  She didn’t acknowledge him. “I need to get inside the Academy.”

  Keepsie choked. “You want to go into the building that just got blown apart by the nuclear girl? How do you know there’s anything there to salvage?”

  The Librarian sniffed, but a red flush came to her cheeks. “I know.”

  Keepsie rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air. “Heroes.”

  “The more I know about this drug that Jack and, we now assume, Doodad took, the better we can fight his latest invention.”

  Alex got out of his booth, his hair rumpled from sleep. “I’ll go with her.”

  “Are you fucking insane? Haven’t you been through enough today?” Ian said.

  “If she gets hurt, I can heal her. We get Tomas to come with us, and we’ll have defense. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes or so.”

  Everyone looked at Keepsie, who blanched. Peter smiled to himself; she still hadn’t realized she was the leader.

  “Hey, I can’t stop you. Tomas, are you cool—and sober enough—to be an escort?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “You’d better hurry. I don’t doubt that mech is coming to collect Doodad.”

  “Then what are the rest of us going to do?” Barry asked.

  “Get ready for a battle, I guess,” Michelle said.

  Peter’s chest tightened as they left, The Librarian walked resolutely up the stairs with Alex and Tomas following her more slowly.

  “Alex doesn’t look good,” Keepsie said, echoing Peter’s thoughts.

  Ian made a face. “Good? He looks like day old shit.”

  “We may still need him before this is over,” Peter said. “He needs to rest. He’s all we have that passes for a doctor.”

  Keepsie walked to the door and tried to look out the window and up the stairs. Ian followed her. “See anything?” he asked.

  “Nope. They’re gone.”

  “They didn’t need to go far; what is she up to?” Peter asked, joining them.

  Now they could hear the clanging thumps of the mechs striding down the street toward them. One pair of thumps came faster, then, and Tomas yelled. Keepsie wrenched the door open and ran up the stairs, Peter and Ian stumbling after her.

  The three massive mechs, one silver, one black and one red, had closed the distance quicker than Peter guessed they would. One was clearly made for transport; an empty black seat and some levers were visible through a glass dome that sat atop a metal chassis and two nimble legs. The other two were armed: the black fitted with countless blades, saws, and drills, and the red one looking to have ranged weapons—one hose connected to a tank that Peter feared was gasoline.

  The one with the blades lay on its back, floundering to fold its many joints to get its legs under itself
again. Tomas panted next to it, standing anguished over the prone body of Alex.

  The red mech raised a hose.

  “Ian!” yelled Keepsie.

  “On it,” he said, raising his arms.

  “No, Ian, wait—” Peter blurted, but it was too late. He covered his nose as Ian’s stench filled the air, the torrent hitting the red mech as flame spewed from the hose. Ian’s feculent spray doused the flame, but the smell of burning shit made Peter retch. He stumbled down the stairs to get Michelle, knowing he would be useless if he were retching.

  Michelle came out of the bar when she saw Peter. He gestured to her helplessly and she ran up to the street, carrying several bar trays.

  Peter didn’t have long to wait for something to happen. He had gotten a wet towel from Colette to wrap around his face and go back out to help, but the group burst back into the bar.

  Tomas carried the prone Alex, staggering every few seconds as his strength ran out and then was summoned again. He laid Alex on the floor. Peter winced when he saw the bloody rip in Alex’s shirt.

  “Dude, is he dead?” Ian asked, kneeling at his side.

  Colette touched Alex’s neck and withdrew her hand, bowing her head. She nodded.

  Peter looked at Tomas with anguish. “What happened?”

  Tomas’s eyes were wide with shock. “The machines spotted us. I could not stop them all, and the black one stabbed him. It just stabbed him. I was not able to help.”

  The thumping began outside as the mechs moved again. Ian ran to the window. “Dude, this is way over our fucking heads. He’s dead. What do we do now? It’s not just dangerous anymore, and there’s dead people, and—”

  Peter’s shock subsided into a tangible fear. “Ian.”

  “What?”

  “Where are Keepsie and The Librarian?”

  Ian’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t see…”

  Tomas didn’t raise his head. “The Librarian ran away when the mechs attacked. After Ian stopped the red mech from attacking, Keepsie ran after her. They ran into the Academy.” Peter collapsed into a chair. “And I did nothing. We’re pretty amazing heroes.” The mechanical legs appeared on the steps outside as the black mech descended.