Tony was not one of them. Retail was hardly a bountiful career choice and he was resigned to taking as many extra shifts as he could to make ends meet. Friday night was no exception. As the city came to nocturnal life, just the same as every other city in the country, Tony's only thought was to get home as quickly as possible. Attract no attention, speak to no one, get on the bus, the subway, then home. Safe.
Park Boulevard was illuminated as bright as day, the weird monochrome of the yellow sodium lamps on the main street outshone by the more natural white glow emanating from restaurants and bars. Added to this was the orange and red of neon signs, the blue from a few all-night internet cafes – there were three of them here, all in a row. Tony knew that they were all owned by a large Mexican who liked to be called Leroy in one shop, Jesus in the second, and Arnold in the third; Tony was half-convinced the man was a retired superhero with a quick-change closet between each of the premises. This part of town was practically floodlit.
This was no comfort for Tony. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried himself deeper into the shadowed corner of the bus shelter, unconsciously sucking his stomach in to reduce his profile as much as possible. It was a token effort, but Tony felt better, convinced that perhaps if he slowed his breathing he'd practically vanish. What a superpower that would be.
In reality, the way he folded himself into the corner of the bus shelter just made him look like a crackhead on a comedown, but the effect was much the same. The three other people waiting at the shelter for the 300 to Maryville were judiciously gathered at the other end of the shelter, away from Tony, ignoring him completely.
For just a moment, Tony allowed himself to relax and focus inward. He tried to cut himself off from the hustle of the street, find his center, and let his brain switch off after a particularly numbing day at the Big Deal megastore.
He sighed quietly. Even the name of the store was appropriate. Big Deal. Sure, he was working with computers − selling the damn things. He'd had such ambition once. Computers, programming, IT, a trendy dotcom company and a lot of neatly stacked bundles of cash next to the bed he shared with a Californian beauty queen.
But Tony knew that some dreams were never meant to come true. Six months into computer science at UCSV and his math gave out on him. Switching to an arts major, he lasted another two months before quitting altogether and deciding to focus on the important things in life: eating, sleeping, avoiding the dangers of San Ventura. And Big Deal was the state's largest electronics and home entertainment chain, so theoretically he was still in computers. So really, what he told his mom wasn't entirely untrue.
Big Deal. Oh, how the name of the store mocked him. Tony never thought he'd be bothered by his lack of ambition. He really had no interest in career progression or business development or working any longer than the end of his ten-hour shift. But four years selling cheap bloatware PCs to unknowing soccer moms and their eager seven-yearold sons was becoming a real drag and the pay was lousy. And the lack of money presented issue number two.
Tony pondered on this with just a hint of resentment as the 300 pulled up. He let the other waiting pedestrians board first, keeping a distance between himself and the young suit in front just slightly too wide to be natural. Even the bus driver seemed to see it, squinting slightly at Tony as he climbed the three steps, presented his pass, and slipped down the vehicle's aisle to find a seat on his own. He was in luck − back third, right-hand side. Tony swung onto the bench seat quickly, and sank into the corner. As soon as the doors of the bus clacked shut, the interior light automatically dimmed. Tony felt better already, off the street.
Money. If Tony had money he could buy a car and not have to take first the bus then the subway and if he had money he wouldn't have to work in Big Deal but more than that he wouldn't have to live in San Ventura the most dangerous fucking city in the world and you think Mexico City is a piece of work or fucking Skid Row but neither of those places have their own fucking supervillain and…
Breathe, Tony, breathe. He closed his eyes and exhaled, and decided that he was tired and brain-dead after his shift. Sure, San Ventura was a dangerous place, but if a couple million other people could survive it, so could he. He wondered if he needed to see a doctor, maybe get something for anxiety, but as the bus rolled gently around the city center he couldn't help but smirk at his own paranoia. Sleep was the solution. Everything would be better in the morning.
Tony was jolted forward, the bus rocking on too-soft suspension as it came to an abrupt halt. Heart attempting to drill out of his chest cavity, Tony gripped the top of the seat in front and half-stood to get a better look out of the front window. A car beeped, and another responded, and somewhere outside a man was swearing. Then the bus jerked again and coasted forward, journey resumed.
Tony flopped back into his seat heavily. Holy fuck. Getting freaked by someone cutting in? Maybe it wasn't a doctor he needed, maybe it was a shrink. No, OK, sleep soon, no problem, then tomorrow is Saturday and the sun will be shining and maybe I can even go down to the beach.
Tony opened one eye. He knew it, he goddamn knew it. At the front of the bus, on a backwards-facing seat, was an old black man in a black suit underneath an overcoat. There was an old-fashioned hat, a Homburg maybe, perched on his head, and his hands rested on the black handle of a thick walking stick.
The old man was looking at him. It wasn't a glance, it was a look. The man held it for maybe three seconds, then blinked and turned his attention to the rainbow fuzz of city lights that flickered through the window.
OK, he didn't look dangerous, but looks were deceiving in San Ventura. He looked odd, which was reason enough to fear. Tony had never seen him before; he wasn't a regular on the bus and he hadn't noticed whether the man had been waiting at the bus shelter with him or had been on the bus already.
San Ventura was not a city you took risks in. Tony thumbed the bell and immediately stood, awkwardly walking down to the doors by the driver as the bus lurched around a corner. Tony stood in the short stairwell and closed his eyes, nose practically touching the rubber flap that sealed the two halves of the door together. His stop wasn't for a while, but he had to get off the damn bus and lose the old man. Had to.
Tony snapped his eyes open as the bus doors slid apart, cooler air suddenly rolling over his face. He took a second to check where he actually was, then hopped off the second-to-last step and stood, hands in pockets, until he heard the bus doors close and the vehicle hum off down the street.
Tony was alone at this stop. This part of town was much quieter, a collection of nine-to-five businesses now closed for the weekend. The street was busy in one direction, people heading into the beating heart of downtown, but not so much in the other. Tony oriented himself and saw a subway sign down on the corner ahead. On this route he'd have to make an awkward train change, which would extend his journey time by quite a margin. But tonight that wouldn't be a problem.
By the time he reached the station stairs, Tony was in a jog. He checked his speed as he approached, checked over his shoulder (just in case), then trotted down into the light.
The A-line was heaving, as always, a combination of people coming and going as the day's train timetable drew to a close. Tony was happy in the crowd this time, as there were enough people to get lost in. He politely pushed himself to the front of the platform and waited for just half a minute before a train rumbled to a halt, the doors not quite in front of where he stood. Tony let himself be carried by the mass of people shuffling slightly to the right, and swung himself into the train car.
The train was very brightly lit, and without thinking Tony headed straight for the semi-alcove provided by the curve of the wall and the sliding doors on the opposite side of the car. There were no shadows to hide in here, unlike the bus, but nevertheless he squeezed himself against the plastic frame of the car, hands in pockets and arms held tight against his sides. People filled nearly all of the space around him, packing the train almost as full as the five o'cloc
k rush hour.
Two stations later was his change. He wasted no time in moving between platforms, and safely inside the next train Tony returned to his corner and closed his eyes, counting the stops in his head as the train ploughed through them and feeling the other passengers thin out around him as the doors slid open and shut and open and shut.
When Tony opened his eyes, he swore quietly under his breath.
There, on a folding seat that was really only supposed to be used when the train wasn't quite as full, sat the old black man. Tony couldn't get a clear view, but as the train rocked he could alternately see the man under an armpit and behind a head, walking stick clutched so tightly the man's knuckles were bleached white.
And he was looking at Tony.
Fuck. This was trouble. Who the hell was this guy? Not just a crim, not a mugger, nothing so petty. Maybe a mark, a decoy, a finder, an old peaceful man working with one of the Omega gangs, the groups of violent youths who thought they were doing the Cowl's good works. Tony had been ID'd as a target. The gang would be waiting for him on the streets above. He could see it now, teenagers, probably not more than five years younger than himself but, really, just children. Dressed up like their hero, omega symbols sprayed onto their T-shirts. Damn it, every black hat in the city thought they were in the Cowl's gang. This old man, oh so innocent, must have watched Tony from the bus then got off at the next stop and managed, somehow, to intercept him from another subway stop farther uptown. It couldn't have been a coincidence.
Tony focused on his breathing. The air was hot and damp, and in his tight corner filled with sweat and perfume. He tried not to move, not to draw attention to himself, for all the good it would do as the old man was still looking straight at him.
The train screeched a little as it punched the bright light of the next station − Tony's stop − and glided to a halt. The car was packed but Tony wasn't really interested in being nice to little old ladies, not tonight. As soon as the doors were half an inch apart he dived forward, using speed to catch the other passengers by surprise so they offered no resistance, and slipped out first. Tony's thin-soled sneakers slapped the cement floor as he shot for the station exit.
It was much darker up top than it had been in downtown, even though Tony lived, in theory, within the central city area. Pedestrians here were few and the street traffic was light. Tony wasted no time, and after a perfunctory check of the roadway, sprinted across it from the station steps to the almost entirely black shadow cast by the stillunfurled awning of his local grocery. Back flat to the plate-glass storefront, Tony checked ahead, left, right.
All clear.
Tony waited a few more minutes. Two people emerged from the subway and walked off together in the opposite direction, but that was it. Tony counted to ten, then up to twenty, before finally settling on thirty. Holding his breath, he peeled off the window and headed up the street towards his apartment.
Tony slowed as he approached his building. He expected it to be fairly quiet – dead, in fact – at this time of night, but there was no need to burst into the lobby in any kind of rush, just in case. The safest place in the city was Tony's apartment, and priority number one was getting up there in good time and with no suspicions raised.
Of course the elevator took forever. The building wasn't particularly new, but then it wasn't exactly a rundown dump – Tony had struck lucky finding the place, especially on his limited means. It was just a hair above average, in an OK area with a manageable rent provided he kept up the extra shifts at the store. It wasn't five star living, but it was clean and tidy. And safe.
The imaginary chase – and it was imaginary, surely – and the interminable wait for the elevator tore at Tony's nerves. He jumped from foot to foot as the elevator rattled upwards, balancing on his toes, almost unable to contain his impatience. As soon as the elevator dinged his level he was tapping at the chromed doors with his door key. His taps left tiny pale marks on the shiny surface, which vanished with a rub of his thumb, and then the doors slid open.
The next few seconds were a brown blur of communal hallway carpet, slightly muted fluorescent lighting and a parade of gray doors flashing past on either side. At his own door Tony pushed his hand forward, without pause, letting the key mate with the lock in perfect, practiced alignment.
In the dark of his apartment, Tony leaned against the reassuring solidity of the door, bumping his head back onto it and breathing heavily from his sudden burst of activity. He was panicking again, and he knew it. An overreaction, an irrational fear, a phobia. He closed his eyes, allowing the dark of his apartment to melt into total blackness behind his eyelids. He cleared his mind, slowed his breathing, and focused on the pinging in his calf muscles.
He stood like this for a few minutes, enjoying the semi-meditative state. Total relaxation, his mind floating free. After a spell, his attention turned to thirst. It was late, and bed called. A pot of tea, a little reading, then tomorrow was a Saturday in summer. If Tony wanted, it could be a perfect day.
He flicked on the light and, squinting at the sudden brightness, walked into the kitchen. Operating on automatic, he grabbed the china pot from on top of the fridge, spoon from the drawer, and jar of loose leaf from the pantry. He reached for the jug, gave it an experimental waggle to judge the amount of water, then moved to the sink to refill it. His friends at Big Deal ribbed him for his taste in English tea, something he'd picked up from his Anglophile parents. But Tony knew there was just nothing quite like it.
There was a window above the sink. It wasn't much of a view, just down onto the main street, a windowless beige office building across the way covered with a giant, though dated, mural. If you leaned out a bit to the left, you could see the corner of a small park with a brightly colored plastic playground. It wasn't a bad part of town, not really. But then did San Ventura actually have any good parts?
Tony caught the thought as it arrived, and stifled it. Enough already. Tea, book, bed. He hit the faucet and filled the jug, then glanced out of the window again.
Outside, across the street, the old man with the stick was standing, a black silhouette against the milky monochrome of the office block.
Tony froze. Even at this distance, the man was nothing more than an indistinguishable dark shape, but Tony could see his old, wet eyes glint, just a little, in the street lighting.
Holy shit. Fuck paranoia, he'd been right. Damn. It.
Distracted, Tony let the jug overfill, sending lava-hot water cascading onto the back of his hand. He swore, knocked the faucet off, and dumped the kettle in the sink. With his uninjured hand he reached up and released the window blind, sending the thin metal slats snapping down almost instantly.
Tony jumped in fright, and abandoning his tea making, went to the bathroom − where there were no windows − to run his burnt hand under the cold faucet.
He'd been right all along. He had to get out of San Ventura.
On the street, in the shadow of the office block, the old man clacked his tongue as Tony's kitchen blinds zipped down with a bang.
The man sniffed, shuffled the stick into his other hand, and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Where the hell have you been?"
Blackbird spun around in the wing-backed swivel chair to address the man as he entered the chamber. Illuminated as she was in the spotlight installed high in the vaulted ceiling of the cavern, she couldn't actually see him after he had disappeared from the security feed displayed on the Cowl's computer and communications deck which towered behind her. The only approach to the platform on which she sat was a narrow bridge of metal gridwork crossing a natural chasm that split the repurposed cave neatly in two. A nice, simple line of defense, she supposed, but then if an enemy had managed to get within a hundred yards of the Cowl's own chair, a sheer drop of a few hundred feet – with the walkway retracted – wasn't really going to pose much of a barrier.
The platform opposite, like the rest of the cavern, was swathed in darkness. Blackbird k
new that aside from pandering to the theatrical side of her boss's personality, the shifting shadows that the place was carefully draped in had a very practical purpose, disorienting any enemies who did manage to penetrate the complex, giving her and the Cowl the upper hand. Of course, such an infiltration had never happened, but there was no point in taking any chances, especially if you were the last supervillain in the world.
There was a cough from the platform, and Blackbird frowned under her mask. The beak-like protrusion that had given rise to her name – that contained a complex image-processing GPU that fed directly to the large circular OLED screens that covered both eyes – didn't allow much facial movement beneath it. Blackbird felt the headpiece tugging at her jaw as her mildly surprised expression pushed against the snug lining. With a thought she switched her mask's powerful optics to night vision, throwing her view of the cavern into brilliant shades of violet.
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