Seven Wonders

by Christopher, Adam

  He stood in the street as a completely normal, vulnerable human being. Nobody knew he was Geoffrey Conroy, city benefactor and leader of commerce. Nobody knew he was the Cowl, the criminal mastermind behind San Ventura's reign of terror. Nobody gave a shit.

  He'd got it wrong.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

  Conroy sat on a fire hydrant and watched people walking, talking, sitting in the open-air spread of restaurants and bars, dancing in multicolored silhouettes behind the windows of clubs. Nobody was scared of the Cowl. Life was too important to stop and worry and fear. Everybody ignored the danger and got on with it.

  He'd failed.

  Had he really fooled himself that much that he hadn't seen what was right in front of his eyes? Perhaps. Drunk on power? Or high on his own superpowers, locked away in his underground Lair and his hilltop mansion, plotting, scheming, calling himself a king… yet doomed to irrelevance, a mere mischief-maker that made the news in the second before the viewer flicked the channel? A mischief-maker who killed, yes, but if you do something often enough it loses its punch, you get desensitized.

  Well, how's that for a comedown?

  He stood and loosened his shirt collar, the rosary beads clacking against the ring on his right hand. It really was hot. So many people, too many. Conroy suddenly felt alone, despite the crowds, and stupid, and vulnerable. What if someone knew who he was? Not just the superrich Geoffrey Conroy, with a thousand dollars of loose change in his wallet, ripe for robbery. What if someone knew he was the Cowl? What if someone knew he didn't have superpowers anymore? Someone had to be responsible, of that he was sure. The loss of flight, invulnerability, superspeed − it wasn't a natural phenomenon. The Seven Wonders claimed publically to have never uncovered his identity, although he knew that to be a lie. And who else could be responsible for draining the powers of a supervillain? In fact, he was surprised they hadn't done it earlier. Maybe they'd needed time, perhaps entering into a covert alliance with another superteam? Perhaps the superheroes of the world were all about to come out of retirement and turn the tables.

  He wracked his brains, trying to remember who else had ever discovered his true identity. Silverlord − but he was dead. The Ultimate Hero − dead. Lady Daylight and Kingkiller? No, supposition on his part. Kingkiller wasn't exactly a hero either, and he was locked in the bowels of the Earth in the supercrime prison built by the United Nations. Lady Daylight was missing, either off-world or, more likely, dead.

  "Hey bud, you OK?"

  Conroy turned his head slowly, trying to focus on the portly, bearded man in front of him. His face showed concern behind the whiskers, and he was wearing a plain dark suit, the white shirt glowing almost fluorescently in the neon strip light of the bar opposite. There was a black nametag pinned over the left breast, indicating the man was known as Brother somebody somebody. The man smiled but the smile was weak, and Conroy watched as the man's narrow eyes flicked to the rosary beads.

  Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

  "Ah, yeah, fine," said Conroy. The Samaritan's face swam in front of his own. Maybe it was him? Perhaps the Mormon suit was fraudulent, the concern a sham? Conroy backed off and almost tripped over the curb behind him. Shit, it could be anyone. He turned on his heel, dodging past another gaggle of partygoers, and headed uptown. He needed to get away.

  Uptown was quieter. A mix of small businesses and apartments, the only activity at this time of the night/morning was centered around a convenience store on the corner. Beyond was a small park, playground and basketball court visible under the streetlights, but the trees vanishing into the gloom beyond. A pinprick of light flared, suggested the presence of a cigarette smoker. A drug dealer, or maybe a wouldbe murderer or rapist. Conroy couldn't say. Maybe one of his faithful fans, a member of one of the Omega gangs.

  Conroy's fingers found the next large bead on the rosary, and heart pounding, he ducked into the store.

  • • • •

  Love thy neighbor.

  The bright artificial light inside stung his eyes, causing him to blink to adjust. His vision was now human-normal. This was going to take some serious getting used to.

  It was quiet in the store, just the hum of the refrigerators and the slush machine at the counter. Conroy was surprised to see the counter was unprotected, no after-hours screen or hatch. Then he saw the damage.

  The counter was new, as were the shelves behind it. So new they hadn't been restocked with cigarettes and condoms yet. At first Conroy just assumed it was ongoing maintenance, but then he saw the spider-webbed glass on a cabinet to the left of the new counter, clearly part of the older, original structure. The floor in front of the counter was marked with two distinct patterns – regular, almost rectangular burn marks, where the linoleum had been torn and then melted, and an irregular series of blobs with soft edges. Conroy had seen the second set of marks before, many times. The telltale afterimage of spilt blood. The convenience store had been robbed, and recently.

  The attendant made a good show of reading a newspaper, but her eyes were clearly following her only customer. Conroy smiled selfconsciously, and moved to browse the shelves. His eyes didn't focus on the groceries − rows of beans and laundry detergent went unseen. He wanted to savor the calm and the quiet, the reassuring purr of the drinks fridge, the dust and pine-fresh smell familiar from childhood.

  But he'd picked the wrong neighborhood, clearly.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  He reached for a tin of something unappetizing, and found it heavier than he expected. He hefted it in his palm, and noticed that his hand was shaking, just a little. He raised his other arm in front of his face. That hand shivered slightly as well.

  Conroy exhaled loudly. Now he knew what this was: fear. He was terrified.

  The newspaper rustled. Conroy emerged from behind the shelf and saw the attendant watching him. She wasn't that old – possibly kissing sixty, at the most – but she was frail and despite an attempted hardness in the eyes, Conroy could sense something was wrong. She was afraid too. Afraid of him.

  Conroy glanced at the store damage. The wrong neighborhood, all right. And what was this woman doing here, running a store, apparently unprotected? Hoping that lightning doesn't strike twice didn't seem like a sensible business decision.

  He took a step towards the counter and the woman jerked back, fast enough to bump her back into the empty cigarette rack behind her. Conroy didn't need superpowers to estimate her increased heart rate and respiration. She was going to have a damn heart attack.

  Conroy flicked a bead with his right hand and held his left up, in a gesture of what he hoped was peace. The woman didn't seem to notice. She was shaking visibly now.

  The blood, the damage. Given the state of the woman Conroy realized that she probably wasn't the regular attendant. No… something had happened, something had happened recently, which had left the regular worker incapacitated, and she'd had to come in and take over. Probably the mother. They had no choice, the shop had to stay open, they couldn't afford to close it even for a day. Conroy just hoped that the blood on the floor hadn't belonged to the shopkeeper. The damage and the burn marks on the floor suggested that a hero had been here. Linear, perhaps.

  "Everything's going to be all right," said Conroy. His voice was suddenly loud in the shop and the woman jumped with a small cry. As Conroy watched, tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

  Conroy felt sick. What right did people have to come in and attack a family-run business? What right did people have to cause fear and terror? People were just trying to live. All of them, everyone in the city. People had a right to freedom and to mind their own business.

  As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

  Conroy swallowed and found a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit. He lowered his hand and walked backwards, towards the doors.

  The O
mega gang, out in the park. That was probably as close to a permanent HQ as the group had. Which meant they must have seen something. When he explained who he was they'd give him information, and even help him track down the perps.

  As the woman behind the counter collapsed weeping onto her knees, Geoff Conroy returned to the night outside and ran across the street to the park.

  Detachment from the things of the world.

  The park really was dark. The lone streetlight cast a sickly yellow glow over the playground and basketball court, rendering everything a faded monochrome. Conroy could only assume everything was bright and cheerful in the daylight, because right now it was like something out of a Stephen King movie.

  The path through the park led off out of the dull light and towards the trees, vanishing with surprising abruptness as the darkness beyond swallowed everything. Conroy knew that was an illusion, that the yellow streetlight was actually brighter than it looked and that once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, the park would be easy to navigate. But that was also why it was the perfect spot for an Omega gang – they could lurk, maybe dozens of them, near the trees and watch the world go by, safe in the knowledge they were completely invisible to anyone who looked their way.

  A firefly in the dark, a tiny flaring red that grew like a bloodspot in the air and just as quickly shrank back to nothing.

  Hiding in the tree line was no good if you were a smoker.

  Another large bead, another Our Father, and Conroy held his jaw up and walked into the black maw.

  It was dark, and it was quiet. The trees moved constantly, their leaves a faint curtain of white noise that added to the odd feeling that he was walking into a soundproof chamber. Conroy listened to the trees and listened to his own footsteps; glancing down, the pale concrete of the path managed to capture the dregs of the yellow light from the playground, and was practically the only discernible object around him. Glancing back, the playground and basketball court were a tiny faded vignette. Beyond, the street and the convenience store. The store was brightly lit, the white of the interior and the red of an advertising sign for soft drink in the window the only color in Conroy's field of vision.

  Conroy turned back to the darkness, bunched his shoulders, and took one step forward before stopping, quickly. The cigarette flared ahead, much closer now. Above the sound of the trees came the suck and crackle of someone taking a long drag.

  "Nice suit, my brother," said the smoking man. Conroy could see him vaguely – a washed-out gray figure in a puffer jacket and wide jeans. There was no sign of any costume or uniform or insignia that he knew the Omega gangs wore, but it was too dark to see clearly, and the chances were such an emblem was on the back of his jacket anyway.

  "You got a quarter for a coffee?"

  Conroy glanced to his left. There was another person there, tall and thin, the voice young and deep. As the cigarette flared again, Conroy heard the trees rustle, too close to his back. He turned on this heel, carefully. There were two more men – youths – behind him. They were silhouetted sharply by the yellow light at the end of the tunnel formed by the tree-lined path. One was wearing a baseball cap. Conroy watched as its outline moved, the wearer looking him up and down.

  "Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls to Heaven. Especially those most in need of thy mercy."

  Someone laughed and Conroy felt his mouth dry out completely. He hadn't meant to speak that out loud. The smooth wood of his rosary beads cut into the knuckles of his hand as he squeezed it into a fist.

  "You on your way to church, mister?"

  Three of the youths laughed. The fourth, the one with the cigarette, sniggered in an unpleasant falsetto and waved the hand holding the smoke. The dry-leaf smell of the park was joined by the strong, sweet aroma of weed. Conroy watched the end of the joint glow faintly as it was dragged through the air, and wondered whether this really had been a good idea.

  He rolled the next rosary bead over a knuckle, and sucked in a breath that brought with it the tang of marijuana.

  Time to take control. He didn't need superpowers to take charge. He was better than them, and they knew it.

  "You're one of the Omega gangs, right?"

  The men ignored the question and Conroy saw the outline of the baseball cap move again as they muttered among themselves. Conroy puffed his chest out, possibly for his own benefit more than anything. He dropped his voice to a growl that should have been familiar to the two million people living in the city.

  "I'm the Cowl, and I need information."

  The laughter sprang up again, louder this time. Conroy winced at the sharpness of the sound, the noise of four men high as kites getting a fit of the giggles.

  The baseball cap moved forward enough for Conroy to see the man's face. It was thin and spangled with heavy acne.

  "Your money," the youth said, eyes narrow. He glanced down at Conroy's shoes. "And duds. You picked the wrong park to jerk off in, my friend."

  More laughter, more giggling. The two that hadn't spoken suddenly exchanged words, loudly but too quickly, all street slang and abbreviations that Conroy couldn't follow. The gang members were kids and Conroy was twenty years out of date.

  "Smokes and money and make it quick," said the apparent gang leader.

  Conroy frowned. "I don't have any cigarettes."

  The leader shook his head. "Wallet, my man, wallet. Or we'll fuck you up, and then you'll know who the Cowl is."

  The three kids around Conroy exploded with mirth. Conroy knew that he'd made a mistake. There was no way he could convince them who he was – and, perhaps more importantly, it didn't matter anyway. The Cowl, the omega symbol, were an excuse for anarchy. As the city's resident supervillain, he'd given license for the lowlife of San Ventura to think they had some kind of purpose and the freedom to act upon it.

  "Too slow, brother Joe. I said give me your motherfucking money and your motherfucking smokes, bitch." Clearly, the concept that not everybody smoked was completely alien to the youths.

  A fresh sound, a click and then something soft sliding on something hard. Conroy didn't turn but he knew that one of the kids behind him had pulled a knife of some kind.

  "Hey, hey, hey," said one of the group. At once, the other three turned away from Conroy. There, in the yellow spotlight of the playground, was someone else. The black outline was long and flowing – a woman, long hair and long coat, carrying a bag. She strode towards the group, either not seeing them or determined to make some statement about how the citizens of San Ventura could walk through any damn public place they liked at any damn time of day.

  Or, thought Conroy, perhaps she had a death wish.

  "Hey, hey, hey," repeated the gang leader. The group of four moved away from Conroy slightly. Conroy relaxed, the tension suddenly evaporating as he realized he was no longer of interest. Money and the possibility of fresh cigarettes was nothing compared to the allure of a woman.

  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

  The group jogged forward to meet the newcomer, who now came to a complete stop. Conroy heard the giggling come again and watched as the four men circled the woman like vultures. He was now forgotten, completely irrelevant.

  One of the men reached out and pulled the strap of the woman's bag. She shrieked, and the men giggled. She snapped the bag strap away from the hand easily. They were playing with her. Another orbit and another hand, or the same hand, reached out and pulled at the lapel of her coat.

  Conroy blinked. Although it was cooler between the trees he felt the sweat crawl under his hair. He felt the subcutaneous fat over his knuckles roll as he squeezed the rosary beads in his fist.

  Contempt of Riches. Love of the Poor.

  Conroy walked down the path towards the light.

  The street was quiet, and the convenience store was still there with its white lights and red neon sign. Conroy turned, and the playground and basketball court were still there,
bathed in the nicotine yellow of the streetlight. The world was dreamlike and Conroy's head was full of cotton wool. Any second he'd wake up, and walk downstairs to the Lair, and look over that night's automated surveillance report on the computer while he sipped freshly brewed coffee.

  Any second now. Any second.

  It was still hot. Conroy blinked and was surprised to find everything exactly as it was when his eyes opened again. He raised his hand to wipe his face, to get the funk of the night off him, but stopped and changed his mind. He stared for a moment at the blood smeared over his fingers. Confused for a second, he raised the other hand. In the light cast by the convenience store that hand was dipped in scarlet. He moved his fingers and stretched them out, watching the rosary beads shine wetly. The blood went almost to his elbow, and none of it was his.