Heroes Lost and Found

by Sheryl Nantus

  I ticked off the “speedster” category on my mental checklist. They weren’t Alphas, but they were a good team, muscle and speed.

  It didn’t mean they couldn’t be beaten.

  Said the half-naked woman trapped in an animal cage, my inner voice shrieked.

  I grabbed the bars again, rocking the cage from side to side. There was another scream from the other side of the wall and then a horrible, disgusting odor drifted in on a whiff of smoke.

  It smelled like someone had tossed a hamburger on the grill.

  My stomach lurched with the odor, pushing me to retreat as far from the front of the cage as I could. I spotted some movement to my left and jerked my head around.

  Dykovski stood in the doorway. He was breathing heavy and sweat poured off him like he’d been caught in a rainstorm.

  The panicked look lasted a second before the stoic, strong mask slid over.

  He held something in his right hand, some sort of fat, oversized pistol, reminding me of the mock weapons from toy stores. It shook as he approached me, both his hands trembling despite his best attempt to hide it.

  He knelt by the cage and jabbed at the lock with a key held in his left hand, lifting the padlock with the short stubby barrel of the pistol. “Listen to me. You’re going to get out there and help them, or I’ll fry you right here, right now.”

  I laughed. “Oh, really?”

  The cage door flew open. He reached in and slapped me hard across the face with his free hand, the key dangerously close to ripping my cheek open.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Surf. You go to work or you die.” His hand went down to the black box on his wrist. “Your call.”

  He stepped back as I pulled myself out of the box, my cramped legs screaming for relief.

  Another yelp came from the opening.

  Dykovski leveled the weapon in his hand at me. “Get to work, Surf. Do good work and maybe I’ll give you a shirt.”

  I glared at him, rising on wobbly feet. A mental push had me hovering off the ground, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to relieve the aching pain in my legs. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that you’re about to show me how good a fighter you really are, bitch.” He gestured towards the gap. “Get going before I change my mind and put you back in the cage.”

  “I’m not fighting my own team.” I stood up as straight as I could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing pain running down my spine. Crossing my arms in front of me made me feel stronger, despite the spongelike substance currently inhabiting my body.

  “Well, that’s fine and dandy,” Dykovski sneered. “Because it’s not your bunch of rejects. Now stop talking and get the fuck in there. You’re not the only one I can pull the plug on, Surf. Meltdown’s fighting already, and I don’t think you want to see how far I can blow his brains across the room.”

  I headed towards the hole in the wall, sucking up as much power as I could in my weakened state. It took a second to hop/fly over the rubble and into the next room and another second to take stock of the situation.

  It might have been a meeting room once. Faux wood paneling on the walls and a deep red carpet added a surreal twist that only a few feet away I had sat in a cage on a bare concrete floor.

  Six leather chairs lay broken, shredded and discarded, the rectangular mahogany table smashed into pieces and spread out in varnished chunks, some burning with low flames dancing along the edges. At the head of a splintered piece of the table, a super roared for the meeting to come to order.

  Kit Masters posed in the corner of the room, his back to the wall and yelling as he launched yet another pair of fiery waves towards the hapless supers in front of him. Thrasher blocked the majority of the flame with his bare chest, his fatigues smoldering and simmering on the edge of ignition. Behind him the super I’d seen earlier zipped in to land a blow on Kit’s blind side before retreating.

  Hot Foot. The name came to me as I advanced at a snail’s pace, acutely aware of Dykovski waiting behind me. A low-level speedster. Older man edging towards retirement.

  Didn’t think he’d make it at this rate.

  Kit was sweating, his face a dark scarlet as he continued his assault. He wore the same stained clothing I’d last seen him in, with a few more discolored areas. He didn’t look at me, his full attention on the two supers attacking him.

  “Jo.” A familiar voice came from my right. Harris crouched behind a piece of table, peeking over as his fingertips burned deep grooves in the glossy wooden top. He still had his clothes on, I noted with a dry irony. So much for equality under the Dykovski rule.

  “Harris.” I nodded in his direction, ignoring his wide-eyed stare. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Eh. Been better,” he replied in the same nonchalant tone as if we were hanging out at the local coffee shop. He ducked down as a stray fireball soared by, singeing the top of his barricade.

  “Get the fuck in there, both of you. Take this bastard out. Now,” Dykovski shrieked from behind me. “Or should I kill one of you to encourage the other?”

  I scowled but didn’t turn around. “You want him dead, I assume? Or is knocked out good enough for you?”

  “Whatever,” he screamed. “Just do something.”

  I looked around the room, grabbing information as fast as I could. Not a window in sight, no possible exit other than through Dykovski behind me and the smashed door to Kit’s left. Maybe we were underground. I flew over to hide behind Harris who scooted to one side, giving me plenty of room.

  “Not really my thing,” he offered as we peered across the table. “Can’t get in close enough to touch him, so…” Harris shrugged.

  Thrasher laughed as another set of flames washed over his impervious body. “Dude, this is getting pretty stale. I can do this all day, old man.”

  Kit yelled something incomprehensible and fired another pair of fireballs, his face flushed. His single eye was unfocused and darted from side to side, trying to watch all of us and failing.

  Hot Foot dashed in again to lay another punch down, this one to Masters’s kidneys. He was nothing but a blur, but I knew he’d landed the shot.

  I wasn’t sure if they realized Kit’s abilities included being pretty tough. Not as tough as Steve with his iron skin, but it’d take a long time to work through his defenses with a stand-up physical fight.

  Kit flinched but didn’t move, laying down another wall of fire. If he randomized his attacks, spaced them out differently, he might have a chance at hitting Hot Foot, but Kit was playing by the Agency rules—every three seconds, without fail.

  Great routine for the cameras that could get the money shots. Lousy routine for taking down real attackers who can count and know when you’re vulnerable.

  If I tried to shoot Kit, I’d have to time it between the fiery waves Kit kept laying down and Hot Foot smacking him every few seconds.

  I sucked in a mouthful of the heated air between my teeth, letting out a long squeak.

  It’d be almost impossible to time it in that small a window. A bad shot and I’d frag Hot Foot and cut our team down to three, one of whom was busy cowering beside me.

  Sitting back and doing nothing while Hot Foot wore Kit down wasn’t an option either. The way Dykovski was panting and yelling I was afraid he’d kill Harris just for the sake of killing something. Seeing his old super back and gunning for him had to be a terrifying experience, and while part of me relished the terror on Dykovski’s face, I knew he wasn’t going to let this brawl go for too much longer, especially if Kit was winning.

  I needed a solution and I needed it fast.

  A glance up at the ceiling gave me the answer.

  “Thrasher, Hot Foot—get ready to retreat,” I called as I flew out from behind the table.

  “What?” The strongman turned and looked at me, his grey face streaked with carbon. “What?” Another wave of fire washed over him, the flames shooting out to each side.

  Using measured breaths I began the countdown,
forcing myself to focus on the numbers and not the madman waiting to set off our plugs.

  One.

  I grabbed Harris’s hand and shot up towards the ceiling where the mandatory sprinkler system sat, the small spiral fan waiting to be activated.

  Two.

  He grinned as he clued in to what I needed, reaching out as close to the metal faucet as he could. His fingertips glowed and melted the small wax stopper holding back the pressurized water.

  Three.

  Water showered down on us as I dropped Harris back at the overturned table. Harris cowered behind the charred barricade, his burst of bravery done for the day.

  Another stream of fire shot out from Kit’s hands, the deadly orange and yellow blossom ignoring the falling water. It washed over Thrasher and off to the sides as I moved up behind the stone-skin super.

  One.

  “Get off the ground,” I shouted, leveling my hands at Kit. “Get onto something wooden.”

  Two.

  “He can still shoot fire, you idiot,” Hot Foot called as he made another circuit of the room, an almost-invisible blur. “A little water ain’t gonna stop him.”

  Three.

  “Sure he’s still got game.” I stared at the Alpha who glared back with his one good eye. “But he’s all wet.”

  Harris scrambled onto the wooden platform, realizing what was about to happen. Thrasher took a step back as I fired a continual stream of energy at the carpeted floor.

  The electrical charge raced through the puddles of water and up to Masters who never broke eye contact with me, never even blinked.

  He fought the electrocution for a full ten seconds, raising his shuddering hands inch by inch to point at me.

  I increased the charge, sending wave after wave across the damp floor.

  Hot Foot yelped and sped back through the hole in the wall, barely ahead of the electrical front. Thrasher just stood there, letting the shock run up, over and out again through his rock-solid body. Harris gave a nervous chuckle as he crouched on the tabletop, safe from the charge.

  Dykovski watched in silence. He cradled the pistol I’d seen before in both hands.

  My hands dropped to my side, the last of my energy gone. I fell to my knees in the warm water and gasped for air, dragging the heat into my aching lungs.

  Kit stood there, snarling at me. His fingers clenched up into fists, pointed at me.

  I didn’t move.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  His eye broke away from mine, rolling upwards into his head. With a soft sigh he pitched forward onto the ground, hands sprawled out to each side.

  “Fuck.” Hot Foot peeked in from the other room. He glanced at me then back at the unconscious super. “Fuck me.”

  “I don’t do charity,” I quipped as Harris sloshed his way to my side. He blushed and averted his eyes.

  “Eep.” I looked down at my now-transparent clothing.

  “Here.” Harris unbuttoned his flannel shirt and handed it to me, keeping his eyes averted. “Speak well of me to Hunter.”

  I slipped the shirt on, grimacing as I caught a whiff of sweat and spilled beer. The action gave me a minute to survey the rest of the room and figure out where Kit had initiated his abortive attack.

  There was a door behind him, the charred remains hanging by a single twisted hinge. He must have blown his way in another part of the complex and was forced or led in here to confront the two supers while Dykovski scrambled for cover, weapons and his two new captives.

  I had no idea why Kit thought it’d be that easy.

  He knew he’d be facing at least two supers along with whatever weapons Dykovski had in reserve. True, Hot Foot and Thrasher weren’t Alpha-level villains, and if I hadn’t interceded, they’d still be brawling, going until someone made a mistake or collapsed.

  Add in Harris and myself and there was no way Kit could have won. We might have lost someone in the battle, but the outcome was inevitable.

  I stared at the soggy carpet, the harsh reality of his insane approach smacking me between the eyes.

  Kit Masters never lost.

  Because the game was fixed. Because someone took a fall when they were told to. Because that was the way we were trained and taught and told the world worked for us.

  My cheek ached. I ran my tongue over the inside, finding the coppery taste of blood again.

  Kit hadn’t broken free of the Agency. He was still back at the Watchtower, playing the game.

  He’d never really left Atlanta.

  I spat on the floor, the pink saliva mixing with the clear water.

  Hot Foot showed off a lobster-red forearm to Dykovski as they both made their way into the room. “Dude burnt me, boss.”

  It wasn’t that serious, nothing more than a sunburn. He’d gotten lucky, considering the power Kit put out.

  Dykovski ignored the whiny speedster and walked over to where Kit lay, stepping over the broken chairs and wooden debris. He reached down and dragged both of Kit’s hands up in front of the unconscious super.

  “He’s still breathing?” Thrasher let out a low whistle. “Thought he’d be fried five ways to Friday with that much charge.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill him,” I said. Not that anyone was listening to me, the new kid on the block.

  “Good things come in troublesome packages.” Dykovski pointed the strange weapon at the two hands and fired. A thick blob of black goo shot out and covered Kit’s hands up to his wrists, enveloping them in the tarry mixture.

  It hardened as I watched, one edge flat where it lay against the wet floor.

  “Instant handcuffs. Cool.” Hot Foot grinned. “I like.”

  Dykovski turned and scowled at the older man. “Shut up.” He pointed at Hot Foot and Thrasher. “You two, drag this piece of shit into the next room, near the cage.” He gestured at the hole.

  The two thugs advanced on Kit, letting out various grunts and groans as they wrestled the huge man into the next room.

  Harris elbowed me in the ribs and nodded towards Kit.

  The super wore the same outfit I’d first met him in, the dirty shirt and jeans now soggy from the water.

  A small chain dangled free from the left front pocket of his jeans.

  My jammer.

  Chapter Nine

  I resisted the urge to lunge for the small chain peeking out of Kit’s pocket. Instead I looked at Harris and allowed the right side of my mouth to twitch upwards. Any more and I feared giving myself away.

  Dykovski crossed the room to stand in front of us. “And who told you to give her your shirt?” A powerful backhand sent Harris flying against the far wall.

  Harris slumped down into a sitting position, nursing a split lip. Dykovski turned his attention back to me.

  “Take it off or I’ll have the boys rip it off. Your call.” He looked at the weapon in his hand as I unbuttoned the shirt. “Agency thought of this for exactly this sort of thing. Cripple the super without doing any permanent damage.” A nervous tremble in his words gave him away. He hadn’t expected Kit and now didn’t know what to do with him. “Without his hands free, Kit’s done. Flying furnace, but not much else good about him.” Dykovski cleared his throat, raising his voice so we could all hear his rant. “Thought I’d taken care of the asshole back in Atlanta. Strong fellow but can’t take orders worth a damn. Just like Blockhead. Too stupid to live.” He swung the fat pistol around and rested it on his shoulder. “Too stupid.”

  I tried not to shiver as I held out Harris’s shirt. The water around my feet cooled quickly, the overall temperature dropping by the second.

  Dykovski took it from me and tossed it back to Harris.

  “Put it back on—I’ll let you keep it ’cause you thought you were being chivalrous.” He dragged his gaze over my body. “Nothing here worth having or hiding. At least not by me.”

  I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. Screw modesty. “I wouldn’t do you on a dare.” The words were out be
fore I could hold back.

  The slap burned the right side of my face, the heat offsetting the cold. “Speak when spoken to, Surf. You’re a slow learner.”

  I slid to one side in the puddle, digging my bare feet into the soggy carpet to try and stay upright. Grabbing on to one of Mike’s old mantras to keep from losing control, I said nothing. Harris got to his feet and moved over to stand by me, struggling to get his shirt back on.

  “Follow me, both of you.” Dykovski stomped back through the hole. We moved into the next room, crossing over Kit’s semiconscious body to stand by the other supers.

  The two thugs stood at parade rest, and we joined them, automatically assuming the same pose.

  “This piece of shit used to be my super.” Dykovski nudged Kit’s foot with his. “I thought I killed him in Atlanta. Bastard’s got a horseshoe rammed up his ass.”

  He lifted his left arm, showing us the Guardian bracelet and the small black box attached to it.

  I swallowed hard, trying not to think about the power this madman had over us.

  “This is for the benefit of the new recruits. And you two should remember this so we’re going to go over it again in case someone gets any bright ideas.” He glared at me for a second before continuing. “Yeah. Look at it.” He paraded in front of us, displaying the small digital screen. “I know what you’re thinking, it should be dead. Thanks to the actions of a few rogues…” he snarled at Harris and I, “…the system got shut down, which means you’re all free to go wherever you like, do whatever you want. Live la vida loca and all that shit.”

  Dykovski grinned. “But you’d be wrong.”

  He tapped the black box attached to the wristband. “This gizmo, courtesy of the Agency folks who had half a brain cell to spare, locks on to the nearest super and sends me the activation code, turns on my screen. Shows me the code. Tap the numbers into my console here and boom.” He spread his hands out, mimicking an explosion. “Brain tartar everywhere.”

  Dykovski moved down the line, staring at each of us in turn. “I know what you’re thinking. How can I remember three, four, five different codes? Can I mix them up and blow your head up instead of someone else’s? Can I keep them straight?” He laughed. “Of course I can. I’ve got them written down too, my own personal backup.” He patted his back pocket. “And if I die or pass out, all the codes transmit, all of your heads go off in a glorious explosion, so if any of you start thinking about taking me out, consider your buddies. Won’t be just you dying, it’ll be everyone I ever tapped for a code.”