Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  Something groaned outside, metal straining, and the sound of the rotor blades died, the chop winding down.

  “Oh, shit, mechanical failure on the chopper,” a male voice called from ahead, just inside the doors. “Repeat, chopper is down.”

  “What the hell?” another voice came. English, of course. Rough.

  “Aleksy,” Krall whispered, and a torrent of swearing broke loose from the US forces as the lights snapped on.

  I came to my feet a second behind the rest of them, Hades, Lethe and Krall leading the way. When I got up, I was met with a hell of a sight.

  The FBI metahuman team were all staring down the barrels of their own weapons, which were hanging in the air in front of them, ripped from their very hands. Pistols, submachine guns, and grenades hovered before them, just out of reach, aimed right at their own faces.

  “Surrender your weapons,” Hades called over the sandbags between us. There were ten of them by my count, ten guys in military garb, their guns pointed at their own heads.

  “I think they’ve been taken already, Grandpa,” I said.

  I flicked my gaze to where Aleksy had been before; he was standing there, hands extended, looking like he was barely straining.

  Suspicion confirmed—Aleksy had magnetic powers.

  “This doesn’t need to end in death,” Hades said. “Surrender, and you will be repatriated to the United States.”

  “We’re not leaving without her,” the lead guy said, nodding at me. He was … not what I would have expected from a SWAT Team lead. Most of those guys—and I’d worked with quite a few—were bulky dudes. Serious athletes who could bench press a mountain. This guy was maybe a few inches taller than me, wire-thin, his wrists about the width of a dog’s leg.

  “You are staring down the barrel of your own guns,” Hades said, his tone indicating that he wasn’t going to take any shit. “If you resist, you will not make it out of here alive, let alone with her.” He spared me a sidelong look, filled with reassurance again.

  Reassuring glances from Vlad the Impaler, from Hades, the God of Death and the Underworld. I was definitely living in the weirdest timeline.

  “Garett,” the team lead said, not looking back into his team, which was a mix of women and men, kinda unusual for SWAT or SpecOps, at least in the US. It dawned on me that it wasn’t that unusual here in Revelen, though, looking around at their soldiers, who seemed to be both male and female—

  “Aw, shit,” I said, but I’d gotten to it too late—

  The population of Revelen was all metas. Everyone had super strength, everyone had powers.

  Just like this team in front of us.

  “Aleksy—” Hades started to say.

  But Garrett, whoever he was, because I didn’t get a good look before things went down, glowed brightest white, the-sun-going-nova bright as he activated his meta power, blinding me and everyone else in the hangar as chaos broke loose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Dave Kory

  Brooklyn

  “I want everything geared toward Sienna Nealon coverage today,” Dave Kory said, talking to the whole staff. The sun had set, and outside the windows, the island of Manhattan twinkled in the distance. Hell of a view, really, and Dave still took the time to notice it as he harangued the staff. “Anything time-sensitive or exclusive, run it now, now, now. Anything that takes a more leisurely approach, or any listicles unrelated to her, set them for publication tomorrow morning to hit the AM audience, okay?”

  He looked around. Flashforce.net had a pretty good crew. He’d have the night shift cover any breaking news, or do it himself if he got a little insider buzz from the Network. Was that likely to happen? Maybe. It depended on how the situation in Revelen broke. Wheels turned slowly internationally, as far as Dave knew, and he hadn’t heard anything from the Network to suggest there was anything he needed to know about—yet. At least since the big break earlier.

  “How about a listicle for all of Sienna Nealon’s allies?” Alyssa Brewer asked. She'd dyed her hair the color of Mountain Dew and had glasses that were so thick-rimmed they practically took up her entire face. “Names, pictures—really get it out there, these are the people she was friends with. You know, before.”

  “I like that,” Dave said, wheels turning. He pointed at Alyssa. “But don’t go with ‘allies’—call them ‘accomplices’ or something like that.”

  “Won’t legal frown on that?” Barb asked.

  Dave shook his head. “I mean, check with them and stay on just this side of the line, but I think we can get away with ‘accomplices.’” He laughed. “Screw legal. Go with accomplices. Let them try and prove they haven’t had any contact with her since she broke bad.”

  The scattered crowd of writers got a good chuckle out of that. All except one humorless spot in the middle, named Mike Darnell. That guy, man.

  “Speaking of legal,” Mhairi Monroe said. Man, she was a shorty. Petite frame, too; Dave bet she would have blown away in a good gale. “I want to write a hot take piece—‘Is Sienna Nealon the Worst Criminal of all time’?”

  Dave tapped his chin. “I like it. But you need some work on that lede. Put some confidence into it. How about, ‘Here’s Why Sienna Nealon is the Most Dangerous Criminal of All Time’?”

  “Oooh,” Alyssa said. “That cranked up the jam a bit.”

  “Damned right it did,” Dave said. “Make it a listicle, too, of her ‘greatest hits.’ I probably don’t need to say it, but the LA thing needs to be near the top.” Everybody knew what the top item was. It didn’t even need to be said, because Eden Prairie was personal; each of them knew at least one reporter who’d been involved.

  “She did some shady shit in my homeland of Scotland, too,” Mhairi said, looking over at Alyssa. “Not many people noticed that at the time. You might take a look at the local reports. Fill out your list a bit more.”

  “Yes,” Dave said, pointing at Mhairi. “More pages in the listicle, more clicks, more advertiser dollars. I like this. I mean, don’t go too long, but—make sure you build to that number one atrocity, okay? I want the audience thinking she is literally Hitler by the time they click that last page.”

  “Want me to Photoshop her in with the little mustache?” Alyssa asked, and everybody laughed again. This was a good group. Everyone was on the same page—

  Except for Mike. Again. Who raised his hand.

  Dave’s smirk faded, but he held in the sigh. “What’s up, Mike?”

  “I was thinking of writing an op-ed piece,” Mike said, flipping open a little pad on his palm, going through page by page. “I don’t want to soft-focus cover Sienna Nealon’s life or anything, but … she has done a little good here and there. Might not be a bad idea to go over it in a piece.” He looked up. “Kind of a … counterpoint.”

  Dave laughed, and so did the rest of the crew, but it wasn’t from actual humor. “I don’t think that’s going to fit with our coverage.” He looked around. “All right, team … let’s make this happen. Come to me if you’ve got other ideas, and let’s get things queued up for tomorrow. Shake your sources, see if anything new is developing. Scour the net, find some hot takes you can write counter pieces to, aggregate whatever’s good to steal traffic for us.” He smiled. “Let’s be the news source and keep the traffic coming.” He clapped his hands once and they broke.

  Except Mike. Of course. He waited until the crowd had dispersed a little then wandered up slowly to Dave.

  “Listen, Mike,” Dave said, figuring he’d pre-empt what he knew was coming, “I know you’re new here, so let me tell you why that piece you pitched was a really bad idea.”

  Mike just nodded. Hey, maybe the old dog was ready to learn a new trick.

  “I’m sure you noticed the theme—the general tenor of our coverage,” Dave said.

  “Sure,” Mike said, “it’d be hard not to. ‘Sienna Nealon is the Worst Human Ever, Actually.’”

  Dave paused. “Shit, that’s a great lede. You want to write that sto
ry? Because I want it on the home page within an hour.” He snapped his fingers and called out across the cubes. “Hey, Alyssa? ‘Sienna Nealon is the Worst Human Ever, Actually.’”

  “Nice lede,” Alyssa called.

  “Run with it for your listicle,” Dave said, then turned back to Mike. “Sorry. I’m guessing you didn’t want to write that one.”

  Mike shrugged. “I’d rather not. Mainly because it’s not true. Empirically, there have been a lot more garbage humans than her.”

  “Sure, sure,” Dave said. “I mean, if you really want to break down into body counts, I guess. But nobody wants to do that, Mike. Nobody’s looking for that level of nuance, especially surrounding a superpowered mass murderer who’s on the loose. Dave talked with his hands, and they moved in front of him now in a choreographed dance that matched with his words. “The theme of our coverage colors our entire home page, right? It’s a chorus, and we’re all singing the same song. Different pieces layer in the harmony. That … is our narrative. ‘Sienna Nealon is the worst, most dangerous threat we face today.’”

  “But it’s not true,” Mike said. “You have better odds of dying in car accident than Sienna Nealon swooping out of the sky and murdering you.”

  Dave did sigh, now. “Of course it’s not true. Almost all the things people worry about any given day aren’t true. Why are people worried about shark attacks, which kill ten people a year, when bees kill sixty and heart disease kills six hundred thousand? They worry about them because there’s emotion there. In these stories, they emotionally connect with us. This is what we do, okay? We sate an emotional need. People read our stories, watch our videos, they feel something, right?”

  “Seems like our videos and stories tend to push them all in one direction,” Mike said, index finger rubbing the page of his notepad. “Anger, stress—”

  “Well, that’s what people want to feel when they come to us, whether they want to admit it or not,” Dave said. He could feel the exasperation just bubbling. “They want us to help them make sense of a chaotic world.”

  “And you’re showing them only the worst of it,” Mike said. “Like this Sienna Nealon business—”

  “It’s called a ‘narrative,’ Mike,” Dave said. “Like I said, we’re a chorus here. We’re singing the same song. They come here for one Sienna article, but it doesn’t totally scratch the itch. It arouses anxiety, so they click the next, hoping to douse that feeling. Except they don’t really want to—they want to feel it more. It’s an itch they can’t finish scratching. They love it. And we get clicks and revenue. It’s win-win.”

  “They end up stressed out and presented with only one side of the story,” Mike said. “How in the hell is that win-win?”

  “Look, Mike,” Dave said, trying to break through this naiveté that the former Times reporter wore like an old coat, “it’s a win because we’re giving them what they want, whether they realize it or not. If they didn’t want it, they wouldn’t click.”

  “That sounds a lot like the logic Big Tobacco execs used to use to sell their product,” Mike said.

  “Come the eff on,” Dave said, just rolling his eyes. “We’re not killing anyone here, okay? That’s just a ridiculous comparison.”

  “Like … comparing Sienna Nealon to a dictator who murdered millions?” Mike asked. The old guy had a trace of a smile.

  Dave’s calm evaporated in an instant. “Stick to the narrative, Mike. We’re trying to do something here. It’s a team effort. Don’t go stepping on your team’s part of the piece, okay?”

  “You didn’t hire me to be a chorus girl,” Mike said.

  Dave turned around, heading for his desk. “Damned right I didn’t. You don’t have the legs for it, anyway.” He shot a smirk at Mike as he walked away. Stupid fossil.

  When he sat down at his desk, it took Dave a minute or so to get back to Zen. That old bastard had really come at him, hadn’t he?

  Did he really not get it?

  How could he be so damned obtuse?

  There was a narrative for a reason. It gave people the continuity of coverage that they wanted. Nothing more, nothing less. And he wanted to come along and muddy the waters with a hot take about how Sienna Nealon was really not that bad? “Why doesn’t he just write a hagiography of John Wayne Gacy?” Dave muttered under his breath.

  A buzz on the desk snapped him back to attention and Dave swiped for the phone, then unlocked it.

  TIME TO PLAY!

  He looked around. There was conversation in the next cubicle, but no one was sticking their head up like a groundhog anywhere in sight. He could probably just …

  Dave unlocked the phone, looking around to be sure someone wasn’t sneaking up on him. He spun his chair as he logged in, ready to hit the power button if someone came walking up. They all had their marching orders, they’d be fine for a little bit. At least long enough for him to see if this was a big meeting or a little one. If it was a little one, maybe he could just sit here and pretend to be texting …

  CHALKE: The FBI has inserted the Metahuman Task Force into Revelen to retrieve Sienna Nealon. Forces about to enter stronghold where we believe she is being kept.

  “‘Kept’?” Dave muttered, then typed it in with the question mark.

  The response only took a second.

  CHALKE: Early days of investigation suggest she is linked to a radical anti-Western government, has ties to terrorists who set the riot/escape in the Cube in motion. They are providing her safe harbor in Revelen.

  Whoa. That was definitely a scoop, and she wouldn’t have said that if she hadn’t wanted it percolating out there. Now the question was what angle did he want to take to break this one …?

  CHALKE: Task Force about to engage. Stand by for updates.

  Dave sat forward in his chair. This was going to be interesting.

  BILSON: Waiting on the edge of my seat.

  So Bilson felt it, too. Hmmm.

  Dave spun around and started to type out a header.

  FBI CONDUCTS REVELEN RAID TO CAPTURE ESCAPED FUGITIVE SIENNA NEALON

  He paused. Frowned. Edited.

  FBI CONDUCTS DARING REVELEN RAID TO CAPTURE DANGEROUS CRIMINAL SIENNA NEALON

  There. That was a little more properly weighted. It gave the FBI credit for being bold, thus painting them as the heroes, and it took Sienna Nealon down from ‘escaped fugitive’—which sounded bad, no doubt—to ‘dangerous criminal,’ which sounded much worse.

  Still …

  BREAKING NEWS: FBI CONDUCTS DARING SORTIE INTO REVELEN TO CAPTURE ESCAPED MASS MURDERER SIENNA NEALON—LIVE UPDATES

  There. It added urgency with the “Breaking,” put in a cliffhanger element, a suggestion that merely by reading you could be part of something important happening RIGHT NOW. It eliminated the consonance of “Revelen Raid,” which bothered Dave the second time he read it, and it escalated Sienna Nealon from criminal—which had a bad connotation, but could just indicate she hadn’t paid traffic tickets or something—and put her right in the category where she belonged.

  Escaped Mass Murderer. Boom.

  It was all about the verbiage, whether you were in advertising or news.

  Dave chuckled. Ledes were advertising. That was something else that Mike just didn’t get. The whole business was advertising. Look here! Click here! Read this! Maybe it had always held a little grain of it, but this was one of the big changes that Dave had seen. Ledes that drew you in, pulled you across an entire webpage when you saw them, made you want to click. Only dickheads called it clickbait and wrote it off as something bad. Losers, all of them.

  Winners did the things that it took to get the traffic to their site. And this little headline, Dave knew as he started typing out the basics of the story, adding a big STORY IN PROGRESS. STAY TUNED FOR LIVE UPDATES at the bottom of the page …

  This little headline was going to win big.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sienna

  The flash of that metahuman was like the worst camera
bulb in the world lighting off directly in front of my eyeballs.

  Times a hundred.

  It was so strong, I could swear I smelled burning flesh and eye fluid as it lit off like lightning in front of my face. Blinking didn’t help at all, and neither would anything else, I would have sworn, forevermore. I felt like I was permanently blind, as though somehow that meta had blasted my eyes right out of my head.

  Based on the screams around me … I was not alone in feeling this.

  A long scream coincided with the light abruptly going out, and I wondered if someone had snuffed the damnable bastard who’d just blinded us all. If so, I was totally going to use my crown princess powers to send them a fruit basket.

  I pitched back, thumping against the concrete, and it took me a moment to realize the dark shadows I saw above me were just the ceiling and stalactites. Shouts echoed in the converted cavern, and I saw someone else writhing not too far away from me, like they were having an epileptic seizure. Couldn’t tell who they were; the world’s resolution had been turned down to “extremely blurry,” like maybe 20 dpi or something.

  “Gyahhhh,” I mumbled, putting my hands up to my eyes and finding my cheeks streaked with tears. So I did still have eyes, I confirmed by touch, and by seeing my hands move across my face.

  “That was an Apollo, named for the sun god,” Hades said, looming over me. “Close your eyes for a moment. Let your rods and cones reset.”

  “I might need to regrow retinas,” I said, sitting up. Others were writhing around me. Everything was still incredibly blurry, but it was obvious that our side had taken a pretty hard hit with that surprise attack.

  Hades was smiling. “You are fine, see? Which is good, because I think we will be fighting for your life very shortly.”

  “‘We,’ huh?” I asked as he offered a hand and I took it. He pulled me to my feet and up we came, back to standing. I mopped at the wetness at my cheeks and looked over the sandbag wall separating us from the FBI Task Force.

  Their weapons had fallen when Aleksy had apparently gone blind, and they were trying to retrieve them.