by Scott Baron
Just ignore them, he would tell himself after every incident. You’re doing good, it doesn’t matter what those bullies say. Unfortunately, he was finding it harder and harder to let it go.
Having the milkshake dropped on his head that night hadn’t hurt, even though it had fallen seven stories when the Captain let it loose. The only thing injured was his pride. The shake made a mess, as did the defecating crows that chased him for three blocks, but they didn’t cause any real damage, though their cackling barrage nevertheless made the sting of yet another prank by the Captain and his friends hurt just that much more.
The Protector stepped out of the gas station restroom, cleaned up, but quite frankly, over it.
Screw this, he thought. I’m going home.
Heading for his hideout to change into his street clothes and maybe goof around on his PlayStation seemed like a great plan. Crime fighting could wait, this just wasn’t the night for it.
He had been walking in a funk for a while when he took a seat on a dark bus bench, reflecting on the night’s humiliation. The incessant harassment he had to endure was just the icing on the shitty cake that was his life as a superhero, and he didn’t even like icing.
The crash startled him. His super hearing was apparently on the fritz that night, and he hadn’t heard it coming. He just wanted to go home, but the heroic nature in him tugged at his conscience, and grudgingly, he obeyed, rising to his feet and jogging around the corner, just in case a citizen needed his help.
“Hello?” he called out into the electronics store. “Is everyone alright?”
The car had smashed right through the front window, but the driver’s seat was empty. The engine was still running, and the stereo, he noted, was playing AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”
“Oh no, it’s The Protector!” The Siren cried out from across the store as she leapt atop a counter. “Whatever will I do?” She held the back of her hand to her head like a swooning damsel in distress, waiting patiently for his snarky reply.
Over the years of cat and mouse, she’d actually come to enjoy the banter they traded, and as he was the only hero willing to stand up to her (and the only one not affected by her song), she eventually found herself heading off on each new crime spree wondering if he’d show up.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, it is I, your nemesis!” she said, striking a ridiculous pose. “What amazing powers will you unleash upon me this time? Laser rays? Maybe electromagnetic ESP? I tremble in my boots! What’ll it be, Protector?”
He looked at her, amped up and ready to scrap. Not tonight, was his immediate thought.
“Fuck it,” he sighed, then turned to walk away.
“What?” Siren called after him, confused. “Not even going to try?”
“What’s the point?” he replied, then trudged off into the night.
Three blocks later, he took a seat on a dark bus bench. It was well past operating hours, no conveyance would be passing by for quite some time. Resting his masked head in his hands, he thought back on all the time spent trying to do good, to help people, and how everything, his own body included, just never seemed to go his way.
“Whatcha doin’?” a voice asked.
It was The Siren, watching him from across the street.
“Go away,” he grumbled, his head returning to his hands.
A strange thing happened in The Siren’s chest. She actually felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Hey, you alright?”
“Look, I’m not chasing you tonight. Why don’t you just go torment some other hero?”
She studied his body language. With the slump to his shoulders, he seemed, well, defeated. The twinge hit again, this time harder.
“For reals, you’re not going to try to catch me?”
“Nope, go do your worst, I really don’t care.”
She stared at him for a good long moment, then made a decision.
“If you’re really not going to chase me, I have a proposition.”
He paused a moment, then looked up at his nemesis through damp eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I propose a truce. But just for tonight,” she quickly added.
“A truce? Why? I already told you I’m not coming after you.”
“I know. Come on, let me buy you a drink.”
That answer took him by surprise. He sat up straighter and studied her a moment, but sensed no trickery or guile. He was so over it at that moment, he likely wouldn’t have cared if there were. Still, a drink with The Siren…
“Why?”
“Because, well, you look like you’ve had one of those days.”
“But you’re my nemesis.”
“Really? Aww, you’re so sweet! So come on, how often does a fella get to have a drink with his archenemy?”
He thought about it a minute.
“Okay, you can buy me a drink, not steal me one.”
She scrunched up her face (what you could see of it under her mask) in mock disgust, then smiled. “Oh, alright. No stealing.”
The dark little bar was used to the patronage of the freaks who roamed the streets when everyone else was sound asleep, so two strangely clad twenty-somethings was in no way out of the ordinary.
Good-looking couple, the doorman thought as the pair took a booth way in the back.
They had made an agreement as they walked there that night, something neither could believe they were about to do.
They were going to remove their masks.
Sure, they could go with them on, but people would talk. A villain and a hero together in a bar? What would happen next? So they both swore on their honor (or in The Siren’s case, her lack of honor) that whatever happened, they would abide by the terms of the truce and never reveal each other’s identity. Oddly enough, neither of them thought the other would break the agreement.
“Wow,” she said when The Protector slid his mask from his face.
“What?” he asked, self-conscious.
“Nothing, it’s just… you’re really cute.”
He blushed, and his arch-nemesis thought that made him even cuter.
“Your turn,” he said.
With a flourish, she pulled her mask free, shaking out her long auburn hair.
“Voila!”
He was silent.
“Well? Say something, dork,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable.
“You…” He was flummoxed. “You’re beautiful.”
“Good save lover-boy. Come on, I know just the place to go.”
So it came to pass that the archenemies found themselves sitting in the deep red vinyl booth, tucked way in the back of the bar, just two young people having a drink. Conversation flowed smoothly (and the alcohol didn’t hurt). All those years of banter had given them something of a personal shorthand. Several drinks later, they both admitted that, despite their feigned annoyances, they had actually looked forward to their encounters, even if one of them was trying to capture the other.
“I mean, I had to try,” he said, “but maybe, and I’m just saying maybe here, but maybe I didn’t really want to lock you up.”
She smiled at him. “And I didn’t want to be, though I kinda hoped you wouldn’t stop trying.”
They were sharing a moment, something interesting and unexpected building between them, when a loud group of hipsters out to slum it in a dive bar burst through the front doors, their raucous hollering and drunken tirades ruining the ambiance.
“Great, the idiots have arrived. God, I miss when this place was off the hipster radar,” The Siren lamented.
“Tell me about it,” The Protector commiserated. “Hey, I know this is kinda strange to ask, but do you maybe want to get out of here and hang out at my place for a bit? It’s pretty close by.”
“Seriously, you’re offering to show me your secret lair?” she asked, intrigued.
“It’s a hideout,” he replied. “Only villains have lairs. One thing, though, you have to promise that n
o matter what happens, you’ll never reveal it to anyone or use it against me. Consider it part of tonight’s truce.”
She thought it over a few moments (though she only needed a second) and agreed with a smile.
The hideout was something Tyler had stumbled upon when he was just a teenager. One afternoon, his penchant for urban exploring had led him deep beneath the old fire station on Mission Street. It had been shuttered for years, so naturally it was far too tempting for a curious kid to pass up.
A few days after he’d begun exploring the building, Tyler noticed an innocuous little panel under the staircase, one that was just a little different from the others. He had a feeling something interesting was about to happen. Call it intuition, call it a super sense, whatever it was, that day was destiny.
He ran his fingers along the panel’s edges, fingertips feeling a slight indentation at the top right corner. He gave it a push, and after a moment’s resistance, the panel slid open with a rusty screech, revealing a long-forgotten staircase leading to the pitch-black depths below the building.
He was terrified and quickly slammed the secret door shut, but later that night, he found himself thinking about the mysterious discovery, until finally, powerful flashlight in hand, he returned to explore the frightening yet oddly tempting darkness beneath the old firehouse.
It was incredible. A network of tunnels and rooms below the old building that no one had set foot in for decades. Best of all, Tyler found that the system possessed multiple exit points throughout the neighborhood, the tunnels apparently once serving as a rapid response accessway for the long-forgotten firemen living above.
He had slowly cleaned it up during high school, scrubbing away the grime on weekends, even painting the walls a more appealing color than “filth.” When he later became The Protector, he installed internet from a long cable bootlegged off a neighboring office building and even got the old water pipes working. The furniture was a bit more difficult to sneak in, but in time he had made a perfectly habitable hideout, bed, couch, tables and chairs included.
“This is amazing!” The Siren gasped when he turned on the strings of Edison bulbs that illuminated the space in a cozy amber glow. “You live here?”
“Nah, this is just my hideout, but I do spend a lot of time here.”
“This is amazing. You’re full of surprises, Protector. Color me impressed.”
“And here I thought it took far more than that to impress the great Siren.”
She looked at him quietly. It had been by far the nicest non-date she’d been on in years, and she wasn’t looking forward to it ending.
“Sherri,” she said at last, holding out her hand.
“Tyler,” he replied, clasping her warm palm in his.
“Hey Tyler,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
“What?”
Sherri The Siren lunged at him, their mouths mashing together fiercely, her tongue dancing tantalizingly across his. A pale orange spark leapt between their moistened lips as she broke the embrace.
“Whoa, what was that?” she asked, pupils wide with a surge of desire.
“I don’t know,” he replied huskily, thundering pulse visible in his neck.
They stared at one another a long moment, then fell into each other’s arms, pulling desperately at their layered costumes as passions flared.
“Why do you have so many damn buckles?” he lamented.
“It’s a supervillain suit, what did you expect?”
“I don’t know, maybe a zipper or something. All these buckles just—”
“Boys don’t understand fashion, I swear, you—” She gasped as he pulled her breast free, cupping it firmly in his hand.
“It’s rude to interrupt,” he whispered intensely as he squeezed her nipple, sending sparks and electric tingles coursing through her body as he lay her down in his bed.
“How do you do that?” she asked, watching the small flame dancing in his palm as she lay curled in his arms some time later.
“Don’t know. Never done it before.”
She nestled her head on his chest and watched the flickering light.
“What else can you do?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Try something.”
Ice sculptures, delicate and detailed, pulled from the thin air with his glowing hands.
Telekinesis-powered floating mobiles circled the room in a lazy arc.
A delicate laser-vision sketched portrait of The Siren, burned into the solid cement walls of his den.
“I thought you couldn’t control your powers.”
“I couldn’t, at least not before. Something changed.”
Sherri propped up on her elbow, eyebrow arched wickedly high.
“Are you saying I screwed you into becoming quite possibly the greatest superpower the world has ever seen?” she asked, running her hand across his bare chest. “More powerful than even Captain Stupendous and his obnoxious friends?”
He thought about that for a moment. The countless times they’d humiliated him rather than help him. Of all things, it was his nemesis, a villain against whom he’d battled for years no less, who had finally unlocked his potential.
“Something like that,” he finally said with a thoughtful little grin.
“Wow. Now that’s a power I didn’t know I had. You know, I should get a little cape or something for my panties. I mean, if I wore any.”
His face flushed as he pulled her close.
“Let’s put that power to good use then, shall we?” he said in a raspy voice.
“For good or evil?” she asked with a wink.
“Just shut up and kiss me.”
Hours later (let’s hear it for Super Stamina), they finally pulled their clothes on and headed back for the surface, the sun high in the sky, the city blissfully unaware of the power unleashed within its confines just hours before.
“So, I guess our truce is just about over,” Sherri said, her fingers reluctantly sliding from Tyler’s as she started to walk away.
“I’d rather it wasn’t,” he replied.
She felt her heart skip a beat, then turned back to him, with a questioning gaze.
“So what are you saying?” she asked, her heartbeat quickening. “You want me to become a good guy now? To stay with you? Maybe even move in to your hideout?” She realized the thought of that last bit suddenly didn’t sound so bad.
He pulled her close and gently took her face in his hands before planting a solid kiss as he looked deeply into her glistening eyes.
“Honey,” he said with a mischievous grin. “It’s not a hideout, it’s a lair.”
One Last Fix
The shakes had taken hold something fierce rather early this particular morning, and Jeremy found even the simple act of holding his lukewarm begged-for cup of coffee steady to his lips to require something of an effort.
It had been bad in the days prior, the shakes, the cravings, but this time the discomfort of withdrawal just seemed so much stronger.
The hint of wildness to his eyes as he scanned the morning commuter crowd for a friendly face kind enough to drop some change in his battered handout bowl was off-putting to the people as they passed him by.
He was a man on edge, and everyone could sense it, the way animals somehow instinctively know to shy away from a sick member of the herd to avoid an unseen contagion.
By nightfall Jeremy was feeling even worse, but a glimmer of hope flashed in his desperate eyes as he counted out the massive roll of grubby bills, pulled from the depths of his filthy pockets. After weeks of saving, he might finally have enough.
Jeremy hadn’t always been on the streets.
His clothes were once laundered and pressed with regularity, his hair cut stylishly at a pricy salon, his shoes polished to a glossy mirror shine. He was coming up through the ranks as a first-year trader with one of the small boutique hedge funds, and if things had contin
ued on track, he would have been sitting pretty in just a few short years.
Then Derek happened.
Derek Voyavich was the hotshot top gun at the fund. He never missed a financial target, and subsequently, he was raking it in hand over fist. He was their golden boy, and his investors trusted him implicitly.
As far as management was concerned, his shit most certainly did not stink. Unfortunately, as is often the case with those who achieve wealth a little too fast and too easily, he was also something of an entitled tool. Why he took a shine to Jeremy was anyone’s guess, but ultimately, it would be his new friend’s undoing.
When Derek first invited Jeremy out clubbing, the pair had done the usual “new money guy” things; thrown money at strippers, done lines of blow, finally ending the night with a pair of scantily clad women, though Jeremy still wasn’t sure if they were professionals or not. Then again, he really didn’t care, because even if they were, Derek was footing the bill.
They became something of a partying team and had a ball together, and it went on like that, until Derek approached him a few weeks later with an excited and mysterious look in his eye.
“Hey man, you wanna try something really different tonight?” he asked with a mysterious grin.
Does the Pope shit in the woods? Jeremy thought. “Damn right I do,” was his eager reply.
Derek’s jet-black Bentley pulled up in front of the nondescript building at 10:30 pm, the steady glow of the sodium vapor lamps dotting the street reflecting off its glossy hood. The only soul present was a very sturdy-looking man in a black sport coat, his buzz-cut hair standing straight at attention. A noticeable bulge in his coat clearly defined his role as gatekeeper as he stood vigilantly by the door.
The duo exited the vehicle and approached the building. A look of recognition flashed ever so slightly across the huge man’s face as they neared, replacing his do-not-fuck-with-me glare for an instant.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” his deep baritone rumbled as he lifted his hand to his mouth, speaking quietly into a concealed microphone. “Two inbound.”
“Nice to see you as well,” Derek said, shaking his hand with a smile, leaving a few crisp Benjamins in the burly man’s palm.