Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Julia caught up with him. “Arthur, don’t do this. You think he wants to be seen talking to you?” She tried to push her way in front of him, but he resisted her attempts.

  “You talked to me, didn’t you? Blood is thicker than water,” Arthur said matter-of-factly. “You’ll see.” The last part seemed more to convince himself than Julia.

  “You’re such an idiot.”

  Arthur stopped and stared at her. He tried his best to look intimidating. Whether or not it worked didn’t matter. He was angry and felt like showing it. “Shut up, Julia.” It wasn’t the most eloquent way to put it, but it got the job done.

  For a moment, it looked like Julia was losing her nerve. Almost instantly, she straightened. Any sign of weakness was gone. “You can say what you want about Arbiter, at least he gives me cards on my birthday.”

  He shook his head, clearly unprepared for the turn of conversation. “What are you talking about? I always…”

  Someone brushed passed himand put an arm around Julia. “Good to see you, Gunslinger,” their father said. Dante Lovelass looked from her to Arthur. His grin seemed to lose some coherence as he scanned the younger man. “And, who is your friend here?” His eyes were no longer drifting, instead boring into his son’s in a primal display of hostility.

  Arthur didn’t know what to say. He swallowed, then forced his eyes to the floor. He glanced up toward Julia, but she refused to look at him. “No one,” he offered as he walked by them, toward the suitcase he had let drop on the floor. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, tears burned at his eyes. “Just… no one…” he said to himself. Hefting the case, he continued on to the exit in front of him, namely to spare himself the embarrassment of the father who refused to even acknowledge his existence.

  Julia watched him go, her father’s hand on her shoulder compelling her to stay put. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to go after Arthur, to hug him and say she was sorry, or if she should just let him wallow in the cruelty her father had just inflicted. Every moment she hesitated made it less and less likely she could even find him, and more and more likely her father would lecture her afterwards.

  “Well, that was a fun little diversion,” her father, voice smooth as ever, said loftily. He took his hand off her shoulder in order to adjust his cuffs and freeing her to run if she wanted. Julia found herself staying firmly in place despite her gut instinct. “Are you prepared for the final push of the campaign?” She nodded, still looking at the door Arthur vanished through. “Arbiter will not win,” Dante began with a casual air, “but even unpopular men need their voices heard.”

  He walked away, leaving Julia alone with her thoughts.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GOOD INTENTIONS

  FITTING IN WITH THE REST OF ARTHUR’S DAY, it started to pour within fifty yards of the subway. Unlike those who walked alongside him, who either laughed while running for cover or otherwise quickened their pace, he trudged onward. He knew it was raining, but like a theatrical child who demonstrated his contempt by ignoring and lengthening his own discomfort, Arthur refused to run. The cold splatter of water was welcomed, in a way, making him feel even worse about how everything had devolved since he had stepped out of the apartment.

  By the time he was underground, every bit of him was soaked and he really didn’t care. In his war against being clean and dry, he was totally successful. With a squish, he deposited damp tokens in the collection bin, and before long he was waiting for the train to arrive.

  When one rolled to a stop in front of him, he stood listlessly as a glut of passengers wormed their way out before attempting to squeeze inside. When he did manage to, every seat was taken. Of course.

  He stood, dripping wet in a subway car as others chatted, laughed, or kept occupied by flitting through their cell phones. It all felt painfully fitting how, while the world kept spinning, he was left behind. Self-pity was intoxicating, a drug which made him the center of a universe that he clearly didn’t matter to. The more he concentrated on his own insignificance, the less insignificant he was.

  The apartment was disquietingly dark, the lights remaining extinguished from earlier in the day. While this didn’t mean much, the raised voices from the other room certainly did. “… Irresponsible! Were you even paying attention to what I said?” Arthur turned on the lights and set his sopping wet suitcase on the floor, out of the way of the doorway. The last thing he wanted was another lecture on where he put his things.

  “Of course, but he doesn’t have a lot of options.” Tim’s voice was firm, smooth, and much quieter than Ariana’s. While it gave Arthur some hope to have someone on his side, there was the definite possibility that an ultimatum would present itself with him on the losing side.

  “Options?” The question came out halfway between indignation and amusement. “Options! The little idiot has plenty of options!” Arthur imagined Ariana as he crossed to the couch, her fury melting her beauty away as she pricked up fingers at each point she made: “School! Henchman work! For villains’ sake, he’s still technically neutral! He can work at an investment firm!”

  Arthur crossed to the couch and flopped down on it, staring at the ceiling. The fact that it was dark when he got home implied she had gone straight to the larger bedroom and paced, no doubt waiting for Tim. The second she knew he had walked in the door, she called him in and started yelling. He probably was still in his work clothes. Poor guy. Didn’t even have time to turn on the lights.

  “Art said earlier today that he’ll give it some thought,” Tim said coolly.

  “Really? Really, Timothy?” Ariana clearly didn’t believe him, and it was understandable why. She knew Arthur well enough to know that Tim’s claim wasn’t strictly honest.

  “In his own way,” Tim explained.

  She scoffed, loud enough for Arthur to hear through the walls. “Great. So we’ll just wait a year for him to think about it. When he’s done with that, he can go right back to sucking at everything.”

  There was a pause. “You know you don’t mean that.”

  “Of course I do!” The creak of floor boards betrayed her movement. “I’m sick of you and me bearing his dead weight. I don’t want to live with that loser anymore!”

  “Baby…”

  Arthur winced. It was definitely not the right choice of words. “Do not baby me,” Ariana snapped.

  Another pause. Timothy was either tiring of the argument or exasperated at the run around. “He’s just hit a rough patch is all.”

  “A rough patch? An eight year long rough patch?” There was a pause, and it stretched much longer than the other ones did. “Why do you still defend him?” The sound of her voice, anger mixed with pleading, unsettled Arthur more than the words she said.

  Tim’s voice wobbled a bit. “He’s my best friend… it’s not that…”

  “He got me fired,” she said pointedly. “He got me fired, and you defend him. Nice.”

  Arthur wasn’t expecting the door to open, but, sure enough, Ariana was out in the living room a moment latter. He listened to her heavy footfalls as she stomped to the coatrack and gathered her jacket. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  He heard hinges squeak. “Out,” came the quiet-yet-angry response. A moment later, the door slammed shut, and the quiet that spread afterwards seemed positively roaring.

  “You think she’s mad?” Tim asked. He leaned against the wall, staring at the door. At some point in the argument, he must have found a way out of his work clothes and into something significantly more comfortable than the orange robe required by his Mob. He was expressionless, which honestly could have meant anything at all.

  Arthur sat up on the couch, facing the television. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say.

  Tim walked to the couch, still looking at the door. “Gotta take the bad with the good, am I right?”

  “I’m sorry,” Arthur repeated, as though Tim merely hadn’t heard him the first time.

  Timothy shook his head. “
Look, it sucks. But if I’ve learned anything, it takes two to tango. It’s never just one person’s fault.”

  Arthur nodded solemnly, then offered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Say that again, and I will smash your face in.” Tim leapt over the couch and landed next to Arthur. “Needless apologies are a huge turnoff for women.”

  Comfortable with the shift in topic, Arthur smiled wearily. “I know. I read that issue of Cosmo-Villain.”

  “Special double issue, April to May,” Tim envisioned the cover with the aid of his hands.

  “Featuring newest villain fashions by Gaga,” Arthur announced like a sportscaster.

  “The naughty lipstick shade to wear when kicking ass.”

  “One hundred and thirty ways to spice up your love life.”

  “Each identical to last month’s one hundred and thirty.”

  “Interview with a sexy, smart, and, most importantly, single super villainess.”

  “Followed by a lengthy article about how worthless you are without a man.”

  “Ten costume no-no’s.”

  “Our readers tell their nastiest secrets.”

  “Or maybe that was the January issue…” Arthur pondered aloud.

  Silence hung in the air. “Ariana’s going to be pissed for a while. I wouldn’t worry about it. Just lay low and everything will be fine.” Tim hefted himself off the couch and turned on the television.

  Arthur repressed an urge to scoff. “Easy for you to say. I live here, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you sleep in forever. It won’t be hard.” He turned to Arthur. “Video game or TV?” Arthur waved him away. “Video game it is,” Tim muttered to himself as he flipped through the few cartridges he had in the living room.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” Arthur asked after a moment.

  “Part of the deal,” Tim said casually. He selected a game, popped it in the console, and flicked it on. “When she’s this upset, she does what she needs to do as long as she comes back at the end of the night.”

  “So, she just…”

  Tim made a whistling sound and waved his hand. “Into the night.” He stepped back to the couch, controller in hand, and sat down. “It works for us. We’re in a good place now.” Whipping to his side suddenly, he gently whacked Arthur on his shoulder. “Which reminds me, if anyone asks, I’m the one who’s mad at you, alright?”

  Arthur looked at him. “No one’s gonna ask.”

  “I know. But Ariana’s… sensitive… when it comes to her freak outs.” There really was no delicate way to put it. “They embarrass her.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ve noticed.”

  “I’ve been trying to take credit for any outbursts that don’t involve coffee.” The music from the game came on, loud enough to offer a disjointed, Caribbean theme to the conversation.

  “And is this a part of your deal?” Arthur asked with raised eyebrows.

  Tim shook his head. “Nah. She doesn’t even know about it.” He winked at Arthur. “Just a courtesy with the added bonus of making me look like I’m just waiting to explode.” Turning his attention toward the television, Tim bobbed along with the music. “It’ll be good to be known as that guy who will pummel you before your first handshake.”

  “I guess.” Arthur shook his head. “You are so whipped.”

  Tim took his gaze off the game and looked at Arthur. For the first time in a long time, Arthur saw anger flash in his friend’s eyes. “No. It’s just what you do when you love someone.”

  Arthur immediately felt guilty. He didn’t really understand Tim and Ari’s relationship, and normally he was just fine with that fact. But something now made him feel envious that Ariana would have someone so dedicated to her, willing to embrace her anger and her joy so completely. Years ago, a fight triggered the arrival of the aptly named Apocalypse Month. The weeks long break-up fight threatened to erupt anywhere Tim and Ari saw each other. And even if Arthur would have bet everything on their dissolution or mutual destruction, the two came out of it seemingly stronger than before. It was the opposite of Arthur’s interactions, and for the first time in the entire time he had known the two of them, he was jealous.

  Of course, he couldn’t say that. All he saw was the fierce protection in Tim’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he offered. In an instant, frivolity over took ferocity and Tim smiled widely before punching him, preposterously hard, in the shoulder. Arthur instinctively grabbed his arm. “Ow!”

  Tim, by this time, had returned to his game. “I warned you.”

  Arthur stood up and walked around the couch, down the hall, and into his room. He flicked the light switch on and was immediately accosted by a chorus of an electronically reproduced For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. The computer screen was flashing with fireworks, the sight of which was infinitely more depressing than Arthur thought possible.

  “Mollie…” he tried to interrupt, but the music continued. “Mollie!” his voice rose as he crossed to the bed and threw himself down on it. Immediately the music stopped.

  “You do not like it?” her voice cooed, sounding like a hurt child. Arthur knew better than to apply human emotion to her, but he couldn’t help but feel bad.

  “No, it was very thoughtful.” He sat up, looking at the blue eye. “But it’s a bit… inappropriate at the moment.”

  It took a second for what he said to register. Mollie’s iris shrank. “This is a reversal of expectations, but I fail to see the joke.” He shook his head. “If you are not joking, then this is an injustice. You must file an appeal.”

  Arthur shook his head again as he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. “And be denied again for the same project? No. Not likely.” He threw it onto a pillow in impotent frustration. “Did you like your book?” He pushed himself off the bed and picked up the closed text.

  “Yes. It was very interesting. What is next?”

  Arthur looked at the assorted volumes he had bought for her. He grabbed a red one off the shelf. “Wanna try some literature?” The iris whirled in place and dimmed. Arthur slid it back into place. “Didn’t think so.” He flicked his eyes across a coffee-table art book. “How about…” He trailed off.

  “Arthur? Are you alright?” Mollie asked.

  A smile crossed his face. “Hey, Tim!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you still have that spray paint?”

  “In the closet.” Arthur walked out of his room and into the hall. He opened the closet and grabbed the bag lying on the floor. When he turned around, Tim was standing and looking at him from the living room. “Wait. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Arthur strode back into his room. Tim followed enough to stand in his doorway.

  “Huh, really?”

  “Arthur, what is going on?” asked Mollie.

  “We’re going on a little walk,” Arthur offered. He grabbed the Home Drive and placed it in the computer.

  “You’re going on a walk with cans of spray paint?” Tim asked.

  Arthur rattled the bag, “I’m just going to have a little fun. The elections are coming up…”

  “No,” came the forceful reply.

  “I cannot condone this action, Arthur,” Mollie chimed.

  “C’mon, just like the old days.” Arthur was goading Tim on, surprisingly tactlessly. Despite that, it was successful at riling his friend up.

  “No. What you’re suggesting is dangerous and stupid.” The shorter man shook his head and turned back to the living room.

  “I was at the Super Heroes’ Guild today and I couldn’t help but think that it needed a new color scheme.” The effect was immediate and visceral. The blue iris on the screen whirred and shrank while Tim almost ran back to his original position.

  “I can’t help but think you need a lobotomy!” Tim shouted.

  “The Heroes’ Guild?” squeaked Mollie.

  “You can add ‘suicidal’ to ‘stupid’ and ‘dangerous’.” Tim was angry, but there was something else there, too. Something Arthur hadn’t
seen since that horrible month so long ago.

  Fear.

  Nonetheless, Arthur laughed at his concern. “Why?”

  “Might I remind you that you are an unregistered villain, Arthur?” Mollie said meekly.

  “Listen to your damn computer, Art. Not only are you suggesting we go on an unapproved voyage to justice land, but your aim is to violate their epicenter!” Tim wasn’t shouting, but he was speaking with a modulated tone that clearly got his feelings across in case the words weren’t enough.

  “I still don’t…” Arthur began.

  “If I get caught and not killed, I will be sent to jail.”

  Arthur did not appear fazed by this information. “So?”

  “We are not talking about Super Villain Jail, where life is sweet and you can stroll out the understaffed escape route when you’re bored. We’re talking real jail, the kind where you’re someone’s sex-hole or you’re dead,” Tim tried vainly to explain. Although the likelihood of violence against him was low, supermax prisons were not places anyone, Bestowed or not, wanted to be. “And you, you damn idiot, you’ll be declared rogue and shot on sight.”

  Mollie continued the thought, “There is no bargaining your way out of that, Arthur. Also… once they realize what I am, I would be destroyed immediately.” Timothy pointed at the computer and nodded. “I do not wish to die.”

  “C’mon, you two. You sound…”

  “Sane?” Tim and Mollie offered at once.

  Tim shook his head. “I know we’ve done crazy things in the past, but we can’t afford to get caught. Not anymore.”

  Arthur was still riding high on his idea. As such, he was impervious to their petty logic. “When was the last time the Mob let you do anything fun?”

  “I will be the first to admit that what I do is stupid,” Tim said with a shake of his head. “Stealing yaks from the zoo in order to make shirts out of the hair before returning them is outrageously pathetic.” He took a step toward Arthur, pleading. “But it’s my job. I’m making my way up, and this… this could ruin everything.”