Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  With a laugh, Arthur looked from Tim to Mollie. “You’re both acting like no one has ever done this kind of thing. Look at the 8th Street Bros. They do stunts like this all the time!”

  “The 8th Street Bros are, for better or worse, licensed villains.” Mollie clearly wasn’t interested in playing along. “Their ‘Statement of Villainy’ grants them access to certain portions of heroic territory to tag.”

  “Yeah, and only after they fill out all the proper forms.” Tim grabbed Arthur by the shoulders. “Art, don’t do this. Please.”

  Arthur looked down, overplaying his dejection. “Well, if you two aren’t game…” he trailed off as he walked by Tim, who turned to watch him head to the front door. “… Guess I’ll go it alone…” He grabbed his coat and opened the door. “Without any help at all.” He politely closed the door behind him.

  Tim scoffed, annoyed. He looked at Mollie, who merely blinked. Nodding to no one, Timothy walked to the couch and hopped over it again. He picked up the controller, unpaused his game, and tried to play. A few, gut-searing seconds passed. He looked at the door. His eyes flitted back to the television.

  “Damnation!” Tim threw the controller down on the couch as he stood before going into Arthur’s bedroom. The second he entered the doorway, Mollie’s iris disappeared from the screen, meaning she moved herself to the Home Drive. He took the device and beelined for the apartment exit. Resting his hand on the doorknob, he was only moderately surprised at the ease of which it gave way. Arthur had his hand on the other side, and was leaning across the door as it swung open. “Knew it,” he said smugly.

  “Shut up,” was Tim’s only response.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DOMINO

  NIGHT SEEMED TO ENCROACH MUCH FASTER than normal thanks, in no small degree, to the heavy cloud cover disgorging itself over the city. Lamp posts glittered above the streets, illuminating the way for the huddled couples and thrumming cars. Even with the darkening skies, the tall buildings, and the looming alleys, there was no safer place to be in New York City than the side of town the heroes called home. It was probably the only place in the metropolitan area where, if one wished, one could walk down the street carrying all their valuables with them with no fear of mugging. The hero-to-neutral ratio was at its greatest here, and the neutrals who did happen to call it home knew its clear advantage.

  Which is why, Morgan Severson thought as she scanned her copy of Cosmo-Hero, I hate this job so much.

  Sitting on the rooftop, clad in a red shirt and blue jeans, she looked fairly run-of-the-mill: short-cropped wavy blond hair, pale skin, brown eyes, standard height and an athletic build from teen years spent in track. A black wireless earpiece was visible as she brushed hair out of her face, the device blinking occasionally but hardly abuzz with activity. She sighed, a puff of steam jetting from her mouth as she turned a page. The one visible sign of rebelliousness – a small nose stud – was now an icon so ubiquitous it lost much of its allure. In her early twenties, her appearance betrayed nothing of any sort except complete, unequivocal averageness.

  That is until it became apparent that, despite standing on the roof in a thunderstorm and not having any apparent means to shield herself other than the magazine she stubbornly read as opposed to using as a makeshift umbrella, Morgan remained bone dry.

  She stirred in her chair near an improvised shelter she had made when she was hired by the Heroes’ Guild earlier that year. Her mother, a model super hero, had barely hidden her disappointment in her daughter’s lack of Bestowed ability as the girl grew to adolescence. Morgan was surprised and dismayed to learn at sixteen that she, like her mother, was Bestowed. Late development of an ability was exceedingly rare and not much of a benefit to a socially awkward teen. Whereas most abilities manifested in some small way within two to three years, those who developed their abilities during or immediately post-puberty had a much harder time harnessing their powers. Her sudden ability to manipulate water was unwanted and, at least once, terrifying.

  Her doctor informed her, after she had nearly drowned her boyfriend during a mid-fight drink, that it was like suddenly developing a third arm: whereas a younger child had an almost innate talent to use the extra appendage, a new limb in a teenager had no naturalized context with which to control it.

  “That simple, eh?” Morgan had muttered when the doctor had flashed an insincere smile afterwards.

  Despite what she hoped was her fellow heroes’ overly sympathetic understanding and not, as she feared, their pity-fueled condescension, she entered the Academy. Morgan trained and studied half-heartedly, focusing enough to allow her to be able to manipulate water away from her in about a three foot radius as well as a number of skills rated between situationally useful and utterly trite. It would be a neat parlor trick if she wasn’t jokingly referred to as ‘The Human Umbrella’ and used primarily for document transportation or patrol work on rainy days. Every time a storm rolled in, she was called out of her desk job at the Guild and forced on duty in the actionless part of town. Her superiors and mother insisted it was due to her inexperience; she suspected it had more to do with her inability to truly harness all that she could.

  It wasn’t like she even wanted to be a hero. She had wanted to be a dancer.

  She sat on the rooftop in the pouring rain, completely dry and reading an insipid article about the latest super hero fashions from Gaga when she was suddenly dimly aware of her ear-piece vibrating. Her heart skipped at the insistent buzzing, a burst of fear making her go rigid. She was out of uniform, on duty, and definitely not prepared for any official business, especially because there was never any official business to do.

  Morgan tapped the earpiece and waited for the hiss of the line to connect. “Aquaria reporting.”

  The line remained quiet for a moment, giving her the hope that the call was a mistake. Then, a voice that was definitely not the creepy, synthesized voice of the Guild computer she was expecting startled her. “We have received notification of possible unauthorized villain activity in your area. Find, intercept, and nullify if necessary.”

  “Wh-what?” she asked. “Where? I mean… hello?” The voice did not respond. “Damn it,” she muttered. She threw the magazine into the shelter and stood up. This was probably some stupid prank or a scheduled fight with some goon that she had forgotten about. She wasn’t even hooked up with a villain yet, so this may be one of those warm-ups that some of the newer heroes got to introduce them to the public. Even if it was in the middle of heroic territory and there was no legitimacy to the theatrics… she supposed it made some sense.

  She walked to the edge of the building and looked out over the street. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, trying to remember how her various instructors had coached her. Ever since the incident when she was sixteen, she had always been more acutely aware of water when it was around her. This, unfortunately, made initial visits to the pool or an errant rainstorm a headache-inducing experience. Showering was initially out of the question, a luxury she had to train herself to endure again. With practice, she felt water more as a part of her own body, only dimly aware of it unless she needed it. Kind of like hair.

  In an instant, she was inundated with sensation. She became receptive to the falling rain, letting its presence fill her head as it splattered on rooftops, antennae, lamps, cars, pedestrians, awnings, glass, concrete… the list went on. It was painful, in a way, to suddenly ‘see’ the world like this, as though millions of voices whispered all at once. Although she couldn’t focus enough on any one specific thing, she detected an aberration almost immediately. On a different building, somewhere behind her, someone was running across the roofs, toward the Heroes’ Guild. At least, that’s what she guessed based on how the rain fed her information.

  Morgan turned on her heel and sprinted across the roof. There was no time to change into appropriate attire. She had to either head the target off or at least catch up to him. She hoped that this was a mistake, that just some punk neutral had decid
ed to do something incredibly stupid, that the term ‘nullify’ was just thrown in for dramatic effect.

  Yes, that had to be it.

  Harold Daly sprinted across the rooftop, his vision clouded by the pouring rain. In any other circumstance, he would have gladly been a little more cautious, but desperate times made him reckless. His work for the Italian Mob made him aware of the layout of the buildings, and even if a fall would turn him into a smear on the pavement, it was safer and faster than going by road. The water pattered loudly against his leather trench coat and trilby hat as he neared the edge of the roof, hopped onto the lip, and leapt across the gap.

  The next building was a touch shorter than he anticipated, but his stumble went into a roll against the gravelly surface and he popped right back up into running. He needed to rest, as the burning in his muscles was overpowering the cold wetness of his pinstriped pants. But he couldn’t stop, not now, not…

  Someone was on the next rooftop and heading right toward him.

  Shit, he thought as he skidded to a stop. She was much faster than him, and had reached the edge of the neighboring roof in the moment he had noticed her. Gracefully, she leapt across the alley and landed right in his path as his own forward momentum ceased.

  The woman rose and, for a brief instant, Harold relaxed. She was in plain clothes, and although he was instantly aware of how incredibly dry she looked for such awful weather, she didn’t look like she was doing anything except going for a run. Her physicality wasn’t that much different from his own and didn’t lend much to any kind of fear. Then he noticed the earpiece, the black headset-phone combo that was standard issue for the Heroes’ Guild. He slowly reached for the bottom button of his coat.

  “Let’s see your paperwork.” She had the tone of a bored clerk, apparently more interested in the greenhouse next to her than him. Despite her exertion to reach him, she wasn’t out of breath.

  “Who sent you?” he asked briskly.

  She made a face. “The Heroes’ Guild,” she said, irritated at the question.

  Harold shook his head. “Unless you’re here to stop me, I need you to step aside.” He undid the button on his coat.

  She approached him casually and he took a step back. “This is official business, right?”

  He wasn’t listening as his hand went into his coat. “You need to get out of my way,” he simply stated.

  The force of his tone startled her. She stopped her advance. “Look, buddy, I don’t care. Rules are rules.” Her posture straightened. “Did you leave the forms at home? It’ll be less paperwork for both of us if you turn around and leave.” The woman took a step toward him, and a bubble of dry air pushed in on him.

  “I can’t do that.”

  She hadn’t been paying attention. Otherwise, she would have been aware of him reaching for a weapon, would have been aware of his overly defensive posture. He couldn’t be too critical: he, too, should have been less focused on fighting so he could have possibly talked his way out of it. He was definitely scared, and there was no time for taking a chance that could still devolve into violence.

  His hand tightened around the rubber grip of the stun rod he had hitched to his belt. The muscle movement must have been obvious, because the woman’s eyes flicked downward. The realization was immediate, and she took a step back as he yanked out the baton.

  “Rogue!” she tried to shout. With a violent upward arc, the now-sparking baton cracked across her face. A bright burst of light marked the moment of contact, and she fell, hard, to the ground.

  The world seemed blurred and dangerously white. Morgan didn’t have time to focus on what happened, not when she was busy collapsing to the gravel in a convulsive fit. She probably would have passed out, and gratefully so, had she not been so acutely aware of the fact that she felt rain all over her body. It had been so long since she had felt natural precipitation against her skin. It was a curious feeling – sharp, cold, like thousands of tiny slaps across her. It wasn’t the chemically-purified water of the modern world – grit and other variants in the moisture’s make-up made the drops unique, almost painful against her nerves. It forced her to keep her eyes open, to fight the almost uncontrollable urge to vomit, and just stay awake.

  She felt someone push her onto her side… the goon, it was the goon who just shocked her… and then there were fingers pushing into her neck. What was he doing? Did she die? Was she going to die?

  He muttered something to her, something she couldn’t catch. The rain itself was muffled, drowned by a high-pitched hum that started the moment the world had turned white. Although the hum was fading as her body fought off the effects of the jolt of electricity, it seemed determined to linger as long as it could.

  The goon was running toward the edge of the building. Her arm flailed out, barely under her command. “Stop,” she tried to shout, but it came as a hoarse whisper. She blinked her eyes shut, trying to focus, keeping her arm out. When she opened them, she willed the rain, as hard as she could, to fence him in.

  It seemed too late to stop him. He leapt just as he reached the edge of the roof. But something changed in the rain: the nearby environment had gone suspiciously dry while the partition between rooftops thickened dramatically. The wall of water he was jumping into was almost a solid mass, and he struck it as firmly as if he had leapt into a concrete wall.

  The goon rebounded and fell, rolling on the ground. He looked at the wall of water, then back at Morgan. She rose to her feet, shaking and thoroughly pissed off.

  “I told you to stop!” she shouted. Her world was still blurry, but fury was doing a good job of keeping it level. Her heart was beating incredibly hard, adrenaline fueling the fight response of her instincts. Morgan was dimly aware of the fact that she had exhibited more control over her ability than ever before, but that thought hardly registered once the reptilian brain’s drive to survive clicked on.

  The goon got up, grabbing his trilby hat from the ground and resting it on his head. He laughed bitterly. “That was a mistake!” He leaned forward and sprinted, reaching for the stun rod again.

  Immediately, Morgan spun around, arms outstretched, gathering water in her hands. Once she completed her 360, she fast-balled one of the globes at the mobster. He struck out with his baton, and the device connected with a fantastic shower of sparks. The liquid mass had been solid enough to warp the baton, breaking it.

  He apparently didn’t notice the destruction of his weapon as, a split second later, the other missile connected with his face. It had the same impact as a baseball, shattering his nose before losing coherence in a wet burst. His legs carried forward as his head snapped back. With a crack, his spine hit the roof. He was clearly dazed, staring up toward the sky as blood from his ruined nose poured freely down his cheek. Water wasn’t nearly the yielding force he had seen popularized by movies.

  The rain stopped around him as Morgan leaned over him, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him upright. Her face was twisted furiously as she punched him in the gut, once, twice. She aimed another blow toward his head, but his forearm shot upwards to block her fist. He jabbed at her head and connected, barely, with her jaw as she feinted and dove into him, her surprising force carrying them into a nearby air-conditioning unit.

  He bent painfully backward over the steel box as she straightened above him. She reared back for a punch, but the movement left her open for him to place a boot on her mid-section and shove her off. Morgan backpedaled, recovering from the push, and stood straight as the goon did the same. He brandished his fists like a boxer. She waited for him.

  “We didn’t have to do this,” he called to her. “You could have just let me go.”

  “You shouldn’t have attacked me, you prick,” she growled.

  He smiled, a strange sight behind all the blood on his face. “Couldn’t risk having you follow me.”

  She gasped for air, noticing for the first time she was barely breathing. “What’s so important that you couldn’t tell a hero? What are you planning?�
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  He stared at her, then dropped his hands. “You honestly don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, which kind of angered her. “Stay out of my way.” He turned to leave. At some point, the crashing waterfall at the roof’s edge had petered out into a run-of-the-mill downpour.

  Morgan couldn’t let him go, not when he had attacked her first. This isn’t how the world was supposed to work, damn it. She sprinted after him and swung at the back of his head. Time seemed to slow down as he effortlessly ducked the blow and spun to face her. He punched her in the gut and aimed his other fist at her face.

  She managed to catch his hand and twist it and herself around to his back. She shoved him to the ground, then stepped forward and brought her leg up to stomp him. She didn’t expect him to flip himself over and sweep her leg out from beneath her. Hitting the ground, she realized that he was now above her, leaping in order to land an elbow on her neck.

  Rolling away, she got partially upright as he recovered from his own fall. She tackled him, knocking him below her, and she straddled his stunned form. Landing blow after blow on his neck and jaw, she was surprised when he bucked her off, stood as she tried to recover, and landed a solid, harsh kick square in her stomach.

  He had done it at the right moment, knocking the air right out of her. Morgan collapsed, heaving. The man would have none of it, and he grabbed her by her hair and lifted. She tried to scream as she fought his grip. He was half-dragging and half-leading her toward the center of the roof.

  “You couldn’t let me go, could you? You had to be a damn goody-two-shoes.” He flung her down, and the tiny rocks bit into her arms.

  She looked up at him, exhausted, but adrenaline still pumping. She just needed time to gather herself, think of a plan. He’s not Bestowed, she thought. He has to have a breaking point earlier than I do… he has to…

  “Stay. Away. From. Me,” the man insisted. He turned again and made his way to the edge.