Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  She rubbed her hands together to rid herself of crumbs before reaching into her suit pockets and fumbling with the shattered remnants of the flash drive Zombress had given her. Talia knew there was a story there, and an important one, but she couldn’t find anything uncorrupted on any of the computers she used. Zombress’s… spectacle… in the Heroes’ Guild did nothing to prove her innocence in the matter of the triple homicide… quadruple if one counted the mobster’s death that started it all. Talia couldn’t justify Arbiter’s actions, knowing what she did, but she couldn’t come forward without implicating herself. It was an awful situation, made worse by the impending sense of dread most of her companions seemed to have.

  Talia stopped impatiently at a crosswalk, waiting at the back of a group of pedestrians staring at the ‘Don’t Walk’ sign. Two costumed villains exchanged pleasantries in front of her. One motioned with the newspaper in his hand held open to an image of Arbiter grandstanding in front of the then-moving Zombress. The image had become iconic the instant it had been taken. “Think they’ll come after me today?” came a derisive remark.

  “They’re too busy fitting Arbiter with a choke-chain,” the other said. The two laughed, prompting Talia to roll her eyes. They really did appear to be nervous, but the comment seemed to have about the same level as sincerity of someone claiming to leave the country when a new president is elected. It was all just idle chatter; the grand scheme would remain unaffected by the actions of mice and men.

  The light changed, and Talia charged across the street, separating from one pack only to disappear into another. She longed for the serenity of her office, with her private washroom and lockable door. It was safe and quiet and hers, which was really just one of the few things which made her job tolerable. She neared the next intersection and, as though sensing her eagerness to be rid of pedestrians, the lights changed at her approach, allowing her to make better time.

  The route was so familiar to her that, in the final block, she stared more at the feet of those in front of her than at her destination. She mentally steeled herself for the work day. There was no doubt that Producer would immediately corner her and start his paranoia-laced theories about how this was all just to target him and then where would villain-kind be? Her lip turned up in a sneer as she reached into her pocket for her cigarette.

  The wind was knocked out of her before she even realized that someone had slammed into her with surprising force. She was flying backward, firmly in another’s arms, as the buildings whipped by her. Those behind her were scattered to the ground as others, mostly caught up in their own lives, were forced to move around their sprawled forms. She and her captor hit the ground for only a moment before they were up again, landing more than two blocks away from where Talia had been scooped up. She was released awkwardly and shoved, stumbling, into an alleyway.

  Talia was more annoyed by the fact that her cigarette was crushed than anything else. She looked up as her thumb and forefinger gripped the filter end in her pocket.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Illyanovich,” James said, peering out into the street. His black and white plaid shirt and continual unshaven-ness maintained his lumberjack-like appearance.

  She looked at him judgmentally before removing the whole cigarette from her pocket. “I assume there is a reason for this, Mr. Pomroy?”

  He looked back at her, then moved farther into the alley. “They’ve taken over the station.”

  Talia felt her heart skip a beat as she reached for her lighter. “Who’s taken over the station?” She stared earnestly at him as she balanced the cigarette between her lips.

  James was nervously shifting back and forth. “The Heroes’ Guild.”

  “What?” Talia stared at him in shock, unlit cig dangling from her mouth.

  “About an hour ago, an Enforcer unit rolled up to the station,” he said with a nervous swallow. He ran his hand through his hair. “And then… people started getting arrested.”

  She had a hard time wrapping her mind around it. “Then why are you here?”

  “I wasn’t about to get near an Enforcer,” he said. His face twitched at sounds that normally would have gone unnoticed. Perhaps the name ‘Flea’ was appropriate in more ways than merely highlighting his leaping ability. “I stayed outside, across the street, watching what happened.”

  Talia snapped open the lighter and lit the cigarette. She inhaled deeply, then puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Is Producer alright?” He shook his head. “Shit,” she grunted.

  “He was resisting arrest, screaming and making a scene.” He looked at Talia and pointed. “Said he’d never give you up.” James bit his lip at the memory. “People just kept on walking by, like nothing was happening.”

  Talia took another drag, nodding to herself. They were looking for her. Somewhere along the line, they had to have found out that she had been at the Heroes’ Guild. It didn’t matter how. In fact, not much mattered at the moment. She glanced at James, who looked at her with pleading, expectant eyes. “Thank you.” The words seemed to slow his tics, but did not stop them. “We need to find a place to hide until I can think of what to do next.” She scratched at her head, the burning tip of the cigarette comforting even as the surrounding temperature rose.

  “We can go to my place,” James offered after a moment.

  She shook her head. “You’re my assistant. If they haven’t already sent a squad to your apartment, they will soon enough.” Taking a final drag off the cigarette, she puffed out a final plume of smoke while staring into the sky. “We need to find somewhere obscure to lay low.” She looked over to the still bustling street. Like a flare, one of the orange-robed Tibetan Mob walked by the alley. There was nothing unusual about that on this side of town, to be sure, but the sight triggered a memory. She pulled on her assistant’s sleeve. “James. I have an idea.”

  Arthur tossed the blue rubber ball in the air and watched it float toward the ceiling and fall back to his hands. He repeated the process, the same way that he had been repeating it for an hour. He was lazily dressed in a t-shirt announcing his fictitious membership of an Irish rugby team and a pair of light blue jeans that had a large enough hole in the knee to stick his leg through, which he had done many, many times before in a rush to clothe himself.

  Toss, watch, catch.

  The only other sounds in the apartment were the white-noise hum of the air conditioner, the occasional whir of Mollie’s page-turner, and a quiet sigh from Ariana as she read the newspaper. She sat at the dining room table in a pink button-up shirt and dark jeans. It was honestly the most civil she’d been to him since Sunday morning, abandoning arguments for silence.

  Toss, watch, catch.

  Normally, he’d be working on some project or another, but he couldn’t work up the effort to even get off the couch. It was one of those days… where it seems like no matter what, a super hero will smash in the door and punch your face off. So rather than go through the work of figuring out how to spend his time and give his theoretical opponent more of a distance to walk, he stayed on the couch.

  Toss, watch, catch.

  “That’s really annoying, Arthur.”

  Toss, watch, catch.

  “Is it?”

  Toss, watch, catch.

  She paused, watching the ball and wincing at the rubber ‘snap’ as his hands closed around it. “Nope. Just… making conversation.”

  “You sure?” he asked as the ball began its upward journey. “‘Cause… you could ask me to stop,” he said. Although he had no real idea why he was intentionally needling her, it seemed a perfectly justifiable payback to her general standoffishness.

  She watched the ball again. “No. It’s fine.”

  Toss, watch, catch.

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” she asked, surprisingly quickly.

  He looked up and over the couch. “You? Want to watch a movie? With me?”

  She offered a smile, which seemed oddly forced for being perceptibly sincere. “Sure?”

  “Ar
e you asking or telling?”

  She stared. “I don’t know.”

  He arched an eyebrow, shook his head, and sunk back behind the couch. “You’re being weird.”

  “I’m just trying to find…” she began.

  “… Common ground with someone you don’t see eye-to-eye with in order to cultivate a positive relationship,” they said in unison.

  There was a pause as Ariana swallowed, nodding at the curious stereo rendition of her voice. “So, you’ve heard of the technique?”

  “Technique?” He laughed a little. “It barely counts as advice.” He threw the ball in the air. “Cosmo needs to hire new writers.”

  Ariana sighed as he caught the ball again. “Could you tell me why you read my magazines, Arthur?” There was a barely registered pause when she clarified, “Not that I mind, of course. Just… curious.”

  Arthur thought for a moment. “Tits, Ariana. There are a surprising number of them.”

  She made a face. “They make porn for that, you know.”

  “Yeah, but it’s nice to read about how apparently women are just as confused about us as we are about them,” he said as he threw the ball with more force. It smacked off the ceiling and rebounded much faster toward him. “Makes me feel like I’m observing an alien species that thinks I’m a mysterious ball of emotional trauma.”

  Ariana nodded her head. “I’ve met you. You are a ball of emotional trauma.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said.

  “I know,” she returned flatly. “I don’t suppose you want to look for work with me, do you?” she asked.

  Arthur smirked, unseen by his companion. “I’m just fine, thank you.”

  “Of course you are,” she muttered, eyes flitting over the classifieds. She set the paper down. “Who am I kidding? No self-respecting villain would want these jobs.”

  He threw the ball into the air again. “I don’t see why you’re bothering.” He caught the ball and sat upright. “In a few days, Arbiter will lift the Protective Clauses and we’re all going to be pleasant red smears on the street.”

  “You’re overreacting,” she said with a shake of her head. “I will admit that Arbiter’s election was a huge shock… but the more villain-friendly representatives won’t allow him to return to his glory days.”

  He nodded. “After what he did to Zombress and the way they let it happen, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a villain-friendly representative.” Arthur swung his legs and sat properly on the couch. “The whole thing just stinks.”

  “Give it a chance, Arthur. None of us are dead yet, so I think that’s a pretty positive sign.” Ariana must have fought the urge to snap at him, as her tone was even. “Things aren’t perfect, but I’m sure Arbiter wants to find out what happened just as much as anyone else.”

  “I think that Arbiter’s definition of ‘finding things out’ involves punching something until it dies.” Arthur leaned back on the couch.

  “If you’re that concerned about it, you and Tim should come forward with what you saw,” Ariana said casually. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end as he fought the urge to hurl the ball at her head to stop what was coming next. “It’s not like Tim’s mother isn’t a cop.”

  “Yes,” Arthur hissed. He immediately regretted the tone and took a breath. “She’s a cop. A neutral. No jurisdiction.”

  “I know,” she said in a way that somehow simultaneously attempted to restore peace and burn Arthur alive. “But I think both of you would calm down if you just told someone what you saw.”

  Arthur squinted wisely out the window. “Ah, yes, tell my story and get my head treated like a football. Brilliant plan there, Café Girl.”

  “Just trying to help, Doctor Failpile.”

  He sneered in annoyance, but the look quickly faded. “It’s just not that easy, Ari,” he said quietly.

  The apartment was almost silent, save for the hum of electronics. “It never is, is it?” she said quietly, the words hanging thickly in the still air.

  The renewed silence was shattered by the door lock unlatching. The two of them turned as Tim walked in, his orange robe clashing with everything in existence. Ariana pushed herself off her chair and walked over to him. “You’re home early!” she exclaimed as she threw her arms around him. Her eyes darted to the wall clock as it clicked past nine-thirty. “Really early.” Her arms fell to her sides as she regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”

  Tim began to work his way out of his robes. “The Tibetan Mob received orders from the Heroes’ Guild to cease activity until next Friday.” He pulled his uniform off his arms, his plain white t-shirt and blue jeans looking very generic in comparison to what they had been hidden under. He wadded up the work clothes.

  “Are you kidding?” Arthur asked, equally displeased by this turn of events.

  “A week of unpaid, unwanted vacation? Why would I kid?” Tim walked toward his room to deposit his work outfit.

  “Well, you have to hand the heroes some credit when they shut down such a powerful institution,” Arthur said snidely.

  “Oh, yeah!” Tim called from the bedroom. “We’re the real terrors of the yak industry,” he said with an eye roll as he reappeared in the hallway. He had changed into a black shirt claiming his position as a Bestowed Vagina Hunter.

  Ariana put her hand on her head at the sight of the shirt. “What about the other mobs?” she asked, taking a step toward Tim. “Any word from them?”

  Tim gave a bewildered shake of his head. “Apparently, everyone from Azerbaijan to Zimbabwe is shut down.” He walked to the sofa and plopped down next to Arthur. “Rumor has it that the Italian Mob is still running in spite of the embargo, but there’s only two reasons I can think of for the heroes tolerating that.” He held up a finger as Arthur stood up to cede the couch completely to his friend. “One, if there was anything left of that mobster they identified in the Guild, the pieces were verifiably non-Italian goony…” He stuck up another finger. “Or, more likely, ol’ Al Capone is so utterly stupid they don’t feel it’s a threat to let them continue stealing ketchup or whatever they do.”

  “Well, look at the bright side,” Ariana said as she rested her hands on his shoulders. “At least your bosses are taken more seriously.”

  Tim nodded in agreement. After a moment of contemplation, he smiled and leaned back, spreading his arms to encompass as much space as possible. “You know, I bet I could have gotten into the Yakuza if I had practiced my tag line more.”

  Ariana and Arthur shared a look. She turned to look at Tim. “The Japanese mafia? Really?”

  “Yeah.” Tim rubbed a bicep wistfully. “They wanted poise, not brawn. Less time bulking up, more time working on my theatrics…” He looked over at Arthur as he jammed a thumb at himself. “Lieutenant material, my man.”

  “Or… alternatively… you could have found a catchphrase that didn’t suck,” Arthur mulled verbally.

  Tim looked shocked. “What’s wrong with my tag line?”

  Arthur bit his lip. “The Yakuza are one of the world’s most powerful crime syndicates, full of what many believe to be the spiritual successors of the ninja. Upon being hired and saying that… thing…” He looked at Tim for dramatic effect. “That tradition would die.”

  “Instantly,” Ariana agreed as she sat on the arm of the couch.

  Tim laughed politely in disbelief, more of a huff than anything else. “C’mon. It had everything: honor, wit, and a down-to-earth, let’s-finish-this attitude.”

  Ariana and Arthur rattled off, in unison, that which he had worked so hard on: “Start up the stove, ‘cause I’ve gotta fry some bacon.”

  Tim shook his head. “Well, if you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

  “Honey…” Ariana put a reassuring hand on his arm. “It would sound stupid if you were hacking someone apart with a fire ax.” She squeezed, smiling warmly.

  “Whatever,” Tim said with a dismissive wave. “You’re both jus
t jealous I thought of it first.” Tim reached for the remote control when he sat bolt upright, eyes wide. “Oh, frack, you know what I just realized?”

  Ariana and Arthur were stunned by Tim’s issue of sudden importance. “What?” Ariana asked.

  “I never asked Talia for her autograph,” he said with a disappointed shake of his head. “Smooth, Timothy. Smooth.”

  Ariana rolled her eyes as she smiled tightly and gave a ‘ha’ of exaggerated annoyance. “I knew it. You still have a crush on her after all these years.”

  Timothy seemed far more interested in something intangible. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She was probably too busy.”

  A knock on the door went unnoticed by the lovers. Arthur expected them to at least look in that direction. “Do you even remember you almost died that night?” asked Ariana, confirming Arthur’s suspicion that neither of them were paying attention to reality. He threw his hands up at the squabble and went to the door.

  “Man, in person she’s got this amazing accent. You should have been there, Ari.”

  “You’re not even listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” she asked.

  “No!” Tim said defensively. He quickly realized he had no idea what he denied. “Wait… what?” he asked as Arthur finished unlatching the door.

  “I just don’t understand your obsession,” Ariana said, exasperated. She put her hand up to her ear and stood up with her back turned to Tim. “And now, for Villain World News, the vapid whore from channel thirty-seven…” She whipped around with a deadpan expression. She belted out “Hello,” in a grossly exaggerated valley girl accent before stopping when she realized that Arthur had brought two people in with him. Her face went slack when she realized that one of them, who had folded her arms and smirked, was embarrassingly familiar.

  “You know, she doesn’t sound like that in person.” Tim stared at Ariana for a moment, expecting a response. When none came, he furrowed his brow quizzically. “What?” Tim followed her gaze.

  “Talia, this is Ariana,” Arthur said, staring at the floor while gesturing to the reddening roommate. Tim leapt up at the sight of Talia, trying to smooth his shirt before realizing what it said. He took the opportunity to haphazardly struggle out of the garment, throwing it into the kitchen before trying to act as nonchalant as one can be while bare-chested.