Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  This… this can’t be happening so quickly…

  He didn’t hear the bottle hit the ground with a thud, nor the sudden gush as the rest of the soda spilled onto the floor. Arthur was shoving his way back out, back toward fresh air. The sun was close to setting now. An eerie quiet had descended on the city. People were chatting, calm enough to watch the news and accept that, yes, bad things were happening, but they couldn’t do anything about them.

  He felt powerless, like all he could do was watch as the world, his world, dissolved around him.

  Arbiter sat in his chair, looking out over the city. The Heroes’ Guild was positively humming with activity, but his insulated chamber was immune to the hustle and bustle of the bureaucrats beneath him. He loathed them, not for who they were, but what they represented. Studying political science instead of fighting crime. Debating the size of government instead of protecting their fellow man. They were politicians playing heroes, despite their claims.

  Not anymore.

  He was shaping them, forming them back into usefulness. It had taken so long, endless campaigning and ridiculous charades of promises and speeches. But, like atrophied muscles put to use after injury, they were growing. Stronger, more organized. They were becoming a unified force under his leadership, finally recognizing that he had been right all along. Despite the weak mewling of scared neutrals, villains disguised as heroes, and the civic-minded, there could be no doubt as to what the future must entail.

  His heart sank, slightly, at the costs. He had killed Desecrator almost five decades ago. For this, they told him that he, uncontrolled, was a menace. That heroes, without focus, had allowed Desecrator to run free, build his death machine, and launch his attack on the unprepared populace. Without discipline, they were no better than villains – vigilantes without focus or oversight, just as destructive as those they opposed. After that dark day, neutrals mandated that heroes needed to register to have the right to fight the forces of villainy.

  Arbiter did his civic duty, rose to the challenge, and brought justice to the land while putting on a good show for the government. When they saddled him with a sidekick, an un-Bestowed youth volunteer from the Army, he had done well to guide his development and turned him into a righteous hero.

  The two enlisted the help of Purgatory’s Inventor to destroy the greatest fiend of all, Iron Curtain. Years later, at the height of the heroic retribution for the 1988 bombings, the same villain destroyed his sidekick’s hands. When the chaos settled, Arbiter was disgraced by his failure to protect his charge. The weak looked upon him, shamed him, and spat upon his life’s work. They institutionalized villains, made his legacy a joke. All for the sake of some half-hearted protection.

  Then, of course, the ultimate price.

  He spun in his chair, looking over his office. When he first inherited it, the walls had been adorned with lavish art from the vault; the floor had been covered with opulent furniture. No expense had been wasted for the position of High Consul. It was a room dedicated to inaction, to the shiftless lifestyle of those paid to expound on great things to others while offering no means to achieve them.

  Now, the room was spartan in its simplicity. Grey floors, bare walls, and only his desk and a computer to his name. It was a waste of space, but he never would have asked for such grandeur. He felt it was all too appropriate for the means by which he had achieved the office.

  Dark Saint… Dante… a good man had died so that he might become High Consul. He barely registered Desert Ranger’s death. It was unfortunate, to be sure, but hardly the personal calamity that Dante’s murder was. He remembered well their talk of a world without villainy, a world of peace and prosperity, the glory of years spent basking in the adoration of those they had saved.

  All he could do now was attempt to honor the memory of his fallen friend. Arbiter had grown tired since the dawn of the Bronze Age. He had no longer felt that the world had a place for him. Much of his rhetoric boiled down to habit, and even Dante looked piteously at him whenever he ran for High Consul.

  To learn that Dante had been secreting projects and acquiring funds for them through the bureaucracy… to learn that his friend still believed in him, in the true goal of all heroes… it meant that despite the charade, despite the occasional dismissive smile, Dante knew Arbiter was right the whole time. He patiently used the system to develop the means to safeguard heroes and neutrals against villains. Riders on bills, financial loop holes, projects within projects… it was all a gift to Arbiter, one last gesture of friendship that escaped the grip of death. The means by which he could change the world, just as he… no, they… had dreamed so long ago, lay within his grasp.

  Morgan Severson, the traitorous hero, would be found and captured within the hour. Zombress had sequestered her in a hospital under a false name, but a doctor recognized the comatose patient after her face appeared on television and called the Heroes’ Guild. To be fair, Arbiter would wait before casting judgment. Her presence at the Guild did not signify guilt, and all heroes deserved public dignity until proven otherwise.

  Talia Illyanovich… whatever hole she had hidden herself in would be uncovered in due time.

  Weston Marsh, who had proven so useful in softening Arbiter’s public image, had grown to be a nuisance. That was no matter… he would enjoy similarly depraved company soon enough.

  Arbiter swung back around in his chair to look out at the city. It was quiet, tranquil. His fingers dug into the arm rests as a familiar voice whispered in his head, Once you have the conspirators, give it more time. Not every villain is culpable. He sneered at the doubt. This can be stopped. The wheels haven’t yet begun to move. Long ago, he had stopped registering the weakness of physical discomfort; pain and lack of it were common sensations to him, but the nagging register of doubt had only recently become a constant companion. Don’t do this.

  A polite knock on the door, not the usual rap of knuckles on wood but something different, quelled the doubt. He couldn’t falter now, not when there was so much to do. So much to make right. “Enter.”

  The door opened, creaking gently. A familiar voice croaked, “Arbiter… it’s been awhile.” The boots on the floor carried forward, toward his chair. “I’d thought you had forgotten about me.”

  Arbiter stood and walked toward the window. “We have the means.”

  A pause. “What?”

  “The means to make our dream a reality.”

  The man behind him laughed derisively. “The office of High Consul has gone to your head.”

  Arbiter didn’t turn at the indignation. “Would you ever consider… returning to your position?”

  The floor squeaked as the man shifted his weight. “I work behind a desk for the Army.” He approached ponderously. “After what happened to me, it’s apparently all I’m useful for. You know that.” Arbiter couldn’t tell if the younger man felt any shame for what the politicians had made him into, a living cautionary tale for the dangers of heroic work.

  But that hardly mattered tonight. “I can restore your dreams, Erich.” He looked over his shoulder, staring at the tall, sandy-haired man in his neatly pressed Army uniform. A five o’clock shadow bristled on his chin, blending into the close-clipped hairline. His green eyes seemed well-worn and tired, moving slowly and studying the skyline. A jagged scar worked its way across his face, pale and grotesque against his otherwise ruddy skin. “Give you back the life that was stolen from you.”

  Erich was silent as Arbiter returned to looking out the window. “How?” He tried to find the words. “I’m un-Bestowed. The Enforcers won’t take me, I’m too old to sidekick… there’s no way the Guild would accept me as a hero with…” The words trailed into nothing.

  “Your gauntlets.”

  The words seemed to echo in the chamber menacingly. “Impossible.”

  “If you get me the plans, I promise you by this time tomorrow, you will be a hero.” Arbiter turned to him, facing him straight on. Erich was not much smaller than he was, but the
re was a noticeable size difference. The younger man’s face had gone pale, and he trembled slightly. “You will redeem yourself, help to drive villainy from the land, and once more take the mantle of Zealot,” Arbiter said.

  The word redeem made the other man look up. Steely determination crossed his face. “If it means striking back at… the one who did this to me…” He clenched his fists, a squeal of metal clearly audible. “I will gladly do as you ask.”

  Arbiter turned away from Zealot, stoic. He twitched, fighting back visible relief. Finally, he could start to make things right for his failures, real and accused by those who did not understand. Below, heroes went about their daily lives, realizing that they could be called into action in a moment’s notice. They had been training for this moment, the defining moment of their entire lives.

  “There’s an envelope with the legal precedents you will need.” Erich nodded. “Take a contingent of Enforcers and acquire Aeschylus Brown and his inventions. We shall begin tactical operations after you have collected the keys to your future,” Arbiter growled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ROLLING BLACKOUT

  “… AND WITHOUT A DOUBT, the look on his face was priceless.” Aeschylus imitated the face in question as best he could in the dim glow of the kitchen. Crossing his eyes and furrowing his brow, he puffed out his cheeks and ended up looking like an irritated chipmunk, the sight of which made Ariana, already laughing, start wheezing.

  “S… stop!” she pleaded between gasps. “I can’t… breathe!” She patted her chest softly, trying to restore normal function. Finally, she could take a deep enough breath to stabilize herself and get a good look at her father. He studied her, his finger pressed over his mouth, shaking his head. “What?”

  “You look just like her,” he said wistfully.

  Ariana smiled at him before reaching for the mugs on the kitchen table. She rose from her chair and moved to the sink where she washed out the interior of the cups. Looking around the unused kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice the layer of dust that disuse had settled on the once white room. “Do I have to hire a housekeeper to make you meals, dad?”

  Aeschylus leaned back in his chair and put his hands on his head. “Don’t worry about me, Ari. I get by.” Pushing back onto the rear legs of the chair, he patted his stomach. “I don’t keep this intimidating physical form by starving myself.”

  “I’m not saying you do,” she said, trying to stifle her disappointment by the end of the sentence. “Just that you forget to eat sometimes.”

  “My life is just so exciting… it makes sense if it slips my mind,” he said jokingly.

  Ariana leaned in front of the sink. “Not everything is a joke,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

  She had taken Arthur’s cue of slipping out of the oppressive atmosphere of the apartment about ten minutes after he did. Tim still sought to one-up everyone whenever Talia was around, and her own needling of the reporter wasn’t helping. She just couldn’t help it, really; even though Talia seemed about as interested in Tim as most people were in rabies, Ariana couldn’t help but give off an explicit ‘please die now’ vibe toward her. James moped around the apartment, mostly watching television when he wasn’t muttering about where his life went wrong.

  It was oppressive, it was irritating, and it was behind her now that she had traded in one annoyance for another. Her own father was treating his health like a joke, just like Tim treated most things. She felt repulsed at the thought; she didn’t want to think that the man she was sleeping with had any traits in common with her father. But, psychology being what it was…

  Something moved outside the window.

  Ariana’s heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer. Daylight was rapidly growing scarce, but she could have sworn that something human-sized had swept in and vanished just as quickly.

  “Ariana? What is it?” Her father had sensed her tension and rose to his feet.

  “Someone was by the greenhouse a moment ago.” She turned to Aeschylus. “I couldn’t see…”

  Floorboards squeaked somewhere in the house. The two froze. Ariana looked at the countertop, reached for the knife block, and grabbed the biggest blade. “Don’t panic, Ari,” Aeschylus said. His voice was authoritarian, almost unrecognizable save for those moments buried in their collective past. Muffled voices whispered near the doors to the kitchen.

  With a bang, the doors snapped open in unison, startling them. Ariana used the natural twitch to hide the weapon behind her as Aeschylus moved in front of her, blocking any potential intruder. Enforcers stood in the doorways: one at the greenhouse, another between the kitchen and dining room, and a final officer with a non-Enforcer escort between them and the front hall.

  A man, clad in a brown trench coat and an Army dress uniform, entered with his hands behind his back. He, at one point, had been handsome before a hideous scar had been given to him, and his sandy short hair gave him the look of an aggressively chewed and used pencil eraser. His scowl was what made him truly offensive, for it twisted his too-young face into something haggard. Green eyes studied the room for a moment before settling on Aeschylus.

  “It’s been a long time, Inventor,” the man said, his voice gravelly.

  “To be fair, I was trying to avoid you,” Aeschylus said, his severe tone resuming. “I mean no disrespect, Erich.”

  The scowl turned into a half-hearted smile. “None taken,” he said. He motioned with his head to the female Enforcer behind him. “Lieutenant, check the girl.”

  The hero took a few steps toward Ariana, but Aeschylus cut her off. “No one touches her.” It was not a request. The lieutenant looked back at Erich, who simply nodded. She backed off as the larger man walked further into the room. “What is this about? Surely home invasion is still a crime.”

  “Unless the occupants are deemed to be threats to national security,” Erich said, studying the kitchen. “I am, as you are no doubt aware, the liaison between the Army and New York State heroes.”

  “A position you secured by being Arbiter’s one-time rent boy,” Aeschylus growled. Ariana wanted to scold him for his flippant attitude, but she dared not. Erich had her attention with his slow, subtly menacing movements.

  “Cute,” Erich said. “Seeing as I was the only remaining member of the Army sidekick venture not to be reclassified as a hero, it only made sense.” He held up his black gloved hand. “And we all know why that happened.”

  “I still need to know why you’re here.”

  “How rude of me.” Erich dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper which he threw on the table. “There. The legislation which grants heroes the right to…” He trailed off for a moment, thinking of the right words. “… Explore the homes of villains which have been deemed a danger to the safety of their community.”

  Aeschylus laughed. “I haven’t been an active villain for years and my daughter works for a coffee shop.”

  “Was working,” the man corrected snidely. “But, more to the point, you have been tutoring villains through your supposed fan club,” Erich said simply. “Have you not?”

  Ariana felt her lip curl in anger. Arthur…

  Ignoring the question, Aeschylus pointed a finger at him. “All my designs and inventions are protected under the 1988 Armistice.”

  “Which only qualifies for inactive villains…”

  “I am inactive!”

  “… Who do not offer support to candidates up for approval by the Super Villain Authorization Committee.” Erich had finished with a smile, which somehow made it all worse.

  Aeschylus glared at him. “Where’s your proof?”

  “Recently submitted design documents suggest your influence.”

  Aeschylus swallowed, thinking carefully as he took deep breaths. “Until I see hard evidence, you need to get out of this house.”

  Erich moved so quickly that Ariana didn’t even see her father get pulled away. But the man from the Army had latched onto him with his left hand,
flipped him over head, and brought him down on the kitchen table. “We want your inventions!” Erich screamed in his face.

  “Get off of him!” Ariana shouted, pushing herself off the kitchen counter. The knife flashed in her hand.

  The Enforcer nearest to her cried out in warning. “Corporal Constantine!”

  Erich turned to her as she brought the knife back to stab. He threw up his right hand as she jabbed, the blade ripping into the glove and continuing through the back. There was no shout of pain, no blood. Instead he merely glared at her. “Lieutenant Showers, would you be so kind?”

  The female Enforcer yanked her away as Erich released Aeschylus and grabbed the knife handle, sliding it out of himself. He removed his glove, revealing five metal claws twitching where a hand should have been. Ariana was immediately sick at the sight. The scraps of flesh she could see had been burned beyond usefulness.

  “Admiring your father’s handiwork?” he snarled as her eyes refused to leave his hand. “Scan her.” Showers, releasing her for a moment, produced a device which flashed in Ariana’s eye. She blinked away the residual light as Erich bade the lieutenant to give him the device. He read something off of it, smiling indignantly as he finished. “Pathetic. I would have expected more for all the problems your mother gave us.” He turned to Aeschylus, still squirming on the table. “You must be so proud.” In a flash, he was on Ariana, the sick metal fingers closing around her neck. The force with which he had slammed into her made the world go white for a moment, but regained her bearings just as he lifted her into the air. Her feet could barely scrape the ground, let alone afford her leverage.