Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PANDEMONIUM

  June 28th, 2011

  Earlier

  JULIA STRETCHED IN HER BED as she held a romance novel in front of her at modest length, the shuffling of Enforcers and other heroes muffled thanks to the heavy door. Two of her three uniforms were tucked away neatly in her top dresser drawer and her Stetson hat rested on top of her luggage. At that moment, she relaxed in a set of pale blue pajama pants and a camisole, trying to focus on reading and not the shift that awaited her tomorrow.

  She had picked up guard duty for the next day stretching into the weekend, mostly as a means to escape Claymore’s constant, irritating attention. The more noticeable reason was that Arbiter was requiring heroes to sign up for at least one shift at Fort Justice in order to make sure everyone was participating in his ‘noble venture’. In many ways, Julia suspected it was a good thing, freeing up heroes to do legitimate work in New York City proper, spending time helping police and firefighters. But that did leave a bunch of registered heroes with little to no talent twiddling their thumbs and finding second jobs or signing up for guard duty.

  She turned onto her side, just enough light pouring over her shoulder to allow her to continue reading. Each room in the barracks was a comfortable facsimile of a quaint studio, designed to house one person for a week or so before being cleaned in favor of the next tenant. The communal break- and restrooms were clean but solely functional, with a minimum of amenities. The occasional window or wall decorations dotted the corridors, while the only real recreational areas were either the gym or when the mess hall was converted into a theater.

  In some ways, it made her long for the college experience again.

  And with that, her mind began to wander. Back to when her father was still alive, when Arthur stopped by to see how she was adjusting to her new school, when she met Tim… Tim, with his goofy smile and laugh… How he had been a fixture in her life even when her own brother wasn’t. How Arthur had stopped coming to see her, yet Tim would drop by with ‘study fuel’ and other such pretexts…

  She wasn’t sure she heard the knock at first, but eventually the harsh rasp of knuckles on metal drew her from the past. What could possibly be so important as to interrupt her now? With a resigned sigh, she slipped a receipt between the pages to mark her place and set the book on the bed. She rolled to the left and shoved herself onto the cold floor. The temperature made her wince and immediately walk solely on the balls of her feet.

  The frigid door latch sent prickles down her arm, and she made a mental note to curse the hero in charge of the thermostat. The knocking started again, more insistent this time. “I’m here, I was just in bed,” she shouted impatiently. She swung the door open, instantly shocked and dismayed to see Claymore leaning on the wall in front of her. He was wearing a tight black and red shirt under a black trench coat. Black utility pants completed the look, whatever that look happened to be. He smiled, widely. “Claymore.” She smiled in return, hoping it looked at least twice as sincere as she felt. “Why?”

  He pushed himself off the wall. “Arbiter’s coming by for inspection.” He sniffed in the same way that all people who think highly of themselves do when presented with dubious honors. “Sent me on ahead to prep everyone.”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “That’s… great.” She started to close the door. “But I’m beat, you know? I have an early day tomorrow…” He brought his foot forward, preventing her from closing the door further than half way. “Your foot’s in the door.”

  “Gunslinger…” he began, trying to sound smooth. “We’re partners.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We’ve been together for a couple of months now, but we never…” he trailed off as his brow furrowed. Julia was actually fairly interested in seeing where this train of thought went, if only because he seemed to be working so hard at completing it. “… You know…”

  She lowered her head and cocked an eyebrow, as though it may help pull the words out of his head. It clearly wasn’t working. “Dance? Read? Do children’s theater?” Julia put her fingers to her temples, trying to figure the best way to continue the conversation. “Look, we work together. We’re advisors to the High Consul and, for what it’s worth, his bodyguards.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying!” Claymore was clearly excited about this. He clasped his hands together. “We’re his advisors, his connection to the new generation of heroes, and yet we never talk. We’re his bodyguards, but we don’t spend time learning about each other.”

  “And why would we?” she asked, pointedly.

  He leaned in close, contorting to an awkward angle in order to keep the door from slamming shut. “We work well together officially. But the best super hero duos…” He leaned back slightly to better interweave his fingers in a physical display. “… Are one unit, of one purpose, mind…” Claymore wetted his air conditioning-chapped lips, the briefest glimpse of his tongue repulsing Julia. “… And one physicality.”

  She swallowed, then slowly nodded. “I will take that into consideration. But until then,” Julia kicked out his foot, “good night, Claymore.” The door shut louder than she intended, but she didn’t care. Whatever reason Arbiter had in coming here this late at night was his business. And if the shifts tonight weren’t doing their jobs, well, that was their problem. She turned to her bed and collapsed on it.

  Only eleven days had passed since her father died, the malaise of his parting still hanging in the air. It seemed that, in that stretch, the only one she should have been able to talk to was Arbiter, for he had always held her father in such high esteem. But when she would broach the subject, the mountain of a man would stop talking altogether, as though he wasn’t built to handle such emotions. It was shockingly humanizing for someone who never showed his face, always concealed behind a helmet of steel. She didn’t want Arbiter to act like that, she wanted him to listen, to reminisce, to… well, anything other than talk about continuing her father’s work.

  Whatever that meant.

  For all his vocal and public support of the system implemented in the late eighties, his private views of villainy were quite different. She understood it as less hypocritical and more a necessary evil. As a politician hero, he couldn’t resort to rhetoric from the Silver Age, but the disconnect between what he said at home and the lip service he gave at the Heroes’ Guild was profound.

  And maybe, just maybe, if he had been more honest about his views, I wouldn’t be an orphan right now.

  But, then again, if he hadn’t been so close-minded, I might have a brother to talk to. Or, even better, a brother and a father to talk to.

  She rolled on her side. Maybe I should call Claymore back. Let him have me like I know he wants. It’s not like the whore is unattractive… I’d just be another in a long line of conquests. Maybe it would be nice to feel something other than… whatever it is I’m not feeling now.

  Faintly, a low wail cried out. Another started, closer. One by one she heard the sirens click on toward her, finally reaching the one closest to her room. It was familiar, akin to a school’s fire drill. Yet something inside her realized it wasn’t a drill, that it was the furthest thing from a test. She leapt from her bed and went to her dresser, yanking the appropriate night-attire costume off the top. “This is Colonel Morant,” the intercom shouted as she started to get dressed. “All personnel are required to report immediately to their respective armories. A class one emergency has developed in Fort Justice, repeat, a class one emergency is unfolding.”

  Class one… a riot.

  Blue button-up shirt secured, black pants, and an ornately elaborate gold and black vest was all she needed. The vest was heavier than it appeared, a thick mesh armor woven into it, but for all appearances she looked like a well-to-do riverboat captain. She grabbed her hat from the top of her luggage, threw it on, and exited her room.

  The hallway was mostly full of off-duty Enforcers, appearing a mix between frightened and confused. Most
were in their civilian clothes, rushing off to the armory to get their various pieces of equipment. Bulletproof vests, gas masks, utility belts, weapons, kneepads, helmets… all could be strapped over standard clothes quickly. A few were wearing the official black under-outfit and button-ups with the Enforcer insignia on the shoulder.

  Julia sprinted through the hall. The Enforcer armory was in the opposite direction of the one for the uniformed heroes. Ahead, she could see Claymore’s head bobbing through the current as well as the occasional glimpse of shorter heroes. It had the veneer of chaos but was actually a disciplined movement of people; no one was being tripped, stepped on, or slammed into. It was an emergency, and these women and men were professionals. There was no point in weakening themselves before the enemy had a chance to.

  She proceeded down a flight of stairs, through another hall, and down a second. The current thinned, shifted, and unified in purpose. Julia found herself joined by other heroes hurrying to their armory. Most were already in uniform, having opted to keep their costumes in their quarters as opposed to the locker rooms; the one or two that hadn’t ducked into a side hallway to get more appropriately dressed.

  Inside the armory, heroes lined up as Enforcers brought them their metal suitcases filled with gear. An Enforcer sergeant was here, repeating orders as one wave of heroes left to be replaced by another. “… Expect resistance. Be prepared for chemical, biological, explosive and elemental attacks.” Claymore approached Julia and gently lobbed a heavy metal case to her. She caught it and immediately set it on the wall-length workbench. “Heroes paired with an earlier Bestowed villain are to report to that villain’s wing to assist Enforcers.” She popped open the case, surveyed the gear, and began to remove the contents. “It is of the utmost importance that no passive behavior is met with violence, and any villain unengaged in the riot is assumed to be a noncombatant.” She slipped on a mesh belt with pockets for ammunition, a hip holster strapped to the left side, a holster for her lower back, and a heavy, sheathed Bowie knife to be strapped between her hip and back holsters. “No lethal force is to be used unless it is determined that rogue villains are involved. In every situation, expect resistance.” The orders delivered, the sergeant repeated himself as she put her right foot on top of the counter and strapped on a thigh holster.

  Foot planted firmly on the ground, she lifted the bottom section of the case up, revealing her ordinance. She grabbed the heavy, ornate fifty-caliber revolver with the word ‘Justice’ carved along the barrel, and slid it into her hip holster. A second revolver, almost identical to the first save for the black luster as opposed to silver and the name ‘Honor’ carved into it, went into her back holster. A grapple gun eased into the thigh holster, the heaviest of her tools due to the amount of cable contained inside. Finally, she picked up an earpiece and slid it into place, clicking it on and hearing a chorus of heroes checking in.

  She tapped a button on the side of the set. “Gunslinger, checking in,” she said. Overseer would place her comment in a queue and relegate it to the proper supervisors.

  The combined weight felt good on her, like everything was in its place. She let her left hand drop to Justice’s handle. Her confidence was bolstered slightly by having worked so closely with the Enforcers a few weeks ago, even if it had been an utter debacle. And now there were more Enforcers, heroes to watch her back… even if it was going to include the drooling gaze of Claymore.

  Maybe it was being reassured of the lack of lethal force that made her less nauseated, like it was just a dress rehearsal rather than the real thing. Less life and death and more stuttering over a line you could just repeat. The urgency there felt more like formality, like the show of force a military parade is supposed to inspire. No risk of permanent injury, just a fancy display.

  How did they even get out, anyway?

  She didn’t dwell on the sudden, important question. Claymore was beside her, clamping his hand on her shoulder. “You ready for this?” His hand squeezed tighter, prompting her to look at him. “Partner.” The emphasis seemed ripped right from a movie, like it was how he expected people to actually refer to each other. He released her shoulder and folded his bare arms, having removed his shirt and trench coat in favor of a tight vest of body armor. Strapped to his back was a sword nearly as tall as he was, the claymore. Julia immediately noted that there were, in fact, two swords there, having been placed firmly next to each other with only minor variations in the handle.

  “What’s with the swords?” she asked as she snapped the case shut. She moved toward the exit, brushing by him.

  “One’s dulled, the other’s sharp.” He was trailing her closely as she approached the back wall, where a clerk was still handing out metal cases of gear while another one accepted the returns. She hefted the case onto the counter and turned to the exit, joining the small river of heroes to the outside. “You have live rounds in your utility belt, right?” She didn’t answer as she hit the door leading to a long hallway. She could see the security doors at the end, pinned open by the throng of people. “Gunslinger, answer me!”

  She quickened her pace. Feeling the cool air outside rushing in, she was almost jogging by the end. Her lungs began to burn, and she realized she had been holding her breath. Like breaking the surface of water, she was outside, heaving a lung full of air. She didn’t know why she needed to get away from him, but something he said…

  And Claymore had grabbed her, yanking her around to face him. “Tell me you have live rounds!”

  “Let go of me!” she shouted.

  “We don’t know what the degens are planning, Julia!” His eyes flashed with something, but she couldn’t tell what. “I couldn’t bear it if…”

  “If what?” Julia finally broke out of his grasp. “I died?”

  He glared at her. “Yes.”

  “So what, Claymore?” She started to circle him. “You’d be fine.”

  “Gunslinger, I’ve never felt…”

  Julia sneered, feeling like her face would twist right off. “Shut up!” She jabbed a finger at him. “Listen to me, Dylan Samuel York: I. Will. Never. Fuck. You.”

  He looked legitimately hurt. Whether it was from the use of his real name or from her staunch refusal to sleep with him, she couldn’t tell. Not that she really cared – her earlier consideration of sharing her bed filled her with enough disgust to banish any empathy. He grabbed her by the shoulders without warning, holding her close. “You love me,” he said softly. She would have laughed if it had been a little less absurd. There were plenty of reasons for this command: fear, anger, lust, but actual compassion was not one of them.

  “Let me go,” she growled, glaring at him. She twitched in his grasp, letting her hand fall to the butt of her gun.

  “Say it…” He moved in close, pulling her to his face.

  Ca-click. Forward momentum stopped, his eyes went wide. He looked down, staring at the revolver she was now jamming into his ribs. Claymore looked back at her, twitching with undeniable rage. “I do have real bullets, Claymore.” She didn’t break eye contact, despite the fury just below the surface. “It’s regulation.”

  “Is everything okay here?” A blond woman in an armored bodysuit which faded from blue into white from top to bottom approached as she adjusted her white gloves. Spiders of stylized lightning on the costume seemed to crackle and spark in the yard’s artificial light in an impressive optical illusion. She looked a combination of concerned and annoyed, like a mother watching over two bickering children. She was about the same height as Julia, perhaps an inch or two taller, but that was due more to her heeled boots than genetics.

  Claymore regarded the newcomer with squinted eyes before releasing Julia. He took a few steps backward, hands in the air, then joined the glut of people marching toward Fort Justice. In the distance, shouts and bangs echoed softly. The opening shots had been fired.

  “Thanks,” Julia said, holstering her gun.

  The woman smiled. “No problem.” Julia waited a beat so as to a
ppear ungrateful. Before she could excuse herself, the woman continued, “Felt like I had to get involved. I lost my daughter recently.”

  It was such an odd announcement to make. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Julia responded, hoping that she didn’t sound as confused as she felt. She didn’t look quite old enough to have a daughter, but being Bestowed was usually a get-out-of-aging-normally card.

  “Not your fault. Just never know when life’s going to throw you a curve, am I right?” Julia knew all too well that was the case. Suddenly, the other woman threw her hand out. “Electronica.”

  Julia smiled politely at the name and took her hand. Ah. The traitor’s mother. Great. “Julia Lovelass. Erm… Gunslinger.” Exchanging the alternate identity only was a bit on the old-fashioned side, certainly a relic of the Silver Age.

  “Dante’s girl?” Electronica asked. Julia nodded in confirmation and irritation. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Before the conversation could continue or Julia could run screaming into the night, whichever came first, a pleasant ding on her earpiece got her attention. She immediately put her hand up to engage it. “Gunslinger, Colonel Morant wishes to communicate with you.” The voice belonged to Overseer.

  “Patch him through.”

  Colonel Morant’s voice cut through a din of banging and shouts. “I hate to separate you from your partner, but we need you at C-Wing.”

  “On my way.” She looked up at Electronica. “I have to get to C-Wing.”

  Electronica’s hand immediately went to her earpiece. “Alright, Overseer.” The woman cocked a grin at her and winked as she nodded in time to a conversation Julia couldn’t hear. “Of course, sir.” She slapped Julia on the shoulder. “Race you there.”

  Julia turned on her heel and ran toward the colonel. If she hadn’t been focused on getting where she needed to be, she would have rolled her eyes at the woman tagging along with her.