Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Claymore rolled aside and rose as Tim’s foot came crashing into the mud. He stood, brandishing his sword like a battering ram. Tim couldn’t extricate himself in time – the sword point stabbed into his gut. The pain was intense, radiating, and made all the worse as Tim’s opponent lifted him into the air and slammed him downward, sinking the sword further through him and into the earth.

  He met his attacker’s eyes through the agony of having an unnecessarily large blade embedded in him. He saw something flicker in the hero’s eyes… doubt, maybe… but he didn’t look pleased with himself, that was for damn sure. The little prick let the handle go, took a shaky step back, and looked at his cohorts.

  “One down!” he shouted, pumping his fist in the air. The gathered Enforcers shouted their approval and pumped their fists once, twice… then stopped. “What’s…” He spun in place. Tim was reaching toward the twin ‘sword-breaker’ spines on the blade. With a twist, he snapped them off, brought his hands further up, and did the same for the crossguard. Then, one hand reaching up, he pulled himself up, along the blade, hand-over-hand. “What in the name of heroism…” Claymore took a step backward as Tim forced the grip through his body, up and over, and then fell by the sword’s side. The entire thing was now stained with blood as Tim got to his feet, snarling with rage. He grabbed the sword and, in one deft pull, yanked it free from its earthen scabbard. Claymore smiled. “Nigh-invulnerable.” He began to circle Tim, flexing his muscled arms in anticipation.

  He leapt at Tim, anticipating an attack that didn’t come. Instead, Tim flicked the blade upward as he spun, slicing off three fingers and a chunk of Claymore’s right, outstretched hand. Claymore was already doubling over in agony when Tim swept low, cleaving off his right foot at the ankle. Claymore was screaming as he rolled onto his back, eyes rolling.

  Tim looked up, the surrounding Enforcers taking a step backward as he raised the sword into the air. “For villainy!” he shouted before bringing the blade down.

  A gunshot rang out, and the sword exploded out of his hand. Tim flicked his wrist and turned toward the origin of the sound. The Enforcers parted as Julia appeared in the rain. Her gun still smoked as she popped the cylinder out, pulled the expended round free, and slid in a new one. Her eyes did not leave Timothy. It was a strange sensation, looking at her resolute face, knowing what he knew about her, knowing how he had felt about her, once… what had seemed like ages ago. He had seen her naked, known her physically, tasted her lips and body… and yet here she was, gun now fully loaded and decidedly his enemy.

  The pause hung between them, the sounds of combat seemingly far away. The rage he had felt moments ago was gone, replaced with… a feeling he couldn’t explain. “Hey,” was all he could say.

  “I didn’t have to miss.” Julia raised her revolver and aimed it in his direction, one handed. She pulled the hammer. “And I won’t again.”

  It didn’t matter how nigh-invulnerable he was, repeated heavy caliber blasts anywhere would do serious damage… at least enough to render him unconscious. He cautiously took ponderous steps toward her. “Julia.” His hands were up.

  “Gunslinger,” she corrected.

  “You know this isn’t how it’s meant to be.” He smiled widely, hoping to make her falter in her confidence.

  If it worked, she didn’t show it. “Back off, Timothy.”

  He made a face. “First name basis all around, huh?” Tim chuckled. He gestured to the Enforcers as Julia suddenly became acutely aware of their presence. “They know about us?”

  “Shut up,” she warned, her voice low.

  “How we…” he stuck his tongue out, as though embarrassed about mentioning it. “You know?”

  The Enforcers were either engaged elsewhere or too far back to hear as he approached, the officers backing away between the soon-to-be dueling hero and villain. Nevertheless, Julia sneered with anger. “Tim, stop this. Right now.” Her chin quavered. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said quietly.

  “You won’t.” He leapt forward and grabbed the gun out of her hand. Spinning, he brought the revolver around toward her, but she had drawn her spare weapon and was raising it to his face. Tim lurched forward, bringing his free hand up to deflect her gun as she did the same. The guns reported, loudly, and Julia brought her pistol across Tim’s face. He brought his arm across hers and pulled it downward, toward the ground, as the guns barked again.

  They continued, moving together and against each other in each motion. Julia brought her hands up and over, sending them spinning away and aiming their guns at each other. He lunged at her, gun out like a dagger, and she parried with her own pistol, sliding it closer to his face as his revolver grew closer to her. His trigger finger twitched and she squeezed in response, each gun roaring off.

  Then he was crouching, trying to knock her legs out from under her. She leapt over his leg in a sideways flip, landing with her gun aimed at him. The gun thundered, but Tim had somersaulted backward into a crouch before she could adjust her sights. Now Tim was launching toward her, his momentum unstoppable considering his massive weight advantage. He collided with her, and they smashed into the ground.

  Julia was pulling at him, forcing his momentum to carry him up and over until she ended up on top of him. She tried to bring her gun toward him, but his hand found a grip in her vest. He yanked her left, slamming her into the ground, then right, the mud slapping wetly at her back. Then, he rose to his feet and pitched her into the air.

  She sailed into the rain soaked-skies, ten feet above the fray, gun firmly in hand and aiming it at Tim. Her gun flared as Tim brought up his own and fired, the shots going wide. She fired again as she began to plummet toward the ground, and he responded in kind.

  She landed, hard, in a crouch. Her teeth gritted as her shins ached from the impact, but she stood her ground. “Give. Up. Timothy.” He could barely hear her above the rain. Slowly, he brought the gun up toward her.

  “You’re out of bullets, Jules.” Shock spread over her face before disappearing. He could see her eyes flicker, mentally recapping the number of times she had pulled the trigger. He wavered for a moment, watching her. He un-cocked the gun and brought it to his side. “Next time, don’t shoot my girlfriend.” He turned to face the crowd of Enforcers, most of them engaged with other villains.

  He could see Father Fistmas bashing his way through a few Enforcers while at least two clung to his back, beating his head with batons. Three of the Eighth Street Bros were still up and fighting. He couldn’t see the Bearorist anymore, but…

  Someone kicked out his leg from beneath him, and a Bowie knife pressed up against his neck. He felt the blade bite against his skin, not entirely dissimilar to the sword against his flesh earlier. The heat of another’s body prickled at his ear. “Please, Tim… don’t… don’t continue this fight. I don’t want you…”

  “To die?” he interrupted. “I know. Otherwise, all those rounds would have hit me.” He reached up and grabbed her, yanked her up and over his head, and sent her sprawling on the ground beneath him. Her face was contorted with pain and… something else. He felt an ache in his chest at the sight, but he rose to his feet. “I’m sorry…”

  Suddenly, he was hurtling through the air. He hit the ground at high velocity, feeling his shoulder snap out of place. He kept rolling, end over end, until he managed to land on his feet, and even then it took several meters to stop.

  Tim gazed upwards at Arbiter, the hulking man gently offering his hand to Julia and pulling her upright. She backed away, her eyes shifting between her employer and Tim, clearly unable to process just what to do. Arbiter’s attention snapped to Timothy, his body turning to face the villain.

  “It seems we have a troublemaker on our hands,” Arbiter boomed, although it was probably his standard volume.

  “You know, if you were this lonely,” Tim began, snapping his arm back into place, “you could have just called.” Tim laughed before spitting in the mud. “This kidnapping shtick is just so desperat
e.” He hoped he sounded as confident as he did in his head, but there was no real danger of intimidating Arbiter and he knew it.

  “Your compatriots are losing, boy.” Arbiter took a large step toward him. “A few fight on, but most have been killed or captured.” The rain pattered between them as the implications weighed on Tim. “Give up and we shall be merciful.”

  “Counterproposal: fuck you.”

  Arbiter chuckled. “Quaint.” He took another step closer. “I offer clemency one last time, villain.”

  “Just so you can kill me when I’m chained up?” Tim hunched down, preparing himself. “I’d rather die standing.”

  Arbiter didn’t flinch when Tim threw himself at him, instead effortlessly dodging the blows with a sidestep, a duck, a jump. A wide punch was blocked by Arbiter’s forearm, and his free hand shot up, grabbed Tim by the neck, and lifted him into the air. The hero reared back and pounded him square in the gut, launching Tim backward and rolling him once again into the mud.

  Tim recovered quickly and sprinted at Arbiter again, leaping with his foot extended. Arbiter caught his leg and swung him in a 360 before lifting him up and smashing him into the ground. The wind was knocked out of Tim, and the taste of blood flowed over his tongue as Arbiter lifted him out of the man-shaped hole and rocked his face with his fist.

  The world was spinning. Tim felt terrible and nauseated as another blow slammed into his jaw, knocking him into the air. Hands wrapped around his ankles and he was brought up, over, and down, hard, into the ground again. He could feel his bones pop and shift under the assault. If this had been pavement, his sternum would have been shattered.

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  He heaved himself up, out of the mud, struggling to breathe as the sodden earth bled from his skin. Something glimmered near his hand in the artificial light of the courtyard. “It really is a plague, isn’t it?” Arbiter said, and he stomped down on Tim’s leg, the bones shattering as the villain cried out in pain. “The call of villainy… a disease which infects the mind.” Tim felt the bones immediately stitch back together, hurting more than the stomp. His hand worked its way toward the glint in the mud. Suddenly, Arbiter was in his face, pulling up on his hair. He was inches away, the heat from his breath washing over Tim. Whatever made the hero human was safely sequestered behind the helmet. “You disgust me. And yet… I pity you.”

  Tim spat on his face, between the crevices of his helmet. Arbiter didn’t react as a smile crossed Tim’s face. “You’re defined by hate,” Tim grunted as his hands wrapped around the mud-caked object, feeling the heft and knowing exactly what it was. He pulled the revolver’s hammer. “I’ll consider this a mercy.”

  The movement was so quick, so unexpected, that Arbiter didn’t have time to process it. Tim jammed the gun underneath his jaw and squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed outward, the charred remnants of flesh spattering Tim’s face from the concussive force. Arbiter, the Lord of Justice, was sent reeling backward, releasing Tim as he toppled into the earth.

  It took a moment for Tim to stand up, towering over the fallen hero. Around him, Enforcers stared in shock, Julia and Claymore amongst them. He looked at the emptied revolver, and threw it aside. “The High Consul is dead!” Tim cried out, his voice cracking. “It’s time to put an end to this!” The collected heroes backed off in unison, and Tim knew it wasn’t because of his sudden desire for peace. “Shit.”

  The punch caught him in the lower back, pulverizing his kidneys and knocking him to the ground. Hands grabbed him and flipped him over before raining down on his face. Arbiter grabbed his hair and stood before slinging him into the air. The weightlessness was disorienting, and at the apex of Tim’s flight, Arbiter appeared, having leapt after him. His hands glowed red as he pulled them back, above his head. “Judgement!” Arbiter roared before smashing his fists downward, square on Tim’s chest, sending him rocketing back to earth.

  Agony, the likes of which he had never felt, coursed through Timothy. The worst, by far, was in his jaw, the thunderous agony of pulsing torture setting every nerve on fire. The world had gone red, sapped of all color as even his eyes were now processing more pain than visual data. Someone was screaming incomprehensibly, and he was only dimly aware of the fact that he was the one doing it. It was a mix of extreme heat and cold, electricity and ice, and for that moment which passed like an eternity, all Tim wanted to do was die.

  Around him, water was defying gravity, lifting into the air in droplets and repelling the falling rain. He was only dimly aware that Arbiter had landed, hand outstretched, controlling his suffering. The hero spat something next to Tim, a flattened bullet landing in a splat of blood beside his hand. “Next time, make sure you aren’t using rubber bullets,” Arbiter said, sticky blood falling from his mouth. No doubt the wound had already healed, save for tougher-to-mend fragments.

  All Tim could do was scream and try not to beg him for the sweet release of death, even though he had never wanted so much in his entire life. No… there was something else… someone else. She was something he wanted, needed, more completely than he could articulate. Through the haze, he saw flashes of her smile, heard her laugh, and he began to rise. Arbiter stared at him in shock as he, still wincing, got to his feet and rocked, returning his gaze with a steely resolve. “Stand down,” Tim ordered through gritted teeth.

  Arbiter’s hand dropped to his side, and it was like someone had cut marionette strings above Tim. He immediately slumped and staggered, but remained upright. “Your resolve is… impressive, villain.” The hero sighed, a rumble more than anything else, as someone moved from the crowd toward him. “I have matters of state to attend to. I can no longer afford to deal with you.”

  Striding past Arbiter was a man cloaked in red steel, wires and circuitry glowing in the night. Slender tubes of blue liquid ran from jet-black gauntlets to his wrists. His bare face smiled wickedly at Tim as penetrating green eyes studied him, the rain trickling off his militarily short sandy hair. He recognized him instantly, the face of Ariana’s mother’s killer… Arbiter may have done the deed, but with his features exposed to the world and the bloody remnants of his hands, it was Erich Constantine who had become the poster-child of the event.

  Constantine’s eyes did not leave Tim. “Zealot, reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Deal with him,” Arbiter said dismissively. He leaned in to Constantine’s ear and whispered something.

  Those horrible eyes were still on Tim, unflinching. “I make no guarantees.”

  Arbiter grunted, then leapt out of sight, beyond the battle and into the night. Constantine and Tim regarded each other. Tim still felt ripples of agony running through him, but most physical damage had been healed by now. He had gotten dangerously close to the point of no return. But he was alive, and that’s all that mattered.

  Tim cracked his knuckles. “So, Arbiter’s sending his page to do his dirty work?”

  Constantine’s smiled grew larger. “How funny.” He started to circle Tim, the other man moving along with him to keep him in sight. “I am Zealot, Arbiter’s protégé and bearer of the legendary Gauntlets of Zealot.”

  Tim scoffed. “Legendary? Purgatory’s Inventor was legendary. You’re just a homicidal fuckup.” He paused, giving the insult time to sink in. “But I guess ‘legendary’ has a better ring to it.”

  The smile did not fade. “Insolent villain.” He brought his hand up, then formed a fist. “I was ahead of my time. And now… now… the same gauntlets used to let an un-Bestowed do battle with super villains will allow me to resume my rightful role in history.” His other hand squeezed shut. Blue strands of electric light danced above the knuckles until he slammed his fists together. With a burst of green static, the gauntlets flared with a crackling charge.

  “Your rightful role is in a coffin, motherfucker,” Tim growled. Not the best one-liner, but certainly not the worst.

  Zealot charged him and Tim side-stepped, ramming his hand into the back of the hero’s skull. The blow
staggered him, but he responded quickly, straightening and shifting his shoulders. He spun to face Tim as an armored mask rose from his suit and covered his face while the back of his head was sealed behind a second metal shell rising from between his shoulders. With a hiss, the helmet locked in place as a slender visor regarded the villain ominously.

  Tim swung a fist into the armor only to have it rebound off violently. “Do you like it?” the tinny-voiced Zealot asked before slamming a punch downward into Tim, the blow splattering green sparks on contact as Tim fell to the ground. It was strong, stronger even than Arbiter’s blows. “My armored suit is based on the vibro-principle,” Zealot mused as Tim struggled to his knees. An uppercut rocked into Tim’s jaw, sending him flipping over and onto his back. “Only… new and improved, thanks once more to Purgatory’s Inventor.”

  Zealot smashed his foot downward, onto Tim’s stomach. He worked the heel in a twisting motion, the powered suit and gauntlets fooling his body’s natural ability to heal. Tim had been hit by trucks before which left no lasting damage… but this… this was killing him.

  The hero knelt down and slammed his fist into Tim’s face, dazing him. Then, he was being lifted out of the ground and set harshly upright. A flurry of fists pounded into him, over and over again, in the chest and gut. Tim felt his bones splinter, his organs shake with every strike. It was agonizing, less than Arbiter’s psychic Retribution, but physical and, apparently, permanent. Tim darted backward, then swung in with his right hand.

  Zealot parried with his own punch, their fists slamming into each other with titanic force. The bones in Tim’s arm shattered from finger to shoulder on impact. He had just barely registered what happened when the hero grabbed his left arm and yanked him around before pulling the limb taught. An arm wormed above and under his armpit, locking him in place as Zealot’s grip on his wrist held firm. With a subtle, violent motion, Tim’s elbow broke across the other man’s chest. He was released and he stumbled forward. Heal, damn it, heal! he thought, turning toward his assailant. A final wind-up, and Zealot unleashed a wide-arced, smashing haymaker, the high, sweeping fist cracking into Tim’s head and snapping his neck around violently.