Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Mast approached Athena, and the only thing slowing her down at this point was the waning storm of gravel on the rooftop. “You of all people shouldn’t stop this, Diane!” Athena shouted, visibly exhausted. “You know what they can do!”

  “I know what you can do, too,” Mast responded. “You’re too weak to continue,” she said plainly as she closed in, bringing the distance down to a few yards.

  “I will die standing for what I believe in rather than let you pass,” Athena said. Although shaky, she brought her hands up. The debris in the air lost momentum and fell to the ground with a stony rasp. “I will die for my sisters.” She stumbled to one knee, eyes blinking lazily.

  “You won’t have that luxury,” Mast said, reaching her. Athena tried to punch her but ended up collapsing against the woman’s leg. The agent thwacked her pistol, hard, against the back of Athena’s head, sending her slumping to the ground. She knelt down and holstered her gun. Mast brought out a zip-tie to bind the woman’s hands together. The agent rose and pressed the button on her earpiece. “SERAPHIM commanders neutralized.”

  The card maker dinged pleasantly, ejecting the plastic for Arthur to grab. “Let’s go,” he said to the others. Steven and Allison nodded as he moved between them. Allison opened the door and checked both ways. She waved them through as Arthur tapped his headset. “Mollie, we’re en route.”

  Once the three of them were in the main hall, gunshots erupted, splintering the wood near them. “Shit!” Steven shouted, returning fire in the vague direction the attack had emanated from. Allison shoved her way by Arthur and opened fire.

  “Fall back to the auditorium!” Arthur shouted, tapping Allison on the shoulder.

  “You heard the man, Steven!” she shouted. He nodded and began walking backward as Arthur ran on ahead. “You’ll never take us alive, assholes!” she yelled above bursts of gunfire, punctuating it with a maniacal cackle.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  JUDGEMENT

  ARTHUR BURST INTO THE AUDITORIUM before scrambling back to catch the door for Allison and Steven as they fired off a final burst before ducking through. The room was dark save for the safety lights following the perimeter and dim work lights illuminating the stage. Arthur turned to the others and started running down the entryway, hand on the wall. “Did anyone see who was shooting?” he asked, his eyes flicking around. He managed to pinpoint a few of the red bulbs connected to the security cameras, but nothing else.

  “Not–” Steven was cut off by gunshots ripping through the door behind them. Arthur and Allison hit the ground as Arthur felt something hot and wet hit his face. “Fuck, damn it, shit!” Steven screamed as he collapsed. The goon rolled onto his back and fired a few rounds from his gun back toward the door, adding more streams of light to the darkness.

  Allison and Arthur grabbed Steven and dragged him further into the darkness. Arthur readjusted his grip, gagging at the sensation of torn muscle and the damp, warm shirt. “We need to hide him,” Arthur said, coughing.

  “He’s coming with us!” she shouted in return. More shots erupted from the doorway. Allison aimed her rifle one-handed and shot at the door. “He’s the only mob I have left!”

  “He’ll slow us down!” Arthur yelled.

  “They shot me… fucking fuckers shot my fucking arm!” Steven barked deliriously.

  “We’ll park him underneath one of the consul’s tables,” Arthur whispered. “As long as you shut up, you’ll be fine.

  Claymore was growing more and more frenetic as Archetype watched him, emotionless. Their patrols of the halls were dull, save for the crashes which Archetype insisted were not worth checking out and the occasional crackle of their earpieces. Claymore’s silence made the situation all the worse, preserving the tomb-like quality of the halls. The soft squeak of boots coupled with the occasional click of Archetype’s cane on the floor

  The headset buzzed, and Overseer chimed in. “We have lost contact with SERAPHIM commanders and Zealot.”

  “I’m on my way,” Arbiter growled over the line.

  “Shit!” Claymore hissed. He spun on his heel and jogged toward the nearest staircase, still a ways away. “We have to get down there!”

  “Arbiter will be more than capable of handling this situation,” Archetype said coolly.

  Claymore slowed to a stop. “No disrespect, sir, but we need to get down there.” He gestured to the empty halls. “Why are we even doing this? No one’s here. You can hunt ghosts all you want, I’m joining Arbiter.” He turned again.

  “Interesting choice of words, ghosts,” Archetype said smoothly, bringing Claymore to a stop. “Gunslinger tells me that you have been seeing things.”

  Claymore looked over his shoulder. “She’s lying.”

  “Is she?” He smiled. “Overseer, cut the camera feeds,” he said. Claymore turned to the skeletal man, squinting in disbelief

  “Of course, sir,” the computer buzzed obediently.

  As soon as Steven had been dragged, complaining, up a few steps and shoved underneath one of the workstations, Arthur and Allison ran down the few stairs and across the main stage. It was dangerous, but it was the fastest way to get to Overseer’s control room. Halfway across the stage, a bullet tore into Allison’s arm, her rifle falling out of her hands as she collapsed to the floor. Arthur skidded to a stop and turned, only to be greeted with more gunshots. He fell backward, looking back on Allison.

  “Just go!” she yelled over the thundering chorus. Arthur debated internally whether or not he should run, but more gunfire ended the discussion. He scrambled upright and ran toward the door.

  Allison rolled on her back and pulled out her sidearm, firing wildly into the dark auditorium. “Die you cowardly fucks!” she shouted as she forced herself to her feet.

  Arbiter was running from Overseer’s control room, up the stairs, and to the main hallway. He would have to entrust the security of the computer to Gunslinger for now. Zealot’s inability to answer, coupled with the commanders of SERAPHIM’s silence, elicited a sense of foreboding that he hadn’t anticipated.

  He erupted onto the first floor, sprinting the final stretch to the main hall. There were a few gunshots from within the Guild itself, but the more pressing matter was the army of ingrates collected outside. Rage welled up within him, twisting his stomach into knots. After all he had done for them, after everything he had sacrificed, they aligned themselves with villains because they faltered at their own strength.

  The front doors stood in his way as he rounded the corner. Without stopping, he gave a battle cry and leapt, erupting through the glass and bringing himself crashing in the middle of the fray. His former comrades stumbled backward as he righted himself. The effect was familiar, a stunned horror washing over them, his presence drawing their attention like a beacon.

  “What are you doing?” Claymore asked, his hands twitching.

  “The more serious question is what you think you saw that night at the Fort,” Archetype said, his eyes unnervingly penetrating the other man.

  “Whatever Julia said, she’s full of shit.” Claymore immediately felt the nauseating wave of heat wash over him, the same one he felt that night at the Fort, the one he had noticed when Archetype had interrogated Zombress.

  He must have physically reacted, as a smile spread on Archetype’s face. “Familiar, isn’t it?” He squinted predatorily. “Only one in a few thousand is naturally resistant to psychic probing.” He rested his hands on his cane, adopting the veneer of relaxation. “The reason you were supposed to die that night.”

  Claymore took a step toward him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were a tool. Not as valuable as the others, but nonetheless a useful martyr.” A shark-like smile spread on his thin lips. “Dervish should have killed you, enabling us to declare all villains rogue. But he was content on letting you live for whatever reason.” He clicked his tongue. “Villains are so unreliable.”

  “You set me up!”

  “Quite.”


  Claymore unsheathed his sword and ran at Archetype. Faster than his frail frame seemed capable of, the older man twisted the cap off his cane, withdrew a two foot stiletto blade, and threw it into Claymore’s gut. The weapon tore into his lower spine and he face-planted, sending his sword skittering across the floor.

  The rooftop on the apartment building provided Aeschylus the view of the battle he needed. He arrived in time to see Zealot go slack, his daughter standing above his form before beating his corpse. It was a scene from his past, played out in reverse. The hero defeated, the villain triumphant. His shame over disappointing Ariana was enough to overwhelm his anger that she had chosen to stay in New York City to see this thing through.

  Forgive my weakness, Ari.

  The power armor was hot, heavy, ugly, and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Aeschylus paced as he watched the riot continue to unfold below him. An occasional Bestowed attack would burst bright enough to illuminate his jury-rigged suit in all of its hastily assembled glory: layers of multicolored dingy metal soldered onto others; joints reinforced by scrap; jagged steel teeth biting into the air; a pair of too-large metallic gauntlets with delicate, articulate fingers to handle the finer aspects of the suit’s operation. Even when he would stop moving, the hum of bio-feedback was audible, the hastily assembled system thrumming with the hope for his redemption.

  With a tremendous, guttural roar, Arbiter exploded out of the Heroes’ Guild and crashed into the midst of the combatants. They scattered from his form, Aeschylus feeling their fear as his heart thundered against the metal suit. He inhaled, his body shaking with natural adrenaline and fear, and held his breath as he fitted his head-covering helmet on. With a snap and a whir, it secured itself into place.

  There’s no going back. The thought hung fatalistically in his head as he took several steps back. He rolled his shoulders and pressed a button on the wrist of his suit. A burst of stimulant silently flooded his system. His fingers flexed, and he ran toward the edge of the roof, flinging himself off. His suit-enhanced muscles screamed at the exertion as he heard, not felt, the wind whip by.

  Arbiter’s voice resolved in his in-helmet speakers. “Stand down!” he roared, his voice booming even above the continued clashing of distant fights. “This insolence may not be–”

  Aeschylus’s fist slammed into Arbiter’s face, flinging the hero end-over-end as Aeschylus continued rocketing toward the ground, cratering the pavement. The impact worked over his shins something fierce, but the chemicals in his system dulled the pain as he rose to his feet. Arbiter was already up, sneering. “The time has come, Arbiter,” Aeschylus said, his voice crackling as it filtered through the helmet.

  “Coward,” Arbiter hissed. “Once I rip you out of that suit, you’re a dead man, Inventor.”

  “That’s the plan,” Aeschylus replied. The two launched at each other, Arbiter’s fist crunching into his head as his own punch rammed into the hero’s unarmored stomach.

  Allison only realized no one was firing back at her anymore when the slide of her gun remained locked in its open position, the barrel smoking gently. She scanned the quiet auditorium in quick, darting motions. She swallowed. “If you’re not dead yet,” she began as she ejected the empty magazine, “let me know where you’re hiding so I can fix that.” Her right hand, slick with blood, pulled another mag of ammo from a pouch on her belt.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” came the condescending voice of Catalina from the darkness. With a synchronized pop, the four faint red lights of the cameras faded out. The lights of the auditorium snapped on to full brightness, temporarily blinding Allison. Disoriented, she tried to finish reloading, but someone smashed a rifle butt across her face, sending her to the floor as her gun spun away from her grasp.

  Get up… don’t die on the ground… she thought, scrambling back up. She opened her eyes, the shadowy figures resolving into the familiar shapes of three of her former goons, Mat, and Catalina.

  “Long time no see, sissy,” Catalina hissed. On her head, night vision goggles pointed toward the ceiling. No doubt that’s how she managed hit Allison’s arm in the darkness of the auditorium. Her rifle was strapped across her back, slung loosely for easier access.

  “You… fucking bitch…” Allison snarled. “Why?” she croaked as a tear fell down her cheek. The sensation made her prickle with anger. “Why?” she screamed.

  Catalina shrugged as Mat walked up behind her, checking the upper levels for movement. “Money, mostly. You see, someone was very keen on making sure you didn’t survive this.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling, as though remembering something. “Fun, too.” She took out her pistol. “Also, and this is probably the biggest reason, I hate your fucking guts.” Allison squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her face. “And that’s why I should have been the leader. You don’t see me crying.” She brought the gun up and alternated between aiming at Allison’s head and her gut. “The big question here is whether or not to make you suffer.”

  Archetype shoved Claymore upright against the wall as the younger man struggled against him. The slender man rose to his feet and regarded Claymore. “Since I can’t puppeteer any Enforcers to do my dirty work, I’ll have to kill you myself.” His voice was almost musically malevolent. “Unbelievably tedious.”

  “You tried to have me killed, didn’t you?” Claymore said, a tear rolling down his cheek as he pulled the stiletto out of his gut. All he had to do was wait until his nerve endings healed… and it would be quite some time.

  “Most certainly. But your spastic flailing resulting in the murder of Officer Johnson was… unforeseen.” He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, reveling in the sound of his own voice. “Despite your idiocy, it appears to have all worked out in the end,” he mused, kneeling by Claymore’s unnecessarily large sword. He grabbed the handle and rose to his feet. “I had hoped you would have had some degree of self-preservation and go along with the official report.” He pivoted and leveled the sword menacingly at the hero. “But I’m sure we’ll find another way to keep you quiet, eh?”

  “No one will believe you, fuckwit,” Claymore spat. I need time… just keep him talking.

  Allison’s eyes opened, glittering with tears. “I’ll always love you, Catalina.”

  Catalina snorted. “Suffer it is.” She closed the distance and shoved her gun underneath the bottom of the bulletproof vest. She squeezed the trigger and Allison collapsed, clutching her gut. She wailed in agony as she writhed on the floor, blood pooling underneath her. Catalina knelt by her side. Their eyes met. “There.” The younger sister pointed at her. “That’s what you stole from me.”

  “We should move,” Mat said, gesturing with his head toward the door Arthur had escaped through.

  Catalina got to her feet. “Spoilsport.” She took several long strides to the front of the group when gunfire erupted from the auditorium. Catalina wheeled around and opened fire without aiming at anything in particular. With a puff of blood, one goon fell to the stage. His partner tried to assist him only to have his jaw explode. He collapsed near his fallen comrade.

  Mat moved in front of the last goon as she turned to run. He tried to get a bead on their attacker, but the gunman had disappeared behind cover. “I know that’s you, Steven!” he screamed, firing his rifle into the air. “Fight me like a man!”

  “We have work to do, Maty!” shouted Catalina. Mat growled and ran back to Catalina, past his cohort. Another bark of gunfire, and the goon fell to the ground screaming, a chunk of her leg pulsing blood onto the floor. He turned to the woman and offered his hand, even as his brother pelted bullets at them. The goon reached for his hand before a gunshot near Mat’s ear made her go lax. Catalina yanked Mat back, smoking gun in hand. “Leave the fucking red shirt, dipshit.”

  “I think you’ll find that your ill-explained confession to Gunslinger makes my version of events more credible,” Archetype said with a chuckle. “With you out of the picture, the narrative is simplified. Poor Claymore, racked with survivor’s guilt,
falls on his own sword when confronted with the trials of heroism.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It will at least make a fascinating human interest piece.”

  Something stuck out to Claymore, distracting him. “Simplify the…” The idea clicked. “You’ve been killing the members of the unit that you controlled… so the real memories wouldn’t surface.”

  Archetype’s teeth shone menacingly between his lips. “Your thesis isn’t perfect, but it’s mostly correct.”

  “I’m going to go ahead and assume then,” Zombress’s voice interjected, startling the two men, “that you were the one who convinced the consuls that I was going to attack them that night.” Zombress was somehow seated on the ceiling, nudging a camera idly toward them with one hand while she scanned the cuticles of the other. Her head slowly turned toward Archetype.

  The psychomancer’s smile grew darker. “I couldn’t have you dangling there doing nothing. Not when Arbiter needed a show of force to secure his High Consulship. And making people believe you attempted mass murder…”

  She laughed haughtily. “I do not attempt anything.” Zombress pushed herself off the ceiling and landed on the floor in a crouch. “If I wanted anyone dead, they would be.”

  “Your arrival is quite fortuitous, Queen of the Dead,” Archetype said, tossing the sword to the floor. “I won’t have to stage this suicide at all, now.” He held his hands outward, projecting himself mentally toward Zombress.

  She put her hands on her hips indignantly as the pressure of his ability began to prod ineffectively at her mind. “Really?”

  Arbiter’s blows were jarring, even through the layers of steel and wires. A primitive version of the system Zealot used to scramble Bestowed abilities was at work here, but it didn’t seem to affect the hero in the slightest. Aeschylus figured that his opponent’s discipline would insulate him from the effect of his armor, the rationale behind the villain hiding behind a helmet. Out of sight, even if his Retribution ability worked, it was rendered meaningless.