Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he shoved the door open, nearly blinding himself as the sunlight streamed over his face. As his eyes adjusted, he could see Zombress, in a blue business suit with an orange skull on the back of the jacket, standing on top of the helicopter pad. Her hands were clasped behind her back as she scanned the nearby buildings. He moved toward the series of stairs which would take him up to the pad.

  “I’m assuming your plans are going well?” she asked as soon as he crested the stairs.

  “As well as could be expected,” he responded. The wind was not particularly fierce today, but it wasn’t pleasant. “I’ll be setting up meetings between all formerly registered heroes, a villain, and an Enforcer who helped take out Arbiter after this. Once all the statements are evaluated, we can begin rebuilding.” He looked up at her, her sunglasses glimmering in the solar glare.

  She nodded. “Communication is king.”

  “I figured it was for the best. We can have everyone reinstated within six months if things go well.”

  “And if they don’t?” she asked, turning to face him, the spider-motif spectacles momentarily blocked by a stray strand of hair.

  “Eighteen months.”

  She turned back toward the buildings. “Any sign of Archetype?”

  Morant shook his head. “He’s disappeared. Even his apartment looks like it’s been abandoned for months.”

  “That’s a shame,” Zombress muttered. “I’d like to snap him in half like a wishbone.”

  “Arbiter’s at least in a heavy-duty sleep chamber.” His companion snorted in derision. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she mused. “Oh, by the way,” she said in the manner of having the intention of bringing up the topic for the entire conversation, “thank you for my token villain consulship of the Guild back.” She reached into her pocket and flashed the card. “I’m glad to see that after they tried to kill me, they want me back.”

  Colonel Morant laughed lightly. “Zombress, people need leaders. And I see no other that is more qualified for the position than you.”

  She cocked her eyebrow. “A villain leading the heroes? My dear colonel…” she said, giving him a gentle shove, “think of my credibility.”

  He smiled. “I think you’ll survive.”

  Zombress returned the smile. “I think you’re right.” The door to the stairwell squeaked open, drawing Morant’s attention. Zombress took the opportunity to walk to the edge of the helipad. “I seem to remember something about consuls voting on who temporarily replaces a deposed High Consul… am I right?”

  Morant saw a cameraman and the head of the station approaching the helipad. His brow furrowed in confusion for a brief moment. “That is correct.” He looked back at her as she continued to the edge of the building. “Why?”

  “It just seems like a lot of people lost their positions recently,” Zombress mused. “Which means that I’m the only consul.”

  Colonel Morant’s expression shifted to disbelief. “I would have thought…”

  “No need for humility, Mr. High Consul, sir,” she said, spinning in place and snapping him a salute. She smiled, baring her teeth as her hand fell again to her side. “If you need help, I’m sure you’ll see me around.”

  “Zombress!” Morant shouted as the cameraman and Producer reached the top of the stairs.

  Zombress took off her sunglasses and tucked them in her jacket pocket. “Sorry, boys!” She carved a symbol in the air. “But I don’t give interviews!” In a blur of motion, she leapt through it, backflipping off the side of the building. Morant ran to the edge, watching her slide down the side effortlessly before kicking off and continuing her descent on the structure across the street.

  “So, High Consul, sir,” Producer said smoothly. Morant’s attention turned to his company as the cameraman braced himself and hefted the camera to his shoulder. Solomon ‘Producer’ Houston smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “Huge fan of your work, by the way, Zombress vouched for you and the capture of Arbiter, while he was defeated by a villain, was a masterstroke,” he said rapidly before cracking his neck and bringing the microphone to his mouth. “Any words of wisdom for your new constituents?”

  Arthur had always thought that funerals needed rain to work properly. But it was a beautiful, sunny day. It wasn’t even cold, his hot tears staying warm on his face on the windless spring morning. A few times during the magister’s ceremonial speech, he had started to cry louder than normal, only to be greeted by the glare of his father. His dad held Julia as they stood at the side of the coffin, the nine-month-old sleeping quietly. Even if she had been awake, she’d occupy herself by looking around at the assembled faces, clearly unable to grasp what anything meant.

  The young boy looked over his shoulder as the magister droned on about his mother. Separate from his group of mourners, a tall dark woman, somber and immaculately dressed in black with sunglasses hiding her eyes, watched silently. He waved to her, but she did not return the gesture.

  A bony hand fell on his shoulder. He immediately looked up at the man his father had placed as his ‘guardian’ for the funeral. A wan smile crossed his face as his other hand rocked on his walking cane. “Child, do not beckon those of lesser morals into our midst.”

  Arthur didn’t ask what that meant. She seemed alright to him. A little scary, in a way he couldn’t quite understand, but not bad. The woman in black didn’t seem to be the kind who’d yell at him like his father. His father, whom everyone worshiped but who needed little provocation to scold his son.

  He looked over his shoulder to where he last saw the woman. She had disappeared, as though willed into the shadows.

  July 15th, 2011

  Afternoon

  Julia sat on the couch in the living room which was now officially hers, staring out the window as the rain fell in sheets. Dressed in jeans and a tank top, she ran a hand through her hair, messing it up even more than it already was. Occasionally, a car would drive past and kick up a wall of water, making her panic ever so slightly as the engine grew closer. Invariably, it would fade away, leaving her alone with her thoughts again. She had to wait for her villain and Enforcer duo to show up and ask her about recent events, all so they could come to grips with the situation.

  To be fair, she didn’t care if she got her license back. In the few months since graduating, she had seen so many people hurt, participated in things she would never be able to forgive herself for. Even with Colonel Morant as the head of the Heroes’ Guild, working with Zombress as he was, it felt like every hero in New York was marked by the taint of her father.

  The knock startled her upright, twisting toward the sound. She got to her feet and shuffled to the door. Surprisingly, she didn’t hear anyone on the porch, but she wagered the villain they got to do this mock-trial was stealthy. She undid the latch as the doorbell rang, prompting a quick eye-roll as she opened the door.

  Julia stopped, staring at the woman in front of her. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asked, eyeing up Ariana, the villain looking at her with a hint of something in her eye. She was dressed business casual, carrying a small briefcase with the Hero and Villain seals.

  “I actually requested you,” Ariana said simply. “May we come in?” she asked, gesturing to the short female Enforcer behind her.

  Julia regarded them silently for a moment. “Sure.” She turned and walked toward the dining room, listening as the two others walked in behind her.

  “Berkeley, could you wait in the living room for a moment?” Ariana asked quietly.

  “Of course,” came the response.

  Julia entered the dining room and leaned on the back of the nearest chair. Once she heard Ariana’s heels click on the hardwood floor, she gestured to another spot. Ariana didn’t sit down, but stood across from her, watching the heroine closely. After enough of a pause, Julia gently kicked at the empty air. “So, how do you want to do this?”

  Ariana set the briefcase down, smiling
to herself, exhausted. “I never thought we’d meet, you know?” Her eyes went up. She absently scratched her face. “Outside of glimpsing you at a party, I never…” Ariana’s eyes went to the table. “… Never had the courage to confront you.”

  “I didn’t exactly hunt you down,” Julia said. A pause. She was waiting for Ariana to do or say something vicious, to attempt something while her guard dog waited in the other room. As the silence stretched, she finally grew weary with the lull. “I did shoot you.” She threw her hands up in a ‘ya got me’ gesture. “But that’s it, I swear.”

  Ariana laughed through her nose and smirked out of habit. “I always… blamed you for everything that happened… you and your brother, anyway.” Her eyes flitted up to Julia, her face twitching with emotion. “Everything… just got so fucked up, you know?”

  Julia arched her eyebrows and nodded. “I know.”

  The villain looked toward the ceiling, brushing away a tear. “You saw him…” she began, choking on the word ‘die’. “… Right?” Julia nodded. Ariana’s eyes clenched shut, forcing out another tear. “I’m sorry,” she coughed.

  Hit by the words, Julia staggered. “What?”

  “If things had been different…” she said, her hand up as though warning Julia to stay back. “I would have seen what happened.” Ariana pointed to herself. “If I had seen… him…” She brought her hand up to her mouth. Julia moved around the table as Ariana began backing herself into the corner. “No one… should have… to see someone… they love… die,” she said between gasps.

  Julia, surprised at herself, grabbed Ariana from the side and held her close, her own eyes watering. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think of to say.

  Ariana collapsed, pulling Julia down with her. She remained clenched onto the hero’s arm as the rest of her sprawled on the floor. “I loved him so much,” she managed to say in between sobs.

  “Me, too,” Julia said simply. “Me, too.”

  The cot didn’t provide a whole lot of comfort, but it was better than the street, even if the fluorescent lighting was irritating his black eye. Arthur sat cross-legged on the mattress, thin covers wadded up on his lap to prop up the book he was reading. In about an hour and a half it would be lights out, and he’d have to continue reading under the meager glow of the desk lamp placed on the distressingly unguarded nightstand the operators of the shelter provided. He preferred using the good light on the homework he liked. The bad light could make his bad homework seem even worse which, in his teenaged brain, somehow made sense.

  Someone sat on the cot next to his and stared at him. Arthur chose not to look up, hoping that his bruised face would be a deterrent for someone to try talking to him. After a few seconds, the kid cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said.

  Arthur looked over at him and recognized him as a kid from school that he was… somewhat… friendly with… he guessed. A green skull emblazoned with a ‘PM5K’ glared greenly from his otherwise black shirt, metal-studded belt glaring in the light. His tattered black jeans were probably purchased off the rack pre-worn out instead of the owner investing in the effort to damage them for fashion’s sake. His head was shorn, save for the beginnings of a very curly blond mohawk. “I thought you had a home to go to, Tim,” he snarked, going back to his book.

  “You do, too, asshole,” he said, standing up.

  Arthur cocked an eyebrow and coughed a laugh. “Yeah, what a great place.” He closed the book and turned toward the other boy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Look, dipshit, the semester started two weeks ago and this kid shows up at a villain high school in the same clothes every day. Attitude problem, gets into fights he has no chance of winning, the works.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I figure his parents either don’t love him or he doesn’t have a place to go.”

  “And?” Arthur asked.

  “Turns out, I don’t like not knowing.” He bent over and grabbed the backpack Arthur had slung on the floor.

  “Hey!” Arthur shouted.

  Tim’s hand picked up a sleeve of the bathrobe Arthur had wrapped around his flattened pillow to bulk it up. He snorted. “Nice,” Tim grunted with a nod. “I followed you earlier today.”

  Arthur tried to go back to his book. “Whatever, dude.”

  “C’mon. I got your bag,” Tim ordered, slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

  Throwing himself off the bed, Arthur grabbed Tim’s arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Timothy?” someone called out. A tall, blond policewoman walked by the door at the end of the chamber and stopped, recognizing her target and walking toward him. “You found him?” she asked as she walked toward the two of them.

  “Yeah, mom,” Tim said, his snarkiness immediately replaced with a much more pleasant tone. “This is my friend Arthur.”

  The policewoman knelt down, looking Arthur in the face with piercing, dark blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Arthur had seen, which immediately became apparent when he looked away and blushed. “Tim’s told me about you.” She smiled. “We don’t have a whole lot of room, but it’s better than this place,” she said standing up, looking at the dark corners. “I’m Samantha McFadden, by the way.”

  Arthur looked up at her, then at the smiling Tim. “I’ll get my things,” he said. He returned to the bed and gathered up his books, wrapping them in the bathrobe he had stolen. Finally, he opened the drawer on the nightstand and withdrew the safe-box holding his mother’s jewelry. He would never let that go, no matter what.

  He approached them, Samantha smiling and turning to leave. Tim waited for Arthur to meet him, then walked in step with him. He slapped Arthur on the back, much harder than he probably intended. “First thing’s first, dude: when you get in a fight with a girl, there’s no shame in yanking on her hair.”

  His mother shook her head. “I don’t understand what you see in villainy, Timothy, but it’s better than being an assassin.”

  “I wanted to be an assassin,” Tim explained.

  “Thank you, Tim, that was implied,” his mother said.

  The crowded sports bar was loud from the various parties all fighting to be heard amongst themselves. Allison wasn’t paying attention to them so much as she was watching one of the many large televisions hanging on the walls. To her side, Steven and Morgan were laughing while playing one of those trivia games which pitted them against the rest of the restaurant. They were thoroughly engrossed in each other, playfully accusing the other of cheating one moment and shallow flattery the next. Paul, the other surviving Bennetts brother and the other third of Allison’s mob, was at the bar making awkward small talk with a couple of blondes.

  Damn, it feels good to be back in action, Allison thought as her mind drifted over the past couple of days. She checked her watch, outwardly oblivious to the stab of pain from her still-mending bullet wounds. The time ticked closer to 7:30 p.m., and her eyes shot back excitedly to the monitor. The credits of the inoffensive sitcom finished, then the image faded to black. A deodorant commercial followed, and she huffed in annoyance.

  An image of a speeding red sports car with the license ‘CAP1’ made her squeal loud enough to silence the other patrons. She bounded off her chair and sprinted to the television as nervous laughter broke out. Despite her stature, she leapt onto the bar quickly and turned up the volume. “… September, follow the life of the premier criminal mastermind of our time,” the announcer said without a hint of irony.

  The image flicked to Steven and Paul flanking her as they walked, assault rifles in hand, down a steaming alleyway, the red car parked at an improbable angle behind them. “I shot my sister in the head to save the world,” Allison’s disembodied voice calmly said as the camera centered on her. “There’s no (bleep)s left I can give.”

  “That’s totally me!” Allison shouted to the rest of the patrons.

  The frame focused on Paul. “Your girlfriend thinks about me when she’s with you,” he claimed without moving his lips. The mobster at
the bar gave the nearest blonde a poke with his finger and pointed to the screen.

  Morgan appeared to be actively considering the statement. “He does look like you, ya know.” Steven squinted at her in mock annoyance as she chuckled.

  It was Steven’s turn. “I’m the guy Arbiter has nightmares about,” he said coldly. The patrons gave a collective, challenging ‘ooo’ in the television’s direction.

  “That line was my idea!” Allison affirmed to the bar.

  “No argument here!” Steven shouted back to her.

  The camera switched to a four-way split screen of Allison, Steven, Paul, and surprisingly enough, a slightly embarrassed looking Morgan in various stages of interviews. “With unparalleled access into the mob’s inner workings and interviews with family and friends.”

  Morgan’s picture took up the screen as her eyes narrowed in annoyance. “What’s it like to date… why are you even asking me this?” she asked pointedly.

  The live Morgan grew red and sank in her chair as Steven gave a whoop and pointed her out. She quickly kicked him in the shin, generating laughter instead of a hiss of pain.

  The frame switched back to an image of the three mobsters leaning against the car in slow-motion as wind blew their hair and loose clothing to the side. Allison whistled at the image. “I’d fuck me, that’s for damn sure.”

  The words ‘American-Made Goon’ flew across the screen. “Catch American-Made Goon this fall!”

  The image was a close-up of Allison pulling out a pistol at the camera. “Or die.” With a gunshot, the screen went black.

  Allison turned back to the restaurant. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” she shouted. Immediately, the patrons started clapping and cheering her on. “Keep it going! We are famous, assholes!”