Men of Steel

by Ryan Loveless

  “So some tips, but no real info?” Simon asked.

  “Nothing solid. I figure we should look into a few leads, poke around a bit, maybe go in our civvies and see if we can hear anything that way.” Aero shrugged and picked up Simon’s mostly empty cup of coffee. He took a sip and put it back into Simon’s outstretched, indignant hand. “But we’ve also got a gig at the Parkton Elementary School. That’s at ten, and we’ll have time to do some other patrols around the city. NoCo’s been hot lately, might be worth a fly-by.”

  Simon finished his coffee and mopped up egg grease with his last piece of toast. “Okay,” he said. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Aero grinned at him, broad and warm and pleased, and Simon felt himself blushing. He loved and hated being on the receiving end of that smile. It just wasn’t fair.

  THEY ate burritos for lunch at a food cart downtown and signed a few autographs, and then Aero dragged Simon back to his place for a change of clothes and a little more poking around, this time less conspicuously. Superheroes in suits were like beacons in the sky, but two idiots in the wrong part of town didn’t draw quite so much attention.

  Aero’s real name was Matt Conrad, and he lived on the top floor of an apartment building at the south end of the city. His view was of the park that butted up against the river, and Simon had been there a few times since they’d started working together, watched the sun rise from Matt’s balcony when they’d had a particularly late night. If Matt had been a normal person with a boring corporate job, his commute into downtown would have been almost half an hour. As it was, it usually took him less than eight minutes to get anywhere. That was, provided the weather was decent. High winds threw him off a little, and rain forced him to slow down because of the visibility. Simon had never seen him combat snow—he’d only worked with him since May—but he imagined snow wouldn’t affect Aero the same way it hit Sparks. Simon couldn’t get a grip on deep snow to run all that fast, and if the temperature were too far below freezing, the cold chilled him so deeply that he had trouble getting his fingers to light when he needed them. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining that when winter rolled around.

  “This is a dud,” Simon said that afternoon, looking up at the facade of a boarded-up row house in NoCo. “No one’s living here. I bet this place is full of rats and coke addicts.”

  Matt shrugged, peering around into the alley. “We could take a couple of coke addicts,” he said absently. “Where do you think that staircase goes?”

  Simon dragged his eyes away from the worn-soft ass of Matt’s jeans and followed his pointing finger. “Uh. More coke addicts?”

  “You’re not even helping,” Matt said, glancing at him and grinning, despite the chiding tone of his voice. “Keep a look-out, will ya?”

  Simon turned around, scanning the street for anyone taking an interest in the two of them, and said, “Clear.”

  Matt pushed off the balls of his feet and rose into the air, reaching above him for the windowsill. He caught it and steadied himself, peering into the dusty glass. Simon looked between him and the street, more interested in the view of Matt from this angle than anyone catching them without their masks on. Matt’s body had a kind of strength and grace to it that came naturally and unfairly. He didn’t have to work for his incredible musculature, and he moved in the air as easily as a swimmer. Scientists had been after the physics and biology of power manifestation for decades, and flight had always eluded them. Matt was a poster child for an ability that might have been unnatural, being instead entirely unextractable from its origin. Without flight, Matt wouldn’t be the same person he was.

  “Nothin’,” Matt groused, dropping smoothly back to the pavement and rubbing his palms off on his jeans. “You’re right, this is a bust.” He kicked the ground, sending a handful of pebbles bouncing in every direction. “Fuck, I wish we had some kind of clue where this guy was. Feel like we’re lettin’ the city down.”

  “We’ll find something,” Simon said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “What if—” He stopped, scrunching up his face in thought. “What if we turned the tables, somehow? Lured him in with something he wanted? Got him to come to us?”

  They started down the street, Matt nodding and smiling at folks out on their front steps, saying “hi there” in his more subdued voice.

  “But we don’t know what he wants,” Matt said, scrubbing his hands through his short, dark hair. It ruffled the wrong way under his fingertips, and Simon stamped down the urge to smooth it back into place. Matt did it himself without noticing Simon’s aborted motion and sighed. “I mean, besides money. But what’s he using it for?”

  “Giant guns,” Simon said. “He’s going to use Lawrenceville as his base to bomb the Russians.”

  Matt snorted. “Okay, but why’s he gotta steal our money if he hates the Russians so much?”

  “He runs the mafia,” Simon offered instead. “He’s building a casino on the other side of the river. Oh, I know, he owes the mafia, and everyone knows you have to pay them in full, and quick.”

  “Sure, he owes the mafia, so he’s knocking over major banks and leaving wanton destruction in his wake. I’m more inclined to believe the first theory.”

  “The bombs?”

  “He runs the mafia.”

  They paused on the corner to wait for the light to change. Cars zoomed past on the four-lane road, and Simon pictured himself running alongside them. He could feel their speed in the wind that buffeted them on the sidewalk.

  “That guy’s speeding,” he said, pointing to the back end of a rusty red sedan.

  “No shit,” Matt said. “Nearly knocked me down, he shot through there so fast. Quit showin’ off.” He bumped his shoulder into Simon’s. “You wanna go check out the warehouses at the wharf?”

  “You have the best ideas,” Simon said. “Let’s go.”

  THE warehouses past Turtle Point were also a bust, just a slew of old buildings neglected and falling down on themselves. They had been sugar plants once, processing thousands of tons of sweetener every month in their heyday, but that had been twenty years ago or more. The sign above one of them was sagging, and Matt flew up to straighten it out.

  “Someone will notice,” Simon called.

  “I hope so,” Matt said, returning and looking up at it with a smile. “Can’t do much, but when I can....”

  The sun was setting by then, and the glow in the sky made Matt’s face light up, his profile in sharp relief against the bare brick of the massive building. He was beautiful, so much so that it made Simon’s chest ache, and he had to look away. It was one thing to call it a crush, this thing he had, and quite another to admit that it might run a little deeper than that.

  “Let’s split before it gets shady,” he said, squinting his eyes against the glare on the water.

  “What, you don’t wanna watch the sun set?” Matt teased. “I’m tryin’ to show you a good time.”

  “It’s working,” Simon said, kicking the dirt.

  FOR dinner, they shared a styrofoam box of Chinese buffet take-out from the train station, which they paid for like civilians. They sat on a bench outside, hunched against the chill over the steaming noodles. Matt ate more than his share of the broccoli, but Simon made up for it by eating two of the three spring rolls. They passed a can of soda back and forth too, and Matt finished it while Simon scraped the bottom of the box for the last bits of rice he could get with his chopsticks.

  “It’ll be quiet tonight,” Matt said, looking up at the sky. The stars were almost invisible against the lights of the city.

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah.” Matt tapped the soda can against the metal bench arm and then tucked it into the box before Simon closed it. “I have a sense for that kind of thing.”

  Simon snorted, only partially disbelieving. “Like a Spidey sense? You can tell when trouble’s afoot?”

  “Shut up,” Matt said, giving him a shove. “I do! Well, okay, I think I do, but mostly the radio’s been quiet al
l day. I think it’ll hold off until the weekend at least.”

  “No more early-morning fires?” Simon asked.

  “Well, I can’t promise you no one’s going to burn their breakfast, but I’ll forgive you if you don’t show up to watch.”

  “What’ll we do in the meantime?”

  Matt thought about it. Simon’s nose was cold. It was October, but the cold snap was making it feel more like late November. He hoped it didn’t last.

  “Call Kate,” Matt said. “See if she wants to go for a drink.”

  KATE found them at a dark, cramped bar called The Depot, which was about a mile from Simon’s apartment. Matt liked it for its microbrews on tap, and Simon liked it, privately, for its proximity to a gay club he’d been to a few times. That was before he’d started working with Aero, of course. Superheroes rarely had a day off. He didn’t have time anymore to spend all night getting wasted and felt up by men in leather, as much as he’d enjoyed that, and he felt a little nostalgic when he passed the nondescript door, but this—working with Aero, hanging out with Matt, doing good—felt better.

  The minute she put her coat down she demanded a game of pool, and Simon obliged her. Matt stood to the side, shifting himself whenever they wanted to take a shot from a certain angle. He held Simon’s beer for him too, and handed it over whenever Kate was taking a shot and Simon went to stand by him. He leaned into Simon, their elbows touching, and Simon couldn’t help enjoying the attention. He knew it was stupid, but he was weak sometimes.

  “She’s kicking your ass,” Matt said, leaning in, curling an arm around Simon’s shoulders and speaking into Simon’s ear so he could be heard over the noise of the bar.

  “I think she’s a shark,” Simon replied, breathing in subtly. Matt smelled good, familiar and warm, and Simon’s cock hardened a little in sympathy. He angled his body away from Matt’s, and Matt grinned and let him go.

  “I’m getting another. You want anything?”

  Simon shook his head. “Gotta stay sharp,” he said, and Matt disappeared into the melee at the bar.

  Kate leaned on her cue and raised her eyebrows at him suggestively.

  “Shut up,” Simon said, stepping away and leaning over the table to take his shot. “It’s complicated.”

  “You are going to shrivel up and die before you tell him,” Kate said. “I’ll come to your funeral.” Simon shot and scratched, and Kate laughed. “But first, obviously, I need to show you how this is done.”

  A FEW hours and two beers later, Simon declared he was done for the evening. Kate volunteered Matt to see him home, and they both looked at her, confused.

  “It’s fine,” Simon said, gently dislodging Matt’s friendly hand on his arm and wincing at the way Matt’s face fell. “It’s ten blocks, dude. I’ll be fine.” He was tipsy, yes, but he wasn’t so plastered that he couldn’t get home on his own.

  “Don’t get murdered,” Kate said, waving her beer bottle at him. “You know how awkward that can be.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Simon said. “In this neighborhood, especially.”

  “Text me when you get in,” Matt said, leaning into him again and slipping his arm back around Simon’s shoulders. “Need to make sure you don’t stop along the way and get into trouble.”

  “Jesus, okay,” Simon said. “I’ll text you when I get home. What is wrong with you?”

  “Dangerous night, kiddo.”

  “What, Thursday? What about your Spidey sense?”

  “You never know.” Matt pursed his lips seriously, and then gave Simon a push toward the door. “Get outta here. Walk your ass home, see if I care.” He raised his voice so Simon could hear him as he left. “Guy turns down a perfectly good ride home, and he knows the quality of the rides I give!”

  Simon rolled his eyes so hard he almost hurt himself and tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt down against the midnight chill. His stomach was twisted up with confused wanting, and Matt had been running hot and cold, touching him too much and then acting as if it wasn’t happening. His face felt warm, and the air cooled it quicker than he liked.

  Three blocks from the bar, Simon’s phone chirped from one of his pockets, and he had to pat a few of them to find which one. It was a text from Matt that made Simon frown in confusion. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

  Miss you already, kiddo.

  What the fuck, seriously. Simon stopped on the sidewalk to read it again, just in case. Matt was not allowed to be missing him; he’d just left the bar. He also wasn’t allowed to get up in Simon’s personal space, touching him and flirting with him, and then pretend they were all buddy-buddy in the morning. It had happened before, and Simon didn’t like the thought of it happening again. Some of it was his own fault, letting himself be encouraged.

  A van drove past. Simon squinted at the keys of his phone and began to write back. He got as far as You’re an assho when he realized the van hadn’t driven past so much as driven up and stopped, and he looked up, startled. The phone fell out of his hands, its message half-written, as two men in black jumped out of the van.

  Simon backed up, turned, and broke into a run. The alcohol made him slower than normal, but he had reached the end of the block before a sharp pain pierced his shoulder. He stumbled, went to his knees in the middle of the street, and tried to get up again. His limbs felt sluggish, too heavy, and his vision blurred. He heard himself say “No,” but it was lost in the haze of whatever was now rushing through his bloodstream. He felt himself being lifted, heard the metallic clatter of the van door closing, and then everything was dark.

  SIMON’S eyes wouldn’t open when he wanted them to. He could hear voices around him, speaking low and urgently, but he couldn’t look and see where, or who, they were coming from. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, and he fought down the urge to vomit. He hadn’t been that drunk when he left the bar—shit. When he left the bar. Something had happened after he left the bar, and it hadn’t been fun. His cheek ached where he’d been struck, and his shoulder throbbed.

  He tried to lift his hands to his face, rub away the fog in his head, but they wouldn’t budge. His arms ached, his shoulders pulled back too far, and he knew they were tied. Christ. This was even worse than he’d imagined. He lifted his head again, struggling against the unbelievable pain in his temples, and opened his eyes. Not that it helped. He was in total darkness, staring into nothing. He could feel the hard wood of the chair he was seated on, the smoothness of the rope that held him fast. The voices around him echoed as if they were in a large room, and Simon could smell dust in the air. From the temperature of the air on his skin he knew that they were indoors, but he was so chilled internally he almost couldn’t stand it. He tried to light his flame, but he couldn’t gather enough heat inside his body to spark anything.

  One of the voices broke off abruptly, and Simon heard footsteps approaching. He smelled hair gel and the musty scent of old laundry. He turned toward the footsteps, searching blindly for any kind of shape in the darkness.

  “Good morning, ah, Sparks, isn’t it?” The voice was deep and smooth, definitely a man’s voice, and it was right beside him.

  Simon froze. “Blackout, I’m guessing,” he said. No use in denying his own identity; his face had been all over the news the last few months, and he never wore a mask, thinking the sidekick would never catch anyone’s interest. Hoping the goggles would keep him anonymous was ridiculous. People knew him on the street; this was no different, unfortunately.

  The voice laughed. “Is that what you’re calling me?” Simon heard the sound of rustling cloth. “I rather like that.”

  “What do you want?” Simon demanded. His throat felt thick. “What did you do to me?”

  There was more movement, and Simon turned his head, trying to follow it. He heard the creak of leather, and then there was a firm hand holding his face, gripping his chin. He jerked backward, but the grip held.

  “That’s two questions, Sparks; which will I answer first?”


  Simon tried twisting away, but his head swam with the movement and the grip only tightened painfully.

  “I’ve given you something to keep you cool,” Blackout said, his charming veneer slipping, “for as long as it takes.”

  “He’ll come for me,” Simon said firmly. He clenched his hands into fists, yanking against the binding, and struggled to light up. His blood felt like ice in his veins, and nothing would come. “Aero, he’ll find me.”

  Blackout laughed softly and let go of Simon’s face. Simon turned his head away and rubbed his chin against his shirt, wishing he could erase the phantom pressure.

  “I’m counting on it,” Blackout said. “Care to make a wager on how long it takes him to notice you’re gone?”

  “Not a gambling man,” Simon said. It hurt his head to stare into the darkness like that, so he closed his eyes again. It made him feel more vulnerable, willfully blind, but it made no difference. His head still hurt.

  “Well, I think it will be a while.” Blackout’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he took a couple of steps to stand behind Simon. They might have been boots, judging by the heaviness of the sound, but that could have been Blackout himself. They’d never seen him; he could be enormous. “Are you comfortable, Mr. Sparks?”

  Simon snorted. “If I say ‘yes’ are you going to make it worse?”

  Blackout chuckled. “It doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other. You’ll be here until he is, and then you’ll both be gone.” There was rustling, and the sound of hermetic packaging being opened. Simon sensed the needle before he felt it, cold against his neck, but there was nothing to do about it. It pierced him, a sharp bloom of pain into the trapezius muscle of his neck, and then he was sinking again into the fog.