Though tonight, I'm not so sure about the not going over the edge part.
Clad in form-fitting black-and-white workout clothes, she pulls the curtains shut over the sliding glass doors between the living room and balcony. It makes no difference to me, with my penetro-vision; I see right through curtains and walls alike as she mounts her treadmill and starts running.
So beautiful. So much like my Doris in so many ways, and so close.
But so untouchable. She might as well be on the opposite end of the universe from me.
She picks up her pace. Her breathing sounds so familiar, so much like the way my own Doris breathes during exertion. It makes me think of making love to her, my Doris, in our bed back home...or a room by the Seine...or a tent by Victoria Falls...wherever my powers could fly us.
Then, suddenly, I hear a noise like the crumpling of paper, followed by a man's voice--both coming from a few feet away, on my rooftop watchpost.
"And a new figure materializes from the night," says the voice. "It is a man, and he is about to change everything."
Whipping around, I see him standing behind me--a bald man in his thirties (forties?) wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. He's speaking into...
"...a digital recorder of some kind," says the man. "He looks calmer than he should, facing the most powerful superhuman..."
...in the world. Suddenly, I realize he's repeating my thoughts, completing my...
"...sentences..." says the man. "As if he can read..."
...my thoughts. Some kind of telepath?
"But then he lowers the recorder and switches it off." As the man says the words, he does what he describes. Then, he smiles at me, turning up the corners of his sandy brown goatee. And he says this, which is not something from my thoughts: "Hello, Pinnacle. How would you like some answers?"
*****
I feel like I've been caught red-handed, peeping on Doris. Instantly, I spring into a defensive posture, ready for anything the newcomer might send my way. If he's powerful enough to sneak up on me, he might be capable of devastating action.
"Who are you?" My heart pounds as I ask the question. Adrenaline blasts through my bloodstream.
The man smiles like he has a secret. "You may call me The Metafictive." He nods toward Doris Dane's window across the street. "So how's the stalking going?"
My temper surges, but I hold it in check. He might be trying to set me off for reasons I can't anticipate. "You mentioned answers." I keep my voice level and tightly controlled. "What kind of answers?"
"The ones you've been searching so hard for." The Metafictive raises his eyebrows and nods. "The ones no one else has been able to provide."
I stare at him, considering the possibilities. He could be an enemy who found out about my search from the Spell Squad, Cosmologists, W-Weird Wonders, or one of their contacts. Perhaps he simply read my mind. Or there's a third possibility.
Maybe he does have the answers.
Whatever the truth, his motives are still unknown to me. I decide to move forward, but slowly. "These answers. What are they regarding?"
"The girl of your dreams, of course." The Metafictive gestures toward Doris' window. "The marriage that never happened...except it did." He nods, looking dead serious. "And you and I are the only two people in the world who know it's true."
He could be lying, setting a trap, and I know it. But I have to keep going. What if he's my last hope? "What do you know about all that?"
"Everything." He sweeps his hands apart like a baseball umpire calling a runner safe. "I know it all, and I'm willing to tell you...for a price."
All my warning signals go off at once. "And what price would that be?"
"Not killing yourself," he says, "no matter how much you want to."
*****
I agree to his price. What else can I do?
As for him, he keeps up his end of the bargain. "You've been right all along," he says, "about everything."
As he talks, clouds glide in to shroud the moon and stars. The strongest light in my field of vision is the glow from Doris' window.
"The world has changed," says the Metafictive. "So has Doris. So have you. It's all been rewritten, literally."
I scowl at him. "Rewritten?"
"You're living in a story," he tells me. "You always have been. You just never knew it until now." He touches his hands to his chest and nods. "It's a story written by me and people like me. A continuing story published and sold to readers--to fans of your adventures."
I'm still scowling. "So you're my writer?"
"One of them," says the Metafictive. "And my job--our job--is to keep your story interesting and sell more books. To make more money." He shrugs. "But sometimes, sales drop. There are things we can do to bring in more readers, a whole bag of tricks...but when they fail, the editor tells us we need to take drastic measures to bring your story back to life."
"What kind of drastic measures?" I ask.
"A retcon, for example. It stands for retroactive continuity." The Metafictive pauses and looks up as if framing his thoughts. "We apply major changes to make the story more timely and exciting. To jettison baggage and back-story that make the narrative less accessible to new readers." He turns his hands like wheels, rolling them counterclockwise. "And we make the changes retroactive, as if the continuity has always been this way."
I feel a chill ripple through my body. What he's telling me sounds insane, absurd, impossible--but if it's true, the implications are horrific. "So this is what you meant when you said the world had been rewritten?"
"Bingo." The Metafictive touches his nose. "It's part of a giant retcon, actually--company-wide, encompassing all the characters and stories in this universe. And it worked." He claps his hands. "Sales are up. My editor's happy. My co-writers and I get to keep our jobs."
"By ruining my life?"
"We didn't ruin it," he says. "Just spiced it up some. Added conflict. Made you edgier."
Anger bubbles in the pit of my stomach, building in intensity. "That's why you took away everything I cared about? That's why you made me suffer? To spice things up for your readers?"
He shakes his head hard and flaps his hands at me. "It wasn't personal," he says. "Our readers felt you'd gotten too settled and boring. As a married man, you'd become dull and lost your edge."
"There was nothing dull or boring about our marriage." The anger's still rising inside me. "We were together over twenty years, and every day was an adventure."
"To you," he says. "But younger readers can't identify with that kind of life, and they're our bread and butter. They want to read sexy, violent stories about young people, not tales of marital bliss starring Mom and Dad."
My temper strains to get out. The man who killed my marriage is standing in front of me, defenseless, a perfect target. I'm ashamed to admit it, but a murderous urge rises within me. "So you just wrote her out. My Doris. You just got rid of her."
The Metafictive shrugs. "I was just doing my job. Giving the readers what they wanted. Keeping you vital, by the way." He cocks his head. "If people stop reading your stories, your book will be cancelled. Then you'll disappear, too. All this will be gone." He spreads his arms to encompass the city around us. "I helped you."
"You sadistic son of a bitch." I clench my fists. "You did a lot more than that." I take a step toward him. "You had to make me remember. You wanted to see me suffer."
He stands his ground and shakes his head. "I had nothing to do with that! You became self-aware on your own. You experienced complete retcon recall."
I stare at him. "You're telling me I remembered on my own?"
"Yes." He lets out a heavy sigh. "I still don't know why. Maybe because you're the most popular super-hero character of all time? That's a lot of psychic juice, aimed in your direction..."
Suddenly, I lunge forward and grab him by the shoulders. "Change it back!"
"I can't..."
"You're the writer! You can do anything!" I give him a jarring shake. "C
hange it back!"
"Didn't you hear me when I said sales are up? Changing things back is not an option." The Metafictive raises his audio recorder and flicks it on. "He speaks toward the directional microphone, saying my thoughts aloud as they..."
...come to me, tapping into my mind, which means he knows...
"...what I'm thinking about doing to him." The Metafictive meets my gaze and keeps... "...talking, even as my hands close around his throat, forcing his voice down..."
...to a croak. "Change it back!" I tell him, squeezing harder. "Change it back, or I'll retcon you."
But then he says something that isn't straight out of my head. "I write you." His face turns purple as I cut off the blood flow, but he still manages a smile. "Do you really think you can hurt me?"
Then, before I can tighten my grip...
"...he dissolves into swirling vapor..." says the Metafictive, "...and escapes..."
...between my fingers.
And I am alone again on the rooftop. Alone with the light from Doris Dane's window across the street.
But not for long.
After a moment, a blazing circle of light flares to life on the clouds like the signal beacon of a dark night hero. But instead of a crimefighter's symbol, the face of the Metafictive fills the circle, outlined in black as if by a stencil laid over a searchlight.
When he speaks, his voice booms over the city like peals of thunder. It echoes down the canyons between buildings, sounding like many voices all saying the same thing at once.
"I'm sorry," says the Metafictive. "This is how it has to be."
I stand there, glaring at his signal in the sky as the wind kicks up and whips my cape around behind me.
"But listen." The Metafictive's face changes slightly on the clouds, looking more sympathetic. "If you ever need to talk, you can reach me, all right? Here's my e-mail address."
His face disappears from the circle of light, replaced by the address. I don't need to write it down; my super-memory will keep it safe forever.
Then, the light on the clouds vanishes, and the wind dies down. The light in Doris' window across the street goes out, too.
And this time, I am truly alone.
*****
After that, life resumes its course. If I'm living in a work of fiction, I can't tell the difference.
Because of the type of person I am, I continue playing my role in the story. I fight bad guys, avert crises, and save lives. I try not to dwell on the changes in my life and my world.
And I send a lot of e-mails.
Why did the Metafictive give me that address? To make up for his own guilt? To placate me? To give me an outlet to express my feelings so I keep cooperating, keep performing for his readers?
Whatever the reason, I use it for something else. I use it to send him stories.
If the Metafictive can rewrite my life, maybe I can rewrite it, too. Maybe, if I can come up with just the right story, one that gives readers the excitement they're looking for, he'll even publish it. And things will go back to the way they used to be.
Between battles with cosmic conquerors, mad scientists, and monsters, I crank out story after story. Every one of them features me and Doris--my Doris--as a married couple. We face terrible dangers--the end of the world, even--but we find strength in our love for each other and always triumph, just like in the old days. Only with more of a sexy, snarky edge, the kind the readers might like.
I crank out these stories one after another...and as I write, I lose myself in them. For a little while, at least, I forget she's gone. It's like she comes back to me, like she never went away. And I find myself adding scenes with the two of us holding hands or staring into each other's eyes or flying through the starry night sky over Isosceles City. Walking along the beach or laughing at private jokes or making plans for the future. Talking about how we're expecting our first child.
I write these stories, and sometimes I love them so much they make me cry, and then I e-mail them to the Metafictive. Each time, I think this is the one, it's pure gold, he can't not use it. This is the one that will get him to talk his editor into undoing the retcon. This is the one that will get them to put everything back the way it was, the way it should be. Or, at least, it will finally get him to answer one of my e-mails.
Then, as soon as I hit "Send," I start writing the next one.
*****
Forced Partnership
ONE NIGHT IN ISOSCELES CITY...
My favorite super-hero pounds me with his fists. I can almost see the spiky sound effect balloons fly up with each punishing blow to my head. Boom! Pow! Wham!
Krack. That's the sound of my cheekbone snapping. The un-super cheekbone of a very un-super man. The super-hero battering me has unbreakable bones and the strength of ten men, but I've got nothing like that.
Even though we both wear the same black and gray costume and go by the same code name. Even though we both call ourselves Partycrasher.
"Stop it! Stop hurting me!" I blubber the words through my shattered teeth and swollen lips. "How can you do this to your number one backup? Your chief deputy in the Party Line?"
At least that makes him put my beating on pause. "For the last time!" He's so furious, he spits in my face while he screams at me. "You are not my backup!"
I cower on the sidewalk at his feet. "Please don't say that! What's wrong with you?"
"You're not in the Party Line, and we've never had a team-up!" He hauls back his fist, ready to let it fly. "The only thing you've ever done for me is ruin my life!"
"This isn't you talking, Partycrasher!" I spread my arms pleadingly, desperate to get through to him. "You're under a villain's control. You've got to fight it!"
The leather in his black glove creaks as he tightens his fist. "The only thing I'm fighting is the urge to kill you right this minute."
I meet his gaze through the eye-holes in his black leather cowl. Maybe there's a spark of mercy in there after all. "I knew you didn't want to kill me, Partycrasher."
"I didn't say that. I just don't want to kill you too soon." The muscles bulge along the length of his arm, defined by the moonlight flowing over them. "I want you to suffer like she did."
Then, he releases that punch he's been aiming. His sledgehammer fist crosses the night air like a missile, cruising straight for my...
*****
AT LAST! THE SECRET ORIGIN OF THE PARTYCRASHER/ADJUSTER TEAM!
You haven't lived until you've charged through the dark city streets at night, fighting crime with a true crusader. I'm telling you, man.
I remember our first adventure together, five years ago. Back when I was just starting out. Back when I was still calling myself the Adjuster.
You should've seen my homemade outfit and gear. So lame. I basically wore a black hoodie and jeans, plus a Halloween mask that was supposed to make me look like some kind of red demon creature.
It was pouring down rain one night, and I saw these two goons beating up a homeless guy in an alley. When I tried to break it up, I got my ass handed to me. Didn't even get to try my patented spine-cracking techniques on these guys. (I'm a chiropractor by day, hence "the Adjuster.")
Anyway, I was pretty much laid out on a pile of trash, about to get torn apart, when all of a sudden I heard that trademark howling laugh of his. It echoed down the alleyway, making the goons stop and look around for him.
Was he up the alley? Down the alley? Neither!
He leaped down from a fire escape above us, kicking both of them in the head at once on the fly. The goons staggered aside as he landed in a crouch on the wet pavement, surrounded by his fanned-out black cape.
There was the briefest of pauses. I remember thinking how cool he looked, how intimidating. Now that was a super-hero, I thought.
Then, he swirled into action again, tearing through the goons like they were a couple of rubber clowns. The one guy was crying by the time he was done with him; Partycrasher dislocated his left arm and broke his right leg in two places.
The other guy took a beating, too, but then he sneaked in a lucky shot with a cinderblock while Partycrasher was breaking his buddy's leg. Kerash! The block smashed against Partycrasher's head. The blow might have killed a less super-powered person, but it did leave him dazed, I could tell.
And that was my cue.
Springing off the trash pile, I reached into my pocket for the tube of ultra-potent deep-heating rub (my own personal formula). Bolting toward the goon as he raised the cinder block for another strike at Partycrasher, I squirted the rub right in his eyes. Wailing, he dropped the block and stumbled across the alley.
That gave Partycrasher all the time he needed to fully recover. Shaking off the effects of the block, he hurtled past me and took down the goon with style, pummeling him with a dozen blows to the upper body.
The goon teetered, then collapsed on the pavement.
Partycrasher turned to me. "Nice work."
I shrugged. "Any time."
Then, he cocked his head to one side, looking deep in thought. He stepped toward me and planted his hands on his hips. "Have you considered working with somebody? As a backup, say?"
I shook my head. My heart was pounding in my chest.
He reached out a black leather-gloved hand. "Well, would you? Consider it, I mean? I've been thinking about partnering up, and clearly, you can handle yourself in a fight."
I smiled. "Sure, I'll consider it." Then, on the spot, I made up my mind. "Actually, my answer is..."
*****
WHO--OR WHAT--IS BRAINTEAZER?
"Y-you're not just my p-partner." My speech slurs as Partycrasher's unrelenting blows pound my face to pulp. "You're my b-best friend!"
Six Superhero Stories Page 13