by Matt Carter
Her eyes go wide as saucers, and in a streak of light, she disappears, only to come back a fraction of a second later. By this point, I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“The Maytag logo on that dryer says you’re lying.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. In any case, how’re the Mendozas settling in?”
“Good. I don’t think the parents trust me.”
“You’re a pro-hero, and they’re from WPC. What’d you expect, a parade?”
She has nothing to say to this. “Kaley’s a sweetheart, though. She wants to be a superhero when she grows up.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says this, looking to some faraway place of hurt. The part of me that grew up in the Crescent wants to push and prod, to scratch open that hurt and pour salt on it, but I don’t.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I say, letting the word hang there.
Believe it or not, this isn’t the most awkward conversation I’ve had after running into an ex-one-night-stand.
“Should I be asking you what you were doing at the Camp tonight?” I ask.
“Should I be asking what you were doing there with one of Quentin Julian’s killers?” she asks back.
“You caught that, then?”
“Kind of hard to miss with his face all over the news.”
“It’s a memorable face,” I admit. “So, why haven’t you arrested him? And the rest of us, for that matter?”
She still won’t meet my eyes, instead staring at the TV, through it even.
“I used to think I knew what good and evil looked like. I thought I could fly into any situation and know right from wrong. Lately, it hasn’t been working out that way. But tonight, I knew. I could see the men burning everything down, killing people, and I knew that was evil. Then I saw you. You were protecting those people because you knew it was the right thing to do, putting your life on the line, and I knew you were good. And I knew that if you were doing this because it was good, then things couldn’t be so simple about Mr. Mendoza. So that’s why I’m here, talking to you and trying to figure out what the heck to do next.”
She’s put me in one helluvan awkward spot. It would be a lot easier, and safer, to blow her off with a half-ass excuse about why I was protecting Mendoza. It would have been easier and safer not to invite her into the Well in the first place. But if she means what she says, she could be my ticket into circles I’d never be able to infiltrate otherwise, places even Fadia can’t go (though won’t she be pissed when she hears about this).
If she hasn’t been kicked off In the Cards yet, she may even be able to get me access to the Conqueror himself, and wouldn’t that be something?
Maybe she can help me find out what the hell the connection is between him and Milgram, and what the hell that has to do with the death of Quentin Julian.
Or maybe, she really is just a spoiled EPC starlet out for a cheap thrill. Maybe she’s even on Milgram’s payroll too, just like the cops.
There’s only one way to know.
“Give me your hands,” I say.
“Why?”
“Are you really gonna tell me you’ve never looked up my record and R-SAL info?”
“I … might have done some research.”
“Then you know why. If you’re worried about me stealing your deepest, darkest secrets, relax, I’m better with inanimate objects, people are never as reliable. But if you give me a few minutes I’ll get enough of a reading to know if I can trust you.”
“And if you decide you can’t?”
“Then I guess we’re both shit out of luck.”
She doesn’t hesitate long before offering up her hands. I try to shake the feelings of revulsion I had in the days after our tryst, and take them without too much hesitation of my own.
And then I see what she’s been up to.
I see a woman trying to be a hero and being blocked at every turn.
I see someone regretting actions not taken and wanting to fix that.
I see an EPC princess stopping a jackass from shooting up a peaceful protest.
I see a superhero who actually believes in the word and isn’t just in it for the fame.
That’s all I need to see.
“So you want to be a hero?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“I don’t just mean like a pro-hero, I mean a real hero. You want to make a difference, do something good no matter what it takes and how it might blow up in your face?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I think I do, too. So let me spin you a story.”
And then I lay it out for her.
Milgram and what he’s doing to WPC and the Crescent.
Everything Mendoza told and showed me, and how that led to the discovery of a probable connection between Milgram and Mayor Card and the violence that’s been taking place.
I pause when it gets to my part in this.
For a moment I almost give Bystander up, but ultimately decide against it. I just … I can’t. I tell Kline that Milgram sent a shapeshifter looking like Julian’s murdered secretary to set me on the trail to find Julian’s killers.
She doesn’t quite react the way I expect.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, standing up.
“Really?”
She paces back and forth in front of me, so distracted she doesn’t even seem to realize her feet aren’t touching the floor.
“I knew before I knew, I mean, really knew what they were, that the Cards were bad people. You don’t have to see much to know that. But working for them, being in their house every day, shadowing them like a flipping puppy …”
“Everyone knows they’re assholes. That’s why they voted for the guy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, then that’s something else you and me got in common.”
“I’ve seen things, though, that I think might be a part of what you’re talking about.”
Now she’s got my attention.
“And what might that be?”
“He’s got a map of Pinnacle City on the wall of his home office with a lot of markings on it. Sometimes when he’s watching TV, I sneak in and look at it.”
“What kind of markings?”
“Misspellings, mostly, but most of them are over the west half of the city. Like a new map on top of the old one. Kind of a grid, with some sections empty, and some of them holding company names. Some of them were his, some I know belong to other people—”
“Other people in your circle?” I finish.
She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no.
“It makes sense, though, doesn’t it?” I add.
“Card and Milgram stage the murder of Quentin Julian because he was building a case against them, and to demonize West Pinnacle City,” she says.
“Two birds with one stone,” I confirm.
“Probably to set the political scene for Card to push through his no man’s land project,” she goes on. “That fits. But then why all the map work? It’s not like he cares what happens in WPC once it’s cut off. And what does Milgram get out of it?”
“I don’t know yet, but I don’t think they’re the only two with a stake in this.” I’m sure this is a delicate question, but it has to be asked. “Is there any chance the other pro-heroes are in on it?”
The way she looks at me, you’d think I just told her Christmas was canceled.
“No.” she says, her hands glowing with energy, and I’m not sure she’s really talking to me. “No way. The others, they’re not perfect, but they’re not criminals.”
I could go on about this for a while, but I’ve learned better than to antagonize a pro-hero, especially when their blood is up like this.
“So, what do we do now?” she asks.
“We?”
“Yes, we. You told me all of this, and if any of it’s true, I’m as much a part of this as you are.”
“For now, I’m going to go upstairs and get a drink,” I say, feeling a tug in my left
arm. I need my pills and I need them bad; I’m just hoping Lucero has a fresh stash upstairs and is willing to let me get some on credit.
“You’re getting drunk?”
“It’s late, and there’s not a lot that can be done for now, so, yeah, I’m gonna get drunk and surround myself with a bunch of even drunker ex-supervillains who no one, not even Milgram himself, would dare fuck with. You go home, get a good night’s sleep, and go back to work.”
“Back. To. Work?!” she says, punctuating each word as if it were a curse.
“Yeah?”
“The Cards are monsters, and every moment I’m with them I feel like I need to scrub myself clean. Why would I go back to them?”
“Because the best idea I’ve got right now is building a case to prove all this and making it go public. We can’t just go around killing the mayor (I have it on good authority it might destroy the future, or something), but we can tell everyone the evil shit he’s done and take a stab at getting him arrested. I’ve got a friend in a pretty good place with the media. I think if we get enough proof that they can make stick, maybe if we can find Julian’s file, there’s a chance we can clear Mendoza’s name and get the right people put behind bars. But to get that proof, we could sure use someone like you on the inside.”
I don’t know when I became we, but there you have it.
Her fury, though, is unstoppable.
“That’s not good enough. I want to—I need to hit something. I want to fight some bad guys.”
Looking at her, remembering how well she fought against the Effigies and how little they could hurt her, an idea forms.
“If you can’t take on Card,” I suggest, “why don’t you take on Milgram?”
Her eyes brighten at the idea. “Take the conspiracy out at the ankles. Make it so they can’t walk.”
“Exactly. I know his home base, and I have a friend who can probably show you where the rest of his operations are if you ask real nice. If I help you do this, will you help me look for Julian’s file?”
She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Only if you’ll do something for me, first.”
“Other than setting you up to give Milgram a hard time?”
“Going back to the Card family is worth two favors.”
I didn’t think she had it in her. “Go on.”
“You know Ace Card?”
“The mayor’s son? The one who looks like he needs a good punch to the face? You want me to rough him up for swatting you on the ass or something? ’Cause I don’t need that much of an excuse.”
She’s not amused. Maybe I hit too close to the mark.
“Working for the Cards is about ninety percent covering for everything they do,” she says. “You have the ability to uncover things, in a way that’ll stand up in court. I need you to help me fix a mistake.”
She chews her tongue, preparing for an uphill battle of convincing me, of justifying what she’s about to say.
“Last night, at the Silver Cowl, Ace drugged and raped—”
“Done,” I say, without hesitation. I meant it when I said I didn’t need that much of an excuse to go after Ace Card, but proving this is something I’d do pro bono.
She’s speechless for a moment, tripping over the unnecessary remainder of her pitch. “Thank you.”
Finally, she sits down and holds her hand out to me. “So, we’re going to save this city?”
“We can try,” I say, standing up. “But if we do this, it might be the end of your heroing days.”
“If I can’t be a superhero and a hero at the same time, I don’t deserve these powers.”
I clasp her hand in mine.
I know this is insane, and I know this is risky, and I still don’t want to like or trust this woman, but I also know that she’s likely my, and this city’s, best hope.
Now here’s hoping we can both do even half of what we promised each other.
CHAPTER 16: THE SUPERHERO
The meeting spot Eddie named is on the corner of a homeless tent city and a street of businesses crushed under Killtron bot-sized footprints. I’m dressed again in jeans and a hoodie, a better-fitting set after what Effigy did to my thrift shop ensemble, but as inconspicuous as I can be.
I’ve been counting the hours all day until I could get out of my Solar Flare outfit and slip away from both Card Mansion and Guardian Tower, away from all the concerned and disappointed glances lingering from my no-call no-show day.
It’s only now that the nerves are starting to set in.
“You’re here,” says a voice behind me.
I jump and whirl around, energy charging up my fingers, but I know the instant I turn that it’s no mugger. It’s her, the contact Eddie told me to meet for my first of our self-assigned rogue heroing missions.
Dissident.
She looks exactly like all the grainy photos of her you see on the evening news, covered from head to toe in black. Black body armor, black cape, black holsters and belts for a million different weapons, and a black helmet that reveals nothing but digital, glowing eyes and the faintest glow of the electronics inside.
Her voice comes out distorted, digitized, and without kindness.
“Put it on.”
She holds out a plain, store bought ski mask.
“I never wear one,” I tell her.
Glasses when I don’t want to be noticed are the closest I let myself get.
“That face of yours is worth most as a mole,” says Dissident. “You’re here on the condition that you keep it clean.”
She shoves the mask into my hands, and rather than argue and be left behind I pull it on. In her helmet’s reflective faceplate, I look like a common robber.
Uncle Ethan always said real heroes don’t need masks. He said we were the trustworthy ones, the ones who give our names and faces to the world, the ones who accept true responsibility and allow ourselves no reasons to hide, no reasons to be ashamed of what we do.
Now I’m wearing one to do the first thing I’ve been unashamed of since taking his name.
“It also has filters to shield you against Milgram’s verbal mind tampering,” adds Dissident.
“You know, you could have led with that.”
“Stop. Right now, or I send you back where you came from.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop playing Glitter Girl.”
“I’m not playing—”
“You are not here to inspire children’s comic books. You are not here to out-dance, out-gimmick, and out-banter this man. You are here to bring pain and take names and ruin the days of people who smuggle bioweapons and rent out kidnapped women and children to the highest bidder. You’re here because Eddie says you can be trusted, and because I’ve been waiting for so long to have the muscle to fuck this place up that I’m willing to risk putting a superstrong rookie in the same room with a mind controller to do it, and you are not going to make me regret that gamble.”
“No regrets.” I hold up my hands. “Promise. And you don’t have to worry, I’ve been fighting crime for fifteen years.”
“Kittens in trees aren’t crime.”
I want to tell her that pet rescues only make up about two percent of the calls the Justice Juniors go out on, but the memory of the charred corpses in that burning shantytown resurface, along with a layer of bile at the back of my throat to suggest that maybe she has a point.
Without another word, Dissident turns, walks, and gestures for me to follow.
“So, you think he’ll actually be there?” I break the silence. “I mean, personally?”
“His personal schedule varies without warning, but I’d give us good odds.”
We traverse several shattered city blocks at her painfully deliberate walking pace, and I have to ask.
“Where are we going?”
Dissident finally nods up the slope of weeds ahead. “Where else?”
I take in the stark, crumbling façade of the old Snyder Sanitarium and wonder for a moment if I’ve only traded in
one superteam’s hazing for another.
“Seriously?”
“Deadly,” Dissident answers.
“He’s operating out of an actual abandoned mental institution, and he somehow hasn’t been exposed yet?”
“You can afford to be audacious when you’ve got the whole PCPD either on your payroll or terrified for their families’ lives.”
“And maybe the mayor,” I mutter.
The sanitarium’s front gate is still padlocked under its faded CONDEMNED sign, and I charge up my hand to break through it, but Dissident blocks me at the wrist.
“Element of surprise.”
“Up and over then?” I ask, holding out my arms.
“Do not pick me up,” says Dissident.
She pulls what looks like an extra baton from her belt, holds it to the side, and pushes a button to extend it into a vaulting pole, propelling herself over.
I lift off, swoop down next to her on the other side—no smashing, no lights—and follow her up the sanitarium’s former lawn to the front door.
She pulls a set of metal picks from her belt and sets to work on the lock. I try to stand still and not overthink what’s going to be on the other side of that door until it finally creaks open into a dark, empty lobby.
“Now what?” I whisper.
“The offices are upstairs on the left, and there are some storerooms in the basement. Go find out what they’re running through this place and see if you can find anything to link your buddies in the mayor’s office to it.”
“And you?”
“Milgram. You hear my voice in your mask, you come in smashing to back me up. I won’t ask twice.” She runs silently down the ground floor hallway while I start up the stairs.
And I thought Pinnacle was bossy.
Though, on the other hand, Pinnacle’s never trusted me to come along to bust up organized crime in the first place, so this is a net improvement.
The offices Dissident’s pointed me toward are empty for now and weirdly … normal.
I don’t know what I expected the offices of an infamous crime syndicate operating out of an abandoned mental asylum to look like. Skull-shaped desks, caged puppies and straightjackets hanging threateningly on the walls, maybe, but they’re just offices, with wastebaskets, computers, coffee mugs, even in and out mail trays, though I’m sure there’s no official mail service out here.