by Matt Carter
Maybe I’ll be a hero, maybe I’ll just be that nutcase who took a shot at the mayor, but whatever legacy I get out of this, I’ll have done it for the right reasons.
And at least I know one person’s gonna come out of this safe who otherwise wouldn’t have.
Right now little Kaley Mendoza’s on a bus to Amber City with Petting Zoo, going to lie low with some of our old army buddies until we see how tonight pans out. In the end, Petting Zoo didn’t really want to run. Nothing would have kept her from joining in the attack, if we hadn’t needed someone to keep one little girl away from the hell we’re about to unleash.
With that out of the way, there’s just one last piece of business I have to attend to, but compared to storming the mayor’s mansion, this is much more difficult.
Kline and I kill time in a mansion owned by some family friends of hers who’re out of town for the holidays. I like this place because it’s warm and has a fully stocked bar, and because they’re not good enough family friends of Kline’s that she minds me going through their stuff. We’re here because it has a good view of the mayor’s mansion, which we can actually see tonight due to a break in the rain.
We don’t talk, much, which I’m glad for at the moment. I need to psych myself up for something I’ve been afraid to do for far too long.
Fear and me, we don’t have much of a relationship. Oh sure, I’ve been afraid for my life, and that’s an excellent survival mechanism, but cold sweat, wake up in the middle of the night sorts of fear I’m a lot less familiar with. I don’t fear spiders or snakes or clowns or anything like that, just real things—things that oughta be feared.
The closest I’ve known to bump-in-the-night kind of fear was during my stint in the army. I just wanted to serve for a few years to help clear my name, and naturally got sent into combat with a superhuman platoon. I didn’t see much action, but what little I did see, the few guys I did kill, was enough to bring its own nightmares. Being forced to do work behind the lines, “interrogating” the enemy … that made the nightmares even worse. Worse enough that when I woke up in the hospital with a mangled arm from an IED and was told I was being sent home, I said, “Good.”
I haven’t felt fear like that in a long time, but when I excuse myself from Kline to make a phone call, it’s back again.
I know the number by heart. I assume it’ll still work, even after twelve years, but I have a hard time hitting the send button. My heart beats so heavily I worry I’m gonna pass out. I have to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to make this happen.
You’re not facing down a pro-hero, you’re not gonna watch Marco die again, this is just a phone call. Don’t need to see his face, don’t need to let him know he got to you, just say what you have to say.
Hand shaking, I press send.
The number rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four times.
Changed the number. Must’ve. He may be old, but even he knows how to—
“Hello?”
His voice has aged some, but it’s still so familiar that it makes me feel like a little kid the moment he speaks. There’s noise in the background, like a holiday party, music, people eating and arguing.
“I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Who is this?” he asks, confused.
I take a deep breath, and continue, “You might hear a lot about me in the next few days, and if you do, I just want you to know it’s because I’m doing something good this time. No matter what anyone says, I’m not a villain, alright? No matter what you want to think, no matter how much you want to hate me, I’m gonna be a hero tonight, not a villain this time.”
A long pause. I can hear everyone in the background clearly.
“Eddie? Little Eddie?”
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”
Another long pause.
“Stop ruining our Christmas party,” he says.
The line goes dead.
Fury boils inside me. Hasn’t heard my voice for more than a decade, and that’s what he says. I want to scream, I want to throw my phone, I want to destroy everything in sight.
Yet, after all this time, after everything I’ve been though. All I can do is let out a deep sigh.
“Family, huh?” Kline says, strolling into the room.
“Yeah.” I crunch a pill, wanting to take the edge off both my arm and the call.
“I know I’m not the best person to talk about family right now, but if you want to …”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
She’s nervous. Maybe even almost as nervous as I am. I’m torn between old feelings; the feelings where I’m more than happy to see a superhero suffer no matter what and how I’ve come to feel about her in the time we’ve gotten to know each other. I can’t say we know each other well, or are even what you’d call friends, but we’re friendly, I guess. Friendly enough that I feel the need to fill the silence.
“So, what do you want to talk about?” I ask.
“What?”
“Ask me a question. Anything. Keep us distracted ’til we have to go in and kick some ass.”
“Anything?”
“Anything within reason, I mean. Not giving up trade secrets or talking old flings or anything. Anything except about my family.”
She smiles, a little. “You’re not giving me a lot to work with.”
“There’s a lot still in there, trust me. I’ve led an interesting life, I think.”
She looks thoughtful, trying to come up with a properly insightful question.
“Okay,” she says. “How long have you—”
My phone vibrates.
Dissident.
Perfect timing.
“I’m in,” she says.
“You have eyes on the file?”
“I do. And all the major players are here. Card, Milgram, Kline, Erickson, a few of the Guardians … Whenever you’re ready to start your ruckus, it’ll be much appreciated.”
“We’re on it.” I hang up.
Wordlessly, Kline and I head to the roof. I retrieve the duffel bag I left outside and tightly cinch my trench coat shut. I’ve never tested how bulletproof the fabric really is, mostly because I’ve always hoped I’d never need to find out. While I trust what Fadia said about its strength, I silently vow not to let it make me lazy.
Finally ready, Kline grabs me under my arms and takes off, flying us over to the Card mansion.
I’ve never really liked flying—especially like this. It can be fun, especially when you’re drunk, but when you’re sober you’re just being lifted and whipped through the air by someone who may or may not be strong enough to carry you. I’m glad that Kline’s as strong as she is and can’t be hurt by me hanging on too tight. Makes her a damn sight more comfortable to fly with than a lot of the guys I did this with back in the army. Even so, I’d have preferred to do this on the ground.
We pass through the protective shield without incident, Dissident’s modifications to Kline’s entrance code clearly worked enough not to set off any alarms, and though we see roving security patrols (can’t tell if they’re Card’s or Milgram’s guys, though there’s not likely much of a difference), they don’t notice us in the dark when Kline drops me off on the grounds.
“Be safe,” she says.
“Back atcha.”
She looks at me for a moment, concern in her eyes, and before I can wave her away to hold up her part of the plan, she flies off.
Now I’m kind of wishing she’d stayed. But we agreed, one of us takes the north end, one of us takes the south, and we both work our way toward the middle with Dissident.
I cling tightly to the duffel bag, unzipping it, reaching inside, ready to—
“Don’t, fucking, move,” a voice says from behind. He doesn’t need to, but he cocks his gun for emphasis.
This is it. There’s no going back from this, and no getting out of it without violence. I’m gonna be killing people tonight, the great
est sin of all, my old Sunday school teacher would say, and unlike my army days, here the killing’s going to be all my choice. I know this is a bad man, and I know I’m doing this for the right reasons, but it still conflicts me to know that in a moment, he’ll be dead because of me.
Best do it quick. Like tearing off a Band-Aid.
I whirl on the man.
Two quick, loud pops, and the feeling like I’ve been hit twice in the gut with a sledgehammer. It hurts, a lot, but I’m used to pain, and this passes faster than most.
The goon and his two partners look surprised that I’m still standing.
I take advantage of that surprise to introduce them to what we dug out of the Lineup.
Tragedii’s massive Genentech Model 39-27b Flesheater gun unfolds in my hands as its multiple barrels whirl to life, and though the gun is ungainly and enormous, its future technology makes it pleasantly light. Light enough that I can barely feel the recoil of the first volley of plasma shots while Milgram’s thugs, or what’s left of them, very much do.
And like that, the deed is done. I feel guilt for killing these men, somewhere, and if I make it out of here alive I know it’ll haunt my dreams, but for now all I feel is a great exhilaration.
The first, and worst, part is done.
Now to do what needs doing.
The roar of the laser cannon makes the compound come to life. There’s shouts, confusion, people running toward me.
To focus their attention, I switch the weapon to its “low” setting and fire another long volley at the mansion itself, blasting holes in its gleaming golden exterior, shattering numerous windows.
There’s an explosion on the other side of the compound, followed by more screams, and I know Kline has begun her part of the plan. I may not be as powerful as her, but armed with the Flesheater, Harriet, and the chunk of Jovium she gave me in case Milgram compromised her in my pocket, I’m feeling pretty unstoppable.
With this in mind, I run for the mansion.
CHAPTER 22: THE SUPERHERO
I hold out both hands and let the power of the shockwave vibrate through me on its way to set the topiary on fire.
The boxwood renderings of Ace, Anastasia, and Mayor Card himself explode under purple fireworks, heads and arms scattering across the yard in flames.
I remind myself to go slow, go loud, go big. Hovering closer at the pace of a drifting carnival balloon, I count out ten seconds before my next blast knocks the diamond-shaped door off its hinges.
Can you hear me in there, Mr. Mayor?
Mom?
Uncle?
Are you here, Guardians?
Yeah, I’m coming in.
The foyer is empty, and I make it past three sitting rooms, shattering ornamental columns and gaudy jeweled vases as I go, before security makes an appearance.
A dozen of Sergei’s team rush into a rough circle around me on the ground, weapons aiming up.
“Hey, guys. Which way to the meeting, please?”
A few of them look vaguely embarrassed that we’re no longer on the same side, others annoyed by the reminder.
One of them squeezes his trigger, and my stomach drops into my shoes.
Reflexively, my hand rises to catch the bullet, and I’m almost surprised when it flattens against my palm in that familiar, harmless way.
It’s just ordinary lead.
Did I really believe for a split second that my family would trust the Cards’ entry-level hired protection with Jovium weaponry?
I’m jumpier than I thought.
I can’t keep worrying about it like this. The bad guys have control of the lab, and I could get knocked down with another dose at any moment, turned into a helpless puppet or hostage. But if I let the possibility stop me from trying, then I already am one.
And if I learned anything from seven years on the Justice Juniors, it’s that when people come together to fight for what’s right, no matter how hopeless it looks, things have a habit of turning out okay.
I’ve just never had a chance to test the theory on quite this big a scale.
“Sorry, which way did you say? I totally spaced,” I ask the guard with the itchy fingers, jerking his gun out of his hand and crushing it in mine.
He’s stuttering too much to answer me now, but luckily, Card’s voice carries.
“This is my house! I don’t care how they got in, get them out! What the fuck do I pay you for?”
I consider staying to disarm the rest, but I have to close the net, meet Eddie and Dissident in the middle to make sure none of the major players get to escape before we hit the evening news.
Oh yeah, Dissident, who happens to be Fadia Freakin’ Bakkour.
When I offered the hermetic case of Jovium to the two of them today, just in case my earpiece fails and Milgram gets his claws into my brain again, she handed it to Eddie with a casual mention that she already has a piece, and wouldn’t say how. I can’t get over this vigilante who’s been teaching me how to root out mob hideouts being the same person as the sweet, funny reporter who used to show up at my family’s charity balls and poke gentle fun at the guests whenever they tried to suggest that their life stories were worth her professional time.
But here we both are.
Blasting a few more guns out of hands on my way, one at a time, I follow the sound of Card’s tantrum.
I find Card standing in the TV room where I watched the announcement of Quentin’s murder, shouting his face purple at Sergei and Jacob.
“This is unacceptable! You! Why didn’t you warn me?” he demands of Jacob, whose face is still black and blue from its introduction to Eddie’s bat. “What kind of a psychic are you?”
Jacob taps impatiently on his tablet, which answers for him. “Jeez, tell the world, boss.”
I hover silently down the hallway toward them, close enough to realize that his jaw is wired shut.
“It’s just a sixth sense for stirring up drama,” says the tablet with an awkward, computerized cadence. “I can’t predict what that drama’s going to be. I’m starting to regret telling you.”
“Damn right, you regret it!” says Card. “Because if In the Cards goes off the air, you better believe the DSA’s getting a call about an unregistered super.”
“It’s illegal to knowingly employ an unregistered super,” Jacob’s tablet notes.
“Not as illegal as it is to be one!”
“Well, good—”
“Just keep the cameras off!”
“Sure, yeah, that could work,” Jacob nods, like it’s a brainstorming session over donuts. “We’ll pick back up tomorrow with some tragic footage of the aftermath, tearful confessionals from Ana and the girls when they get back from Rome, while they’re still in shock from the news—”
“Keep them off!” repeats Card. “And don’t let that scientist box slow you down.” He points at the tablet. “If you didn’t do so much coke, you’d be able to afford the app to make you sound like a real person!” He turns back to Sergei. “And you! Get this situation under control, now.”
There are gunshots, breaking glass, the chesty whoomp sound of Tragedii’s future gun, evidence of how far from under control this situation already is.
Eddie and Dissident are getting closer.
I land in the TV room, announcing myself by touching down hard enough to splinter the hardwood.
“There!” Card points at me. “Take her down!”
Sergei lifts his walkie. “Need some super-backup in TV room four.”
“I said you take her down!” demands Card, his face heating up to that shade that means he’s hearing even less of reality than usual.
Sergei looks at me, expressionless, then raises his gun and fires.
The bullet ricochets off me and breaks a window.
Staring at Card, as if to demonstrate the futility of his assignment, Sergei lazily empties the rest of his clip in the direction of my invulnerable chest.
But in spite of Card’s brilliant strategizing, Sergei’s call fo
r backup has been heard.
Bear Man and Hedgehog march down the opposite hallway, the acid spines on the back of Hedgehog’s arms standing on end, poised to fire.
I don’t know if those spines can penetrate my skin, but I’d rather not find out.
“Hey, Glitter Girl!” says Bear Man. “I was the first one to know that you weren’t going to make it!”
“Dream on,” says Hedgehog. “I knew first!”
“So, everyone knew about the selling out to the mob thing before I did, huh?” I ask, flattening myself to the ceiling to avoid a volley of quills, which skewer the jewel-encrusted couch and begin eating through the upholstery.
Bear Man takes a flying leap, grabbing my leg with the claws of his gauntlet and swinging me into the floor, snapping floorboards beneath me like twigs, then back into the ceiling, raining plaster down around us from the hole my head makes.
“Watch the furniture!” Card scolds, while Sergei braces himself in the nearest doorway and Jacob takes shelter behind the console cabinet.
I charge up and send a blast through Bear Man’s hand. He jerks it away and then swings it back at me with all his oversized strength and weight, sending me rolling into a cabinet, spilling tacky figurines down over my head.
“Where’s Pinnacle?” I ask. “At the evidence-torching party without you guys?”
“Pinnacle protects the city,” says Hedgehog, like he’s explaining why the sun rises. “He trusts us to make sure the job gets done tonight.”
He fires his quills and I lift myself off the floor just in time to see them eat a hole through the curtain and window behind it.
Crud. Okay, no problem. Pinnacle may not be here in person to get caught, but he still has to be implicated in the file.
Bear Man takes about a quarter of the couch, now severed from the rest of it by Hedgehog’s acid, and uses it to shield himself against the firework I send at his feet, then slams me into the floor with it, loading his full weight on top.
I can send both it and him sky high with one blast, but maybe not before the quills already leaving Hedgehog’s forearms embed themselves in my face. It’s a race of neuro-impulses and nanoseconds, and the heat in my hands is a fraction of what it needs to be, what it will be an instant from now, when a boot crushes the quills back into Hedgehog’s wrist.