Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change

by Robert J. Crane

  I stared at her. “Are you just blowing smoke up my ass?”

  “What?” She frowned. “No. Why would I …?”

  “To be ‘brave,’” I said, using the air quotes. “Like you said before.”

  “I don’t …” Kat looked away. “No, not like that. No cameras, no … Hollywood bullshit.” She looked back up, determined. “I want to help you stop this guy.” She brought up her bloody knuckles. “I want to make him go solid and beat his ass.”

  Grayson Dieter made a pained noise and his chair scuffed the floor as he scooted back from Kat and hit the wall. “Now that’s brave,” Augustus said, clamping on Dieter’s shoulder to stop his pointless, fearful slide.

  “Kat,” I said, looking right at her. “This could … this guy is serious. He wants to kill you, and this is his last act. You could die. That’d put a pretty definite end to your career. I mean, you’ve led us into a few stupid things the last few days, but I don’t for a minute believe you actually want to die.”

  She pushed the hair back off her forehead. “I don’t want to die. But worse than that is the thought of living and knowing I could have helped put this … this scum away, and I just sat idly by while he destroyed a whole neighborhood. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not about me, it’s not about being seen … it’s about doing the right thing.”

  “Well, okay then,” I said, nodding. “I guess we need to get back to California and beat old Karl like the red-headed sonofabitch that he is.”

  82.

  Scott

  “Hey,” Steven said, answering his phone and flipping on the speaker. “How’s it going?”

  Scott stood back, glancing at the screen. It had Sienna’s name on it, and the sound of wind rushing came out over the speaker. “Hey, I got your message,” Sienna’s voice crackled, then lowered. “Stop writhing around like an angry baby.”

  Steven looked at Scott, eyebrows creased, perplexed. “Uh … okay?”

  “Not you,” Sienna’s voice rang through, clearer now even in spite of the sound of wind. “I was talking to Kat. Stop it.”

  “I’m not writhing!” Kat shouted in the background. “You’re holding me with one arm, and it’s awkward. I feel like you’re going to drop me.”

  “I am going to drop you if you don’t stop writhing, and then you’ll be sitting this fight out with a cactus up your skinny ass.”

  “I would make the cactus dodge out of the way.”

  “You couldn’t move the cactus far enough away, I would aim you right square at the damned thing—”

  “Umm, hello?” Steven asked experimentally. “Where are you?”

  “Yes. Sorry,” Sienna said. “We’re on our way back to LA right now.”

  “Both of you?” Scott asked, his voice breaking unexpectedly in the middle. Where had that come from?

  “Who is that?” Sienna asked, a little tinny.

  “It’s Scott.” Scott stared at the phone, waiting for a response.

  “Oh. Well. Good,” it came at last. “Because we’ve got a major problem and, uh … we could use all the help we can get.”

  Scott stared at the phone skeptically, but Steven spoke before he could answer. “What’s going on?”

  “Redbeard’s got a final attack planned,” Sienna said. “He and his backer—”

  “This guy’s got a backer?” Steven asked.

  “Like an executive producer!” Kat called out in the background.

  Steven met Scott’s eyes in the silence. “Yeah,” Steven said finally into the awkwardness that followed, “I got that. Who is it?”

  “Uhmm,” Sienna said, clearly thinking about it, “J.J. told me the name, but I don’t … I hadn’t heard the name before. Buchanan … uh … Beverton? No, that’s not it.”

  “Buchanan Brock?” Scott asked, blinking away his surprise.

  “Wait, you know the bad guy?” Kat asked over the crackling speaker.

  “He’s the reason I’m out here,” Scott said, meeting Steven’s eyebrow-raised gaze. “He wanted a business deal with my father, so I came out here to negotiate.”

  “Well, he’s pulling Redbeard’s strings,” Sienna said. “He’s been running this show from the start. They’re planning to start a fight with me in the Elysium neighborhood so he can come in and buy the place up at discount prices when all those peoples’ homeowners insurances deny their claims.”

  “That can’t be,” Scott said, shaking his head. “I met with him just before …” The cold realization washed over him. “Just before the first attack on Kat. I was literally shaking his hand when I saw her and went over. Redbeard came at her like two seconds later. Damn.”

  “And you, naturally,” Sienna said, “pulled the panic button and called in the cavalry—namely me, which was what he wanted all along.”

  “Even now,” Scott said, bitterness rolling through him as he shook his head in disgust, “people are using me to get to you.”

  “Don’t feel too bad,” she said, “it wasn’t like he wanted me as a person, either. He just wanted me to come to town because of the destruction I bring everywhere I go.”

  “Tell me about it,” Scott said, looking pointedly in warning at Steven, who looked coolly unmoved.

  “So Buchanan Brock is the bad guy in all this,” Steven said. “He was at the president’s fundraiser at Anna Vargas’s house, too, just before that went to hell.”

  “He called me after the Luxuriant disaster,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Yeah. I should have known. He wasn’t just being a nice guy; he’s tangled in this mess all the way.”

  “He’s not the imminent threat, though,” Sienna said. “That’s Redbeard. He’s got Elysium wired to blow and he’s probably going to start the show any second now.”

  “How do we stop him?” Steven asked, concern furrowing his brow.

  Silence filled the air. “This guy wants attention, right?” Kat asked over the crackling speaker.

  “Yeah …” Sienna said.

  “So, if we don’t give it to him …”

  “He’s just gonna make louder and louder noises until he gets it,” Scott said. “And he’s certainly shown he’s not afraid to make big noises with those bombs of his.”

  “Yeah, but what if we actively drove any attention away?” Kat asked, her voice run through with a hope Scott couldn’t recall hearing from her in a long while.

  “Uh, Kat,” Steven said, frowning, “one of the defining characteristics of the press is that no matter how ugly the shitshot, they want pics and video of every single turd. People don’t look away from that sort of thing, and this guy is promising spectacle. Bombs going off in any neighborhood are going to get their attention pretty definitely, whether we want them to or not.”

  “Then we need to make sure they don’t go off,” Scott said, jumping right to the conclusion.

  “Scott,” Sienna said, adding more than a little condescension, “it takes like, a second to press a detonator. Less if you’re a meta. How are we supposed to stop him from doing that this time?”

  “It’s simple.” Scott blinked, and once more, the answer came him as if handed out of the fog that had settled on his mind. “We do what Kat suggested … and then we give him exactly what he wants …”

  83.

  Karl

  The hour was almost at hand, and Karl was ready. He had his master detonator on hand, the one wired to all the houses in the Elysium neighborhood, and he was ready to pull the trigger. The only thing he had to do first was get some attention.

  The sun was coming up, and he was leaned back against the headrest in the car. It had been a sleepless, listless, restless few hours. He’d gone through the burgers, all of them, figuring if he was going to have a last meal, it should be a good one, so he’d eaten every last bit of what he’d taken from Amy the burger chef, including the now-soggy fries.

  He was stuffed and feeling sick, but he couldn’t sleep because of excitement and anticipation. It was like waiting for Christmas as a kid, he thought, though he
couldn’t really remember that.

  If there was a downer in all this, a regret he had, it was that Kat Forrest was going to skate out of this mess. That was a bummer. She should have died, he should have ripped her guts out, but she was a coward, so that wasn’t going to happen. Sienna Nealon had gotten her out once and for all, he would bet on that. No, he’d have to settle for Nealon. She’d come like a dog when he rang the bell and started killing cops, of that he was sure.

  He took a deep breath through his nose, ran his fingers over the smooth interior of the Buick. He was sick of this car. He’d want to make sure he got it close to the explosions when the time came, just for a little extra collateral damage. Because he could, and it’d be fun and satisfying. Not as satisfying as killing a mess of cops, but still …

  Another deep breath. The moment was almost here.

  84.

  Sienna

  I dropped off Kat where she asked me to as soon as I got back to LA and set about my work, streaking across the sky around downtown, phone in hand, seeking out my first target. In truth, I didn’t really need my phone for this one, so I dropped it at the top of the US Bank Tower and shot off toward the Hollywood Hills to get down to business.

  The sun was barely up, but it wasn’t like the Hollywood sign was really difficult to see, probably even in the dark. I lingered in the sky overhead for about two minutes, making crazy loop-de-loops like I was trying to dodge something, and flinging fire from my hands, shooting a foe that wasn’t there. I tossed in a few nets of light for the sake of being flashy, then sighed, knowing I couldn’t postpone this next part any longer.

  I realigned, heading up into the sky out of easy view of cameras, and focused in on the white letters of the sign. They looked … big, even from up here. They also looked solid, which was the part that worried me more than the size, but this was no time to be a coward.

  “Be brave,” I said almost mockingly, like I was saying it to Kat or something.

  And then I came shooting at them at subsonic speed, bracing myself.

  Wolfe, I said.

  No problem, he replied, and I cringed as I rocketed closer.

  There are nine letters in Hollywood, and I felt every damned one of them as I smashed through the supports of the Hollywood sign at high speed, ripping it apart and sending pieces rolling down the hill.

  Me, I went rolling, too, but through the sky in an end-over-end flight, my head aching and spinning. I looked back and saw the sign utterly destroyed, falling down the hill in a shattered mess.

  I righted myself and shot off into the sky again, gaining altitude and hopefully escaping the cell phone cameras that were doubtless filming the destruction I’d just wrought.

  “One down,” I muttered, still feeling the aches from that one. I hated this plan, but I didn’t have a better one, so I zoomed back to the US Bank tower to collect my phone for the next part of it.

  85.

  My next target was a little harder to find. I used my GPS to hone in on 6925 Hollywood Boulevard, then snuck up on Grauman’s Chinese Theater from behind. I left my cell phone on top of the roof before scooting about six blocks north and then going into the sky again. I did another aerial acrobatics display, shooting fire and light at my unseen pursuer, putting on a damned good stunt show, if I say so myself, and then I zoomed down and buzzed Hollywood Boulevard, pulling up hard into the clouds just above Grauman’s box office after I found my target landing zone.

  I took a moment for a breather while I was safely nestled in the clouds. Stunt flying was not the easiest work, and shooting fire and light was kind of tiring, too. Plus, it lacked the joyful exuberance of actually pounding the stuffing out of a worthy enemy.

  Still, it had to be done.

  My moment’s respite ended, I dropped out of the clouds, limp as though I’d been knocked out, face down in a hard, plummeting fall.

  I did steer a little bit, because I could do it without looking like anything other than a rag doll, and as a result, I landed exactly where I meant to, smashing the shit out of the Hollywood Walk of Fame star I’d targeted.

  It was Godzilla’s. I figured he’d understand seemingly random destruction better than anyone. Other than maybe Sean Penn.

  I lay insensate on Godzilla’s shattered star, letting people take video and pictures of my ‘unconscious’ body for about twenty seconds while I let Wolfe’s powers heal the minimal damage I’d just done. Strangely, no one tried to render any help, and I didn’t hear anyone call 911. Lots of sounds of pictures being taken, though.

  This effing town, I tell ya.

  I blinked my eyes, spitting out blood and putting on my best determined look. I staggered to my feet and spat on the sidewalk. “Son of a bitch,” I said, loud and clear, and zoomed back into the sky.

  I stealthily retrieved my phone and moved on, ignoring the ache in my back from the landing. Naturally, Scott would have come up with a plan that both made sense and caused me pain. The jackass. I flew on to my final target, just wanting to get this over already so I could get back to battering people who actually deserved it instead of beating the hell out of myself.

  86.

  Scott

  “I hope this works,” Scott said, riding shotgun as Steven steered the car down the freeway at a few miles per hour. They’d done their part, made a scene at the beach, staged a little metahuman drama using Scott’s powers, enough to get people wondering what the hell was going on, hopefully draw some press. That coupled with Sienna’s maneuvers …

  Scott sighed as Steven hit the brakes again. They weren’t exactly moving fast, and there was a hell of a backup as far as he could see. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. “Though I’d have more hope if we could get there …”

  “It’s Los Angeles,” Steven said with more than a little impatience of his own. He jerked the wheel to the right and rode the shoulder for three hundred yards before hitting an exit that did not say anything about the Elysium neighborhood. When Scott looked at him questioningly, the actor shrugged. “I don’t think the freeway’s going to do much moving this morning. Back streets are probably a better bet since we’re still about two miles from Elysium.”

  “Okay,” Scott said, hanging onto the hand rest as Steven jerked the wheel and made an illegal right turn. Horns honked and the actor looked decidedly unimpressed. “Don’t get us killed on the way there, please.”

  “I will take that under advisement,” Steven said, driving like he was in a movie. Damn, Scott thought, watching someone else do something awfully similar three lanes away in a bright red sports car, what is it with this town?

  87.

  Sienna

  I thought about trying to light the La Brea tar pits on fire, but decided that “ecological disaster” was a step above what I was aiming here for, so instead I made a horrendous crash landing in front of Griffith Observatory, creating enough work to keep the gardening staff rolling in overtime for six months.

  It hurt, ripping across the lawn, twisting my limbs as I came down, listening to bones break and reset, to nerves cry out and then stop as Wolfe’s power healed them. I’d done this much the same as I’d done the other landings, except this time I skidded for about a hundred yards. Or at least it felt like a hundred yards. Or maybe a hundred miles.

  “Ouch,” I said, rolling limply around my landing sight. The camera phones were out again, but at least these people had the grace not to stick them directly in my face. Maybe they just knew how to use the zoom feature. “I am so going to kick your ass for this,” I said, plenty loud enough for them to hear me, and I looked into the sky above as I said it.

  That’s right, Hollywood. You got me to act. Way to bring out the lying liar in me.

  I peeled myself out of the dirt, brushed myself off, cast a scathing look at the empty sky above, and zoomed off toward the heavens. I’d made enough of a mess to get the Los Angeles press chasing its own tail in three different locales around the city. Hopefully that coupled with the tipoff I’d given to Detective
Waters about what was coming would keep them busy.

  I’d done absolutely everything I could to clear out the Elysium neighborhood of the kind of trouble and attention that Karl Nash was looking for.

  All that was left was to go to Elysium and confront Redbeard, and make sure that attention-seeking whore regretted ever getting mine.

  88.

  Karl

  The cops went screaming past in a line of patrol cars just as Karl was about to pull out to start his attack. There was no mistaking what had happened.

  Someone had just captured the spotlight he intended for himself.

  Karl’s jaw tightened as he watched the last in the line of cars go by, its lights disappearing under a freeway overpass, the sound of the siren fading into the distance. He didn’t care for this at all. He clenched his teeth and clamped his hands on the steering wheel to keep them from shaking.

  Who would dare …?

  It was probably nothing. Just some punk who’d done something stupid, no big deal. Whatever had happened, the cops probably thought it was him. When they realized he wasn’t involved, they’d come rushing back, especially if he gave them a solid reason for doing so. And he had a pretty good one in mind.

  89.

  Taggert

  Aaron Taggert had had a marvelous few days. His number one star was absent after a horrendous, sympathy-and-awe inducing incident that had resulted in widespread destruction and the death of more of his rival producers than he could count, her recently completed Vanity Fair shoot had come back full of beautiful, breathtaking pictures, and better than that, he’d gotten laid last night by a nineteen year-old production assistant who had bragged about being a gymnast in high school. He hadn’t even had to try very hard on that one, no booze, no pills, nothing but a few idle promises about what he could do for her, and she’d done for him plenty enough to give him a great big capper on his week.