by Lee, Tristan
“Chris . . .”
“Fine. Sorry, bud.”
“Don’t apologize, he might be here to kill us.”
“Right. Ignore the previous apology, please.”
“Don’t say please either!”
“It doesn’t hurt to be polite.”
“This is the one setback of being Canadian.”
Chris proceeds to check Sandor for any weapons, even though he obviously checked him with his supposed x-rays earlier.
“He’s clean.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright.”
“What now?”
“Not sure.”
“But you’re the leader, you have to be sure.”
“I don’t know, normally the interviewer gets interrupted by some development in the case or a commercial break around now.”
“Wait, commercial break? Where did you learn this stuff?”
“N.C.I.S.”
“Your investigative skills are from a show that isn’t even that accurate?” Chris asks incredulously. “I groped another man because you saw it in the same show that brought us zoom-and-enhance?”
“My skills are better than yours. And plus, why am I the leader? I’m only five feet tall and I’ve never even seen a dumbbell that was more than fifteen pounds! Zero-percent muscle mass!”
“It’s actually impossible to have zero-percent muscle mass. I’m pretty sure you’d be dead. Paralyzed, definitely. The bones can’t move without something to pull on them, you know.”
“You’re either really dumb or really smart. There is no in between with you.”
“You’re either beautiful or beautiful. There is no in between with you.”
“Awww, you’re sooo cute!”
Sandor clears his throat to get their attention, “I’m here because I need your help.”
“Our help?” they ask together. Both of them grin and fist bump.
“Yes,” Sandor continues. “What I’m about to tell you must remain between the three of us.”
“I love this classified shit,” Belle bubbles.
“Hold on, we’ve been bad hosts,” Chris says. “Are you hungry? Can we get you something to drink?”
“I am a little hungry,” Sandor admits.
“Go make him a tuna sandwich,” Belle tells Chris.
Chris nods and walks towards the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, Chris makes really good sandwiches,” Belle says. “He makes really good everything, really. Around here we divide everything up depending on skill level, I do the laundry and he cooks. We split the cleaning. But the garden is Chris’s territory; I can’t do anything to plants without killing them. It’s the perfect husband-wife relationship.”
“Lovely. Just to make sure I’m correct, would you mind demonstrating your abilities?”
“Sure, why not? I’m telekinetic, pyrokinetic, and energy-projection-kinetic.”
“The last one’s not a word,” Chris calls from the kitchen.
“It is now,” Belle says. “Anyway, let me show you.”
She opens her palm and a piece of paper floats up from the printer until it is directly in between them. Belle folds it into an origami swan with her telekinesis and, to demonstrate her pyrokinesis, sets it on fire with her mind. As the swan burns, Belle projects a clear orb with a red tinge to it around the burning swan. When she clenches her fist, the orb implodes, destroying the swan.
“I can lift ten times my own body weight telekinetically,” Belle says proudly. “But there’s this weird quirk where I can’t lift myself. Something about needing to be planted, I don’t know, I didn’t get an instruction manual. So no flying for me. Unless it’s on planes or with Chris.”
“Impressive,” Sandor says as Chris hands him his sandwich on a plate. “Chris, what can you do?”
“Why don’t we go to the backyard and I’ll show you?”
Once in the backyard, Chris walks over to a block of metal that must weigh over a ton and effortlessly lifts it over his head with one hand. He holds it over his head for a while before throwing it into the air and catching it in the other.
“Aren’t you afraid of discovery?” Sandor asks.
“Not really,” Chris answers. “We’ve a hillside behind our house, one of our next-door neighbors is blind, the other one is very nearly dead, and I make sure to never throw it above the height of the house.”
“How much can you lift?” Sandor asks.
“Well, according to Dr. Pryce, my strength potential is virtually unlimited,” Chris says. “The more I use my strength the stronger I become.”
“But right now, what’s your maximum?”
“The heaviest thing I lifted was an asteroid that was going to hit the Bahamas,” he says. “That must have been more than seven hundred tons.”
“What else can you do?”
“I can fly faster than the speed of sound, I have heat vision, I’m invulnerable to practically everything, I got taught how to fight by the most kickass man on the planet, and I can x-ray people with my eyes.”
“And you two work together?”
“Yep,” Belle says, “we have a pretty good system.”
Sandor nods, “As I began to say earlier, what I am about to tell you must never become known to the public. Understand?”
They nod their consent.
“I’m obligated to tell you that sharing this information will result in a life sentence or your execution.”
“Don’t worry, champ,” Chris says. “We’re not snitches.”
“I was a Sunflower Scout and I’m pretty sure that there’s a clause in their oath about snitches getting stitches,” Belle says. “Or was it ending up in ditches?”
“Stitches, I think,” Chris responds. “The ditches one is kind of a mouthful.”
“It’s really not that much longer.”
“Yeah, but if you’re just trying to drop the line then-“
“Yesterday at eleven forty-five post meridian, an alien fleet entered Earth’s orbit,” Sandor cuts them off. “Eleven fifty-one they shot our ambassador out of the sky. At midnight they wiped Hong Kong off of the map.”
“Holy frick-frack-frackity-whack,” Chris murmurs.
“Holy . . . whatever you just said indeed,” Sandor agrees. “Our military doesn’t have the technology needed to defeat them. That’s where you come in.”
“Keep going,” Belle says.
“You two will be part of an elite strike team with the goal of dismantling and destroying the enemy forces. I’m warning you now, the odds will be against you. A total of six members on your team, about seventy thousand of them, assuming no one is in the big ship. You’re going to be outnumbered over ten thousand to one. You have no obligation to join this strike team.”
“Ten thousand to one, huh? I like those odds,” Belle says.
“It’ll finally be a fair fight,” Chris agrees.
“I’m glad to have you. You’ll report to the Gideon bunker in Skyline City on the eighth of August.”
“We’ll be there,” Belle says. “We already have suits, so you’re not going to make us wear uniforms or anything, are you?”
“I have a suit,” Chris corrects. “You have spandex with a ballistic lining.”
“Same difference.”
“Okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“It sounded like you didn’t believe me.”
“What’s there not to believe?”
“That’s what I’m asking you!”
“I’m confused.”
“Hi, Confused, I’m Belle.”
“I’ll be taking my leave,” Sandor says as they squabble.
The Supersoldier
August 1st
Sandor sits in the stands and watches the two men in the ring fight. It is a boxing match between the world champion Keith Wilson and an unnamed wild card. Wilson is trying his best to take the wild card down, but the wild card
is light on his feet, dancing and dodging away from Wilson’s punches. After about twenty minutes without landing a single blow, Wilson is obviously worn out. Once Wilson is too tired to even raise his hands in defense, the wild card strikes. Even though he is only five feet nine inches as compared to Wilson’s six feet three inches, he is lightning-fast and strong, too. His fists hammer away at Wilson with more force than men twice his size can output. The wild card moves and strikes effortlessly, almost as if he had learned to fight before he could walk. Once the fight is over, Sandor follows the wild card out of the ring and trails his car as he goes home.
Once the wild card goes inside, Sandor removes a window pane and sneaks into the wild card’s house. It’s a nice house, but the living room contains nothing but a single deck chair, and a small television. Sandor follows the wild card to a bedroom, which has no furniture except for the bed and a dresser.
The wild card has a rather plain face, not ugly, but not handsome either. His torso is covered with scars of various sizes and shapes, most of which are obviously not from the ring. He has grey eyes, but these are the eyes of a guard or a sentry; always scanning for threats, always gauging danger levels. The wild card’s hair is blond and in a military-style crew cut that reminds Sandor of an action figure. Although the wild card is not bulging with muscle, his physique suggests significant physical strength that was proved in the ring.
“Come a bit far for an autograph, haven’t you?” the wild card says in an Australian accent.
“I’m not interested in an autograph, Dick,” Sandor says.
Dick Barnes’ leg shoots out faster than Sandor’s eye can track and slams the door to the bedroom shut.
“Who are you?” Dick asks.
“Sandor Burns. I’m with S.A.B.R.E.”
Dick squares his shoulders and raises his hands like the boxer he is, “Come to kill me? I knew someone would come eventually. I always thought it would be Rinehart, though. Go on then, show me what you can do.”
“I’m not here to kill you,” Sandor protests. “I want your help. Plus, Jared Rinehart is dead.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You know deep down that if I was here to kill you, one of us would already be dead.”
Dick lowers his stance, but he still looks wary, “You need my help? What for?”
“To save the world.”
“From what?”
“An invasion of hostile aliens.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“I’m not six years old, Burns. Tell me what the real threat is.”
“An invasion of hostile aliens.”
“You’re a crackpot.”
“I get that a lot, but there is an alien fleet looming over Earth. If you don’t help me, they might destroy the planet.”
“You want me to fight an army of aliens alone.”
“Not alone, you’ll be part of an elite strike team.”
“There better be a damn big army included in the strike team.”
“There are several armies.”
“Who’s?”
“They don’t have any particular allegiance except for the planet as a whole.”
“United Nations or something?’
“No. Their names are Dr. Invictus, Demoness, Titan, Ronin, and Nightshade.”
“That’s a suicide mission. Six of us against an army?”
“Remember who you’re squad mates are, Dick. Each one of you is virtually unstoppable, and there will be six unstoppable forces in play.”
“Even if that didn’t sound like an elaborate plan to kill all of us off, you forget that I’m retired.”
“No one believes that, Dick. You don’t even believe that.”
“I don’t believe it? It was my decision!”
“You busted both of your kneecaps falling off of a building and decided to call it quits,” Sandor says patronizingly. “A wounded warrior, who now uses his superpowers for profit.”
“I don’t have to answer to you,” Dick says.
“Gunnery Sergeant Richard Joseph Barnes was a war hero,” Sandor pushes. “Five tours of duty during World War 3; three in Karchoslovakia, two on the western front.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Ninety-six confirmed kills on thirteen black ops missions, all reviews site you as being dutiful, honorable, and brave, if not a little rigid. What changed?”
“I lost! That’s what happened!” Dick roars suddenly.
Sandor stares at Dick intently; this was not in the file he had compiled.
“What did you lose, Dick?” Sandor asks. “You won the fight. Nihon-Ja had sent his best to kill you and you sent him back with his tail between his legs.”
“Yeah, I beat the Hollow Knight. But, as you already know, I busted both of my kneecaps on the edge of a fire escape when we both went off the roof,” Dick says, sitting down on the floor. “Have you ever had something taken away from you, Director? Ever had something, and then someone else snatched it from your grasp? For all my life, I was the best. Star quarterback in high school, then I enlisted. I became the best in my regiment, and the brass noticed; they made me into their Defender.”
“You did your country proud,” Sandor says carefully.
“Half of it, at least,” Dick laughs mirthlessly. “After the war, no one wanted to see a superhuman anymore, much less one they created. The new order wouldn’t have me killed, of course, because of my exemplary service, but they didn’t want me around either. I didn’t want me around, you know? I spent years hunting supers, and then I became one. They slapped me on the veterans’ list, sent me home, and warned me that I would be put in front of a firing squad if I ever appeared more than human. I tried being normal, Burns, I really did. But I had to be better than everyone else. I had to be the best again.”
“So then you turned to vigilantism.”
“I did, and I was good at it. Really good, good enough to have someone pay to send the Hollow Knight after me. The hard part was after that accident. I wasn’t the best anymore. I wasn’t even average. I needed someone to help me with everything but breathing. Physical therapy was more frustrating than you can imagine; I used to be able to run at eighty-three miles per hour, but I needed a nurse and a bar to help me stumble two yards. I was angry and frustrated, and I . . . I hurt someone close to me because of that.”
“Your longtime girlfriend, Zoe.”
“I wish I could take it back more than anything else. That remorse is what pushed me to put effort into my recovery. In a way, she’s the only reason I’m still standing.”
Sandor sits down next to Dick and lets out a long sigh.
“All of our asses are on the line for this one, you know,” he says. “You, me, all of mankind. Including Zoe. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that working for me will redeem you in her eyes, because more likely than not it isn’t going to. But it’s a start.”
Dick walks over to the dresser and opens it up. He peels away a false panel at the back of the dresser and reveals his old suit. The suit is still in remarkable condition even though it hasn’t been used in nine long years. It is sky blue with gold detailing and an upper-case “D,” on its chest and on the forehead of the mask. Dick removes his utility belt and examines the various tools of his trade; razor-sharp mini-boomerangs, two-way radios, explosive gel, and other tools. He sets that down and picks up his most versatile weapon.
It looks like a plate of armor to fit his right forearm, which is one use for it. Mounted on the plate, however, is a retractable grappling hook launcher. The line on the grappling hook can extend up to twenty meters and be locked into any length so Dick can use the claw on the end of the line as a tool and as a flail. The upper and lower prongs on the claw are weighted to allow Dick to output devastating concussive attacks while the left and right prongs are bladed to provide another way to damage enemies. All of the prongs clench together like a fist when the sword-like points pierce or impact an object, providing a
virtually unbreakable grip that can hold up to a ton and can only be released via a switch on the forearm plate.
Dick sets the grappling hook back down and lifts his mask out. He stares into its empty eye holes for about five minutes before nodding slowly.
“I’ll fight for you,” Dick says without looking up from the mask.
“Excellent,” Sandor says, “we meet in the Gideon Bunker at Skyline in one week.”
“Put the window back on your way out,” Dick says softly, still staring at his mask.
Sandor nods and leaves without another word.
The Mechanical Man
August 2nd
Dr. Alexander Pryce’s living room displays all the signs of a summer house, or a model home. It gives Sandor the feeling that no one actually lives there and all the knick knacks and furniture are not there because anyone actually likes them, just to fill up space. From what Sandor has heard, Dr. Pryce practically lives in his lab and the surrounding research buildings in M.I.T. and only returns home because he is not allowed to sleep there. Nonetheless, it is a nice house, although somewhat cold, in both temperature and feeling. Sandor scheduled to meet Dr. Pryce in his home after work and arrived a polite fifteen minutes early only to find the door wide open. Fearing a robbery, Sandor investigated and found a note on the coffee table explaining how Dr. Pryce would be late and a request to make himself at home. A half hour after Sandor arrived, the door opens and a man rolls in.
Dr. Pryce is sixty-four, grey-haired, and somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds overweight. He has a kind face with deep laugh lines, brown eyes, and slightly yellow teeth inside his mouth. Dr. Pryce does not use a motorized wheelchair, instead he propels himself the old-fashioned way by moving the wheels by hand. Dr. Pryce smiles and extends his hand to Sandor.
“Dr. Alexander Pryce,” he introduces himself. “To whom do I owe this pleasure?”
“Sandor Burns,” Sandor answers, shaking his hand. “I’m with S.A.B.R.E.”
Dr. Pryce laughs nervously, “I haven’t been conducting any illegal experiments, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Sandor smiles, “Of course not. What field do you study, Dr. Pryce?”
“Robotics and biomechanical engineering.”