by Drew Hayes
“Because then Balaam would come,” Morgana said, intercepting the question. “And no one considers him and Pseudonym bickering at one another a good time. Plus the dog shtick got tired a long time ago.”
“Bal’s not so bad on his own,” Stasis defended. “But yeah, he does have a stick up his ass when it comes to Pseudonym. Fine: we keep it as a girls’ night, just us four and the two female apprentices.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Xelas glanced at the plasma television mounted on the conference room’s wall. Seconds later, it turned on and displayed an itinerary on its high-definition screen. “Now that we’ve got the date down, it’s time to decide what we’ll do with them.”
“Let’s try not to get either of them killed, either that night or by expulsion from the guild,” Morgana suggested. “Pseudonym and Thuggernaut are both quite fond of their apprentices, whether they’ll admit it or not.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Xelas assured her. “Truth be told, I sort of like them as well. They’ve got spunk. We’ll keep things nice and low-key, nothing that will get them in trouble.”
The room was quiet as the three other women stared at Xelas. None of them spoke; they simply waited patiently for what would inevitably come next. After having worked together for so long, none were surprised when a mischievous twinkle sparked through her mechanical eyes and a slight smirk turned up on the side of her lips.
“Well, not that much trouble, I mean.”
* * *
When Donald showed up to work that morning, he hadn’t been quite sure what to expect. The stares were strange, but that much had been anticipated, along with the whispering. What took him by surprise was the way people gave him a wide berth, doing little more than wave from across the cubicle lanes. He hadn’t shown up in costume or with the new wrist computer they’d given him or anything; he’d shown up as regular old Donald Moss, programmer for Vendallia Industries for over five years.
He should have expected something from Apollo’s reaction when Donald told him he had to go to work that day. There were too many projects still left undone, and he didn’t want to leave his coworkers in the lurch by up and quitting all at once. Plus, he still wasn’t entirely sure how superheroes got paid, which made the idea of giving up his income stream a frightening prospect on top of everything else. Apollo had listened, nodded, and then said he would arrange some transportation and protection, just in case someone tried to sneak attack him. That seemed normal enough. What struck Donald as odd, though, was that Apollo had made sure he knew the car would be on call all day: whenever Donald was ready to come back, it was only a phone call away.
He was only halfway to his lunch break, and Donald had already figured out why Apollo drove the point home. This place wasn’t the same anymore; people looked at him completely differently. He’d helped keep them all safe, and they did seem appreciative of that, but it didn’t change the fact that they were also afraid of him. Donald wasn’t just Donald anymore. Now, when they looked at him, what they saw was a meta.
“Mr. Moss? We weren’t expecting to see you in today.”
Donald spun around in his chair, slightly startling the suited brunette standing just inside his cube. Mrs. Espinoza was Mr. Gerhardt’s boss; she worked on a different floor than they did and usually only showed up for special meetings or when someone was in trouble. Before he could answer his own question with a little thought, Donald blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Where’s Mr. Gerhardt?”
“The hospital, of course,” Mrs. Espinoza replied. “Even with exceptional care, gunshot wounds take some time to recover from, at least for most people. I’m filling in for him while he’s gone.”
“Right.” Right. Mr. Gerhardt would need some time to recover from getting shot in the gut, to say nothing of Tori and all the wounds she’d accumulated helping him. At the thought of Tori, Donald felt a pang of guilt about covering up her help that day. Even if it was to protect Chloe, taking all the credit still felt wrong. “Do you know what hospital they’re at? I’d like to bring flowers and visit, if I can.”
“I’m sorry, since they were taken for... special treatment, we weren’t given the name or location of their hospital. Protected secret, I’m sure you understand.” Mrs. Espinoza looked him up and down once more as if she were waiting for him to grow horns and attack her. Which maybe she was; Apollo had made a point of not telling the press exactly what Donald’s power was until they’d created his identity, so no one in the office had any idea exactly how he’d stopped two armed men and one meta.
“Anyway, Mr. Moss, may I ask what brings you back here today?” Mrs. Espinoza continued, still keeping a careful distance from him.
“It’s Monday, I wasn’t injured in the fight, and I didn’t get any e-mail about the office being closed,” Donald told her. He tilted his head slightly, trying to see what she was getting at.
“No, I understand that work is proceeding as normal today. I was just wondering why you felt the need to show up.”
“Because...” At last, comprehension dawned on Donald. “Wait, did I get fired?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Moss, certainly not,” Mrs. Espinoza protested, her voice rising a few octaves, as if she wanted others to be aware of the conversation that was taking place. “Vendallia Industries would never violate federal law by firing someone upon discovering they were a meta-human, especially a meta-human who helped safeguard our office only days before. We just all assumed that, when the AHC scooped you up, you’d prefer working with them to your simple job here.”
Donald glanced around, noticing that nearly everyone else in earshot had stopped what they were doing to watch the scene that was unfolding in his cubicle. He wasn’t sure if they were hoping he would deck the boss or slink out the door, but it seemed pretty clear they’d been waiting all morning for exactly this discussion to take place. Much as he wanted to be annoyed or even angry, Donald reminded himself that only a month or so ago he’d have been staring with as much, if not more, curiosity. Metas were nothing if not fascinating.
“Nice as the AHC has been, I didn’t feel right leaving my work unfinished,” Donald said at last. “Besides, I like working here; the people are nice and pay is fair. Maybe once I get a little more settled in my new... side job... that will change, but for the moment, I’m happy to be here doing my part.”
“And we’re happy to have you.” In spite of the forced smile on her face as Mrs. Espinoza fled his cubicle, he had a feeling that management was anything but happy to have him around. A meta was one thing, but a meta who’d openly come out as a cape and might be targeted for retribution, that was a whole other kettle of fish.
Staring at the code on his computer screen, Donald wondered if he was selfish for trying to come back here. This wasn’t his world, not anymore. All he was really doing was disrupting the lives of people who had normal jobs to get done. Maybe it would be better if he just stayed at the AHC headquarters and spent this time training. There was obviously some sort of stipend available; pretty much zero famous capes held day jobs.
Donald started to push away from his desk, turning on reflex to tell Tori he was heading out, when he realized he’d be talking to an empty workstation. He paused, then pulled his chair back to its proper position. He couldn’t leave, not just yet. The least Donald owed Tori was a proper goodbye, and an apology for leaving her out of the story. One week of working amid the stares and whispers wasn’t that high of a price to pay if it meant setting things right.
Plus, if Donald were completely honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he’d ever see her again if he left without saying something. And he definitely didn’t want to have seen the last of Tori Rivas.
* * *
Balaam sat in the small media room, one occasionally used for classic film screenings or bad movie nights. It had a dozen leather chairs set up in a tiered seating system, a popcorn machine in the corner with a soda fountain adjacent, and a massive screen at the far end of
the windowless room. Although he’d availed himself of the popcorn—that smell made it nearly impossible to resist—it wasn’t a movie that Balaam sat watching in the darkness. At least, not a fictional one.
On the screen before him, Fornax leapt off the ground, so much magical energy pouring off him that the camera warped and stuttered, barely able to sustain its task. There were precious few records of this fight, or any of Fornax’s battles for that matter. Of course, Balaam had pored through the accounts and testimonies from witnesses at the various scenes, but that was a poor substitute for watching the action himself. And was there ever action.
He watched as Fornax collided in midair with the glowing figure that was Lodestar. While his name was a silly reference to a black hole, hers was actually a well-chosen moniker. People often described the aura Lodestar put off as golden, but it only appeared that way in the after-streaks it left behind. When one gazed into the genuine article, they could see it was a silver-white color, like the twinkling of a star on a dark night. Except that she didn’t twinkle: she burned like the heart of a demon.
In a single swing, Lodestar whipped Fornax around, smashing him into the concrete and sending the amateur cinematographer scrambling for cover. When they reemerged, she stood on top of Fornax, raining down blows that would have shattered mountains. Yet he took each one with that madman’s grin he’d been so famous for. Seizing an opportunity, he kicked her in the stomach, barely moving her back an inch but giving himself time to move. In a blink, he was behind her, and the fight began anew.
Balaam had watched this and every other known video of Fornax’s fights more times than he could actually count, just as he’d watched the ones of Doctor Mechaniacal, Xelas, and Morgana. Of the entire guild, they were the only four who might be strong enough to stop him, should a fight ever occur. Gork and Stasis, while powerful in their own right, were easily circumvented, at least.
As a spellcaster and a man who had embraced that title in every sense of the word, Balaam had long been a believer in preparation above all else. Even if the possibility of a fight with his fellow councilors didn’t loom on the horizon, he preferred to be ready anyway. One never knew what others were scheming, after all. That was why he took time out of his schedule to watch these tapes. Hell, that was why he’d had Warren watch the video from the desert trial over and over again until his apprentice knew the capabilities of the others backwards and forwards. The more one knew, the more one could be ready for, and the higher the chances of victory in any given situation.
This all sounded good on paper, though if one were to check the logs of Balaam’s viewing habits, they might notice that he watched the Fornax videos far more than any of the others. If pressed, he would have defended the choice by saying that, as one of the most dangerous metas on record, Fornax warranted the most research. Or, if the query came from someone who knew him well, he would simply say that he enjoyed watching Fornax get pummeled, which Lodestar certainly achieved. But while both of those answers had some merit, neither of them would be entirely true. Because the simple fact of the matter was that, much as he might loathe Ivan Gerhardt for tucking his tail between his legs and giving up on what had made him great, Balaam felt the same as he had when he first saw these fights as a child.
They were thrilling, filled with tension and excitement, the power of the two individuals involved palpable even through the camera. This moment in time, this battle between demi-gods, was what encapsulated metas more than anything else in their history. This was what they could be when truly pushed to be their best.
This was what they would be again, when Balaam was finished.
Chapter 41
After Friday’s attack on the office, a full weekend of combat training at the guild, and spending all of Monday locked in the basement working on her meta-suit, coffee and willpower were the only things propping Tori up as she got dressed for their first night of field training. Ivan had sent her over to the guild headquarters early, and she’d found a simple black outfit waiting for her in her room. Unlike the apprentice costumes, this one wasn’t meant to mark one as anything special. It was dark, certainly, but also purposefully mundane. Anyone who looked at Tori in it would think she was just another person on the street, maybe walking to a restaurant or bar. Had she just arrived at the guild, Tori would have found the choice strange. After learning from Ivan for so long, however, she understood the value of blending in.
The only part of the outfit that wasn’t spectacularly normal was a silver pendant with a stone that had a rainbow of shifting colors set in the center. Obviously it was magic, which meant Tori instantly found herself somewhat distrustful of the curious accessory. There was no sense in fighting the inevitable, though—another lesson she’d picked up from Ivan—so she slipped it carefully over her head. A light tingle ran through her body as soon it fell against her chest, but after a few seconds of waiting, she didn’t notice anything else. With a shrug of acceptance, Tori finished getting ready and headed out the door.
She was the last to arrive in the lounge area; Lance, Beverly, and Warren were dressed in similar, but not identical, clothing to hers, and each boasted a pendant of their own, all with the same odd moving colors swirling about in the stones. No sooner had she taken a few steps into the room than a familiar voice greeted her, although it was one she hadn’t heard in quite a while.
“Good evening, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me yet, my name is Arcanicus.” He looked the same as he had the last time Tori laid eyes on him, same lightly-wrinkled visage and crisp purple robes. His eyes, however, were more alive than they had been back then; clearly, he was more excited for this task than he’d been while conjuring skeletons for some upstart rookie to firebomb.
“Tonight, we begin your training outside this guild. Different nights will call for different tactics. Sometimes you will be shadowing guild members as they go on actual jobs. On other occasions, you’ll be completing small tasks for me. These won’t be anything ostentatious: merely exercises to get you past the first-time jitters and accustomed to working in the field.”
Seeing as Tori had logged plenty of time out in the real world and had, in fact, gotten recruited by breaking into one of the guild’s holding facilities, she wasn’t feeling any of those jitters Arcanicus warned them about. All the same, it wasn’t a bad strategy for rookies. Getting their feet wet in a relatively safe environment would give them the chance to get past any fears that might surface. Better then than in the middle of a real job when they could let people who needed them down.
“Since tonight is your first outing, we’re going to take things slowly,” Arcanicus continued. “We’ll do a little walking around downtown, getting used to moving as a squad, and then swing by the diamond exchange where Pod Person is scheduled to do a quick break-in. If you have any questions during that event, please hold them until after we’re back at the guild and they can be asked safely. Before we get to any of that, however, I should probably brief you on the equipment you’ve been issued.”
No one needed prompting to look at the pendants hanging from their necks; they knew immediately what Arcanicus was referencing.
“Those are stones of obfuscation, handcrafted by yours truly. So long as you’re wearing them, you’ll be unmemorable to anyone who sees you. No one will be able to give an accurate description of what you looked like, people you know won’t recognize you, even cameras will turn warped and blurry when you’re in frame. The exceptions to this effect is others who are wearing the pendants—that’s why you recognize each other—and the creator himself, of course. They are very expensive, so take care not to lose them or you will be billed and it will not be cheap. They’ll be returned to me each night at the end of training and reissued the next day. For reference, I also rent these out to guild members to use on actual jobs, so if you ever need one, just come see me to negotiate the price.”
Tori looked at the stone with new respect; the ability to hide them all from being noticed or remembe
red was pretty incredible. What’s more, it was something she didn’t think she could easily accomplish with science or technology. Much as her natural inclination went against it, she might have to learn a little more about the arcane arts. They were proving too useful to disregard.
“All right, everyone, follow me. I’ve got Tunnel Vision on standby, waiting to transport us across the city. Other nights we’ll take a car, but I thought it would be pleasant to begin on an easier foot.” Arcanicus headed out of the lounge and the apprentices followed, eager and nervous as they headed toward their first night loose in the real world amid villains of the guild.
* * *
In spite of all the buildup, or perhaps because of it, their night started off rather boring. Arcanicus walked them around downtown, letting them get used to the way people’s eyes seemed to slide off them under the spell of the obfuscation stones. It was disconcerting initially, but once the strangeness wore off, they each began experimenting more with the limits of what the magical pendants could do. Lance tried to strike up a conversation with some women walking to a club and managed to hold their attention for all of half a minute before the sound of a honking horn distracted them and he fell out of their attention. Tori dropped an empty soda can on the ground in front of a cop, who frowned when he saw it then put it in the garbage. Warren slipped into a bar, ordered a drink, and then emerged without bothering to pay, the bouncer not even giving him a second glance.
Only Beverly kept her interactions normal, stopping someone to ask for the time, trying to bum a cigarette off a few guys gathered outside a club, and getting directions from the same cop who had thrown Tori’s can into the garbage. The difference was that Beverly did all three of these things on a loop, waiting first five minutes, then three, then one between each round. On the final occasion, one of the smoking men squinted at her like she seemed familiar but still handed over a cigarette. Beverly rejoined the others, tossing the tobacco stick into the trash on top of Tori’s discarded can.