Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  For that matter, Deena wondered as Enki rocketed up the street, what about the fact that he fucking strangled me the other night? Liberty said that I’d been betrayed. I thought he meant Walker—because, well, Aaron had been there for me and Walker was disengaging. But now I know, don’t I? Sure, he probably hoped I’d immediately focus on Walker, too. Aaron hates Walker—afraid, no doubt, that he knows something and might expose his string of murders. Walker had been local during the gang war—we’d never met, but I think he knew Waldo. I know he knew Monroe. Maybe Aaron had opened his investigation as a way of getting Walker out of the way without having to kill the guy? Or maybe … once Walker wasn’t a cop anymore, Aaron felt he could ice him without being a cop-killer? I don’t know. He’s been three steps ahead, betraying us all.

  God, I want to kill him. No … I just want this to be over. And then … and then I’m out.

  “Let’s go.”

  Deena looked up, jarred from her reverie. They’d arrived at 500 Fialkov. Enki had pulled her SUV around the edge of the crowd, skirting the sea of fanatics and rabid reporters, aiming for the parking garage in the back of the building. There was a gatehouse, and Enki flashed her badge at the guard. He waved them forward and then reached for his phone. Deena pulled her gun and aimed it at his face.

  “Open up,” she barked, gesturing toward the gate. “Seen a guy come this way, thin and dark? Maybe looks like a cop?”

  The guard frowned. “Seen a lot of guys today maybe look like a cop.”

  Deena motioned forward. “Open the fucking gate, will ya? No one likes a gut shot wiseass.” The guard nodded and raised the barrier. Deena waved him out of the gatehouse with her gun. “Around the building, toward the front. Don’t call anyone; don’t warn security. Give me your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Your phone,” she said, gesturing with her hand. “Let’s go. And your cell.”

  Curious, the guard slowly handed over the wireless handset to the gatehouse phone and a tablet. Deena snatched them from his grasp. She smashed the handset and snapped the cell in two, tossing the pieces out the window.

  “Hey!” the guard objected. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Deena stopped him with a finger and a scowl. “You know who I am? I’ll find you. You know who I fucking am?”

  The guard, taken aback by her tone, stopped and shook his head, sweat flying from the brim of his cap. “No. No, I don’t.”

  Deena smiled. “Great. Have a nice day.”

  Enki drove into the garage and turned the corner. Before them, parked on an angle, were two police cruisers. Their lights were flashing, red and blue painted against the garage’s peeling walls. Enki stopped short, put it in park and then leaped from her seat and drew her sidearm. Deena followed suit, edging out the passenger door and quietly creeping up on the leftmost cruiser. Just beyond, splayed out on the floor, she could see unconscious cops. Looming over them was Aaron Boucher, dressed in shirtsleeves, jacket and coat draped across his parked sedan. His hair was atrocious—corkscrews spiraling out from both temples, mussed by what had to have been a brief but invigorating round of fisticuffs. He was breathing hard, glancing at the detectives as they approached from opposite ends of the cars, guns and faces drawn.

  “Hey, Deen.” He waved, somewhat cavalier, as if Deena were meeting him for lunch instead of coming to arrest him. She squinted, lining her sight along the center of his chest. “Don’t ‘Deen’ me. You know you’re fucking under arrest, right?”

  Aaron stared and then laughed. He wiped a hand against his shirt, knocking his tie askew, and then ran it through his unkempt hair. “See, I told you that you were one hell of a detective. Figured it out, huh? Sure took you long enough.”

  “Well, my partner’s been out of commission, and my father nearly died, so as you can imagine, I’ve been a bit distracted.”

  Aaron held out his hands in supplication. “I’ll admit to the latter, but as far as Walker, Deena, you know I—”

  Her sidearm vibrated as she spat in his direction. “No, I don’t fucking know anything. I used to know I loved you. I used to know I respected you, despite the fact that you dumped me without an explanation. But at least I know why now. At least now I know that you broke it off because you were afraid I’d find out you were worse than my father.”

  Deena advanced, and Enki followed. Human Front security, alerted no doubt by the untrustworthy guard, would be on them at any minute. But Deena had to get this out while she had the chance, to distract him until they could get him into cuffs. Her heart was brimming with hate and pain; this had to come out now before he took another step. “You inspired me to be a cop. Did you know that, Aaron? You and Waldo, the two assholes in my life. Because of you, I made something of myself. And you know what? I fucking hate you for making me realize that it was for bullshit. There are no good cops—not anymore. Maybe there never were.”

  She gestured toward Enki. “Well, maybe one or two.”

  Enki nodded, faced forward, arms extended and aiming at Aaron’s face. “Thanks for that.”

  Deena heard footsteps in the distance, slapping against pavement and snow. She didn’t know how close they were, so she rushed to finish. “You … you were never a good cop, Aaron. All this time, you were in on it. With Monroe, my dad. And you just … you wore a mask, like all the other Powers. You wore a mask and pretended to be somebody else. Someone I never should have trusted.”

  Aaron stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry you see it that way. But there’s more to it, Deena. There’s more you aren’t aware of.”

  She laughed. “There always is. That’s what we do—you, me, Walker. We hoard secrets. We can never trust anybody but ourselves, and so we hide the truth from those closest to us. You know the funny thing about Walker and the Powers? At least they’re honest. They wear … wore masks in the open, so we knew they were hiding something. You and I? We don’t even have the balls to be as honest as that.”

  She stopped talking, listening again for approaching footsteps. But the garage was silent as a tomb now; Deena stood there, pointing a gun at Aaron’s chest, glancing down at the comatose policemen and fervently hoping they were still alive. Aaron fidgeted, shifting on the pavement, and she snapped back into position, aiming at his heart.

  “Now what?” he asked. He held up his palms, waiting for a response.

  Enki reached for a pair of handcuffs. “Now you have the right to remain silent.”

  He moved back, close to the wall, angling for the door that led out of the garage and into the building. “Come on. She just said there’s no such thing as a good cop, and now you’re playing one to her bad? Fuck … I mean, come on. Don’t be absurd.”

  “Shut up, Aaron,” Deena warned him, continuing to advance.

  He turned toward her, ignoring the other detective. “Where was law and order back when Monroe killed random criminals because he hated what they stood for? Where was justice when Waldo gathered bribes and colluded with the enemy? No, don’t make me laugh, Detective Sunrise.” He held a finger out to Enki, pointing at her chest. Aaron’s voice was loud and abrasive now, echoing throughout the garage. “You’re arresting me? Your partner, Walker, he was the real bad guy. Him and Monroe. Walker was Blue Streak—did you know? He killed thousands of mafiosi … never brought them in by the book, he and his crew. And Diamond? That guy palled around with a traitor to his own people—don’t tell me he didn’t fucking know! They were longtime pals.

  “No.…” He ran fingers through his hair again. “Walker’s the criminal. Crane, Deena’s father. The Soldier. Me? I just did what I’ve always done. I protected my family and the ones I loved. And I brought criminals to justice my own way. The right way. The way Monroe did poorly and for selfish reasons all those years ago.”

  Deena bit her lip. The gun wavered in her hand, waggling at Aaron. Fuck him, she thought. Nothing but excuses and crazy manifestos. But there are no excuses for what he’s done. He’s no different from any
other whack-job banger or half-pint kingpin we take down on a daily basis. He believes in rhetoric; he believes in his truth. But the only truth here is that there is right and there is wrong. And as a wise man once wrote, that distinction isn’t difficult to make.

  But still, I can’t just shoot. I mean, there’s history. And just like Walker had to step away from the Monroe case to get perspective … maybe I’m too close to all this. I don’t love the guy anymore—like I did; I’m not that much of an idiot. But I’ll admit I felt something for him these last three days. Yeah, there’s heartbreak and betrayal, but also longing … and there were good times, too, no? I mean, he’s a killer, don’t get me wrong. But so am I. And Walker. We’ve killed in the line of duty, seeking justice. We killed men and mobsters, gods and glamazons. And who did Aaron kill? Intolerant hate-speeching, militant bigots? Superpowered thugs and hooligans? He tried to kill Waldo, but let’s be honest, Deena … your father is as guilty of betraying the law as Blitzkrieg or the Rammlers or half a dozen criminals on Liberty’s hit list. So who’s to say that Aaron is wrong?

  Deena swallowed, desperate for a drink. And the answer came. Walker. He tried to kill Walker. Even me, even Dad—those weren’t as bad as trying to kill my partner, you righteous asshole. I loved you once, long ago. I was inspired by you. But you tried to kill my goddamn partner, and that cannot stand.

  She motioned for Enki to cuff him, covering from her side. But she’d waited too long, and before either detective could make a move, Aaron sprang and swept the gun from Enki’s hand.

  So fast, Deena gibbered inside her rapidly processing mind. How’d he get so fast? She steadied her pistol, preparing to fire … but she hesitated again, and he was on her like a cat, slashing at her wrist with iron fingers. She dropped the gun and kicked out, but Aaron spun Deena off her feet, sending her ass over teakettle onto the ground.

  Enki scrambled for either gun, but Aaron danced her way and stepped on her leg, breaking an ankle. Enki muffled a scream and tried to grab his foot, but Aaron swiftly lifted up and kicked her in the head. Enki fell to the floor, skull colliding with one of the unconscious cops. She lay silent in a discarded heap.

  Deena struggled to get up, but Aaron was already halfway toward the door. She shouted, and he turned back, staring over his shoulder.

  “Give up, Deena. You can’t stop me. You must know that by now.”

  She tumbled into a somersault, expertly snatching her gun as she came back onto her feet. But Aaron merely smirked.

  “Don’t take another step,” she warned him. “So much as move toward the door and you’re my personal Christmas turkey shoot.”

  Aaron glanced back at the gatehouse. Footsteps and commotion had returned, getting closer, angry and concerned strangers scurrying into the garage. Deena remained vigilant, keeping her gun trained on her former flame, edging closer to Enki to make sure her partner wasn’t dead. She carefully bent down and checked for a pulse and confirmed that her battered friend was merely knocked out.

  “No door,” Aaron replied, chuckling to himself. “You got it.” He bent slightly at the knees, gathering momentum. The concrete vibrated and then splintered around his shoes, a spiderweb of broken pavement radiating out across the garage floor. Deena watched, eyes wide and jaw slack. She barely had a moment to react when Aaron Boucher, the boy next door, leaped into the air and smashed through the ceiling. He was a blur of motion, hammering with his knuckles one floor above Deena’s head, leaping and burrowing through to the second floor. Plaster and metal broke apart in his wake, showering down to the garage below.

  Deena stood there dumbfounded, lowering her sidearm, just as Crane’s goons arrived with weapons of their own.

  What the fuck just happened? she wondered. What the fuck did Aaron just do?

  25

  December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:03 P.M.

  I have powers. That’s my secret. But I have another.

  Nothing extravagant—exceptional enhanced strength, extra stores of speed, but most importantly, a severely accelerated supply of white blood cells protecting me from harm. It’s like superimmunity—not only do they keep me safe from disease but the little buggers also make me resistant to foreign contaminants such as poison, powers, and the like. That’s a little tidbit of information that few know. I can absorb most anything that comes my way: radiation, energy weapons, you name it. Anything that isn’t a projectile. I can absorb, adapt, and make myself immune to it. But Malachi Crane will know all too soon—right before I snap his weaselly little neck.

  Aaron burst through to the third floor, punching his way through carpet and steel, scattering furniture and a handful of receptionists. He leaped up into a cubicle farm and started for an elevator on the far end of the floor. Office drones scrambled the other way, desperate to avoid the new arrival. Aaron didn’t mind. He calmly walked to the elevator bank and jabbed the button with his index finger. He listened to shrieks as the third-floor residents continued their impromptu evacuation. Calmly. Quietly. That’s the way I had wanted to do this. Get in, get out. He checked his watch: just after twelve. I figure fifteen minutes until the guards make their way to my location. Plenty of time.

  The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside. Aaron reached out again, stabbing the fourth-floor button, and then he settled back against the wall. He remained calm, as he’d been for the other murders. That bit with the ceiling, breaking through from the garage—that had been out of character. He’d prepared for this, understood it was a necessary end. Not just for Crane—who, let’s be honest, deserved to die—but for Aaron, as well. And for Liberty and everything that name represented. Even still, there was a way to do these things. And Deena and Sunrise had fucked that up.

  One more floor. One last act and everything is over. My life, career, and any chance I ever had for love. Ironic, really. All this time sporting a name that I could never embrace. I never had freedom, the liberty to live the way I wanted. Love the woman I wanted. No—another person made my choices for me, set me on this path. There was a deal that had to be made, and I accepted it with eyes wide open. I became Liberty to save someone else’s life, but not my own. This? This is me bringing the contract to a close.

  Now I’m going to kill a man and by doing so, kill three: Crane, Liberty, and myself.

  “I’m coming,” he spoke aloud, hoping the elevator had been fitted with bugs and cameras that might pick up the threat. “I’m coming for you, Crane. I’m coming in the name of Liberty.”

  The doors slid open. Aaron looked around the lobby of the Human Front’s executive floor. The circular room, warm and inviting, was done up in neutral colors, inlaid with mahogany and bands of polished chrome. A large reception desk dominated the space, staffed by an attainably attractive brunette and littered with telephones and bowls of sugary treats. Two leather couches lined the walls, set adjacent to matching chairs. Racks of magazines—quite diverse, dated no earlier than the previous week—had been affixed to the wall along with tasteful, generic pieces of art. By looking around the lobby, one would never know that he or she was standing in the foyer of the most aggressively intolerant incorporation of bigots in the nation—that is, if their eyes hadn’t been drawn to the carefully inscribed logo looming above the desk: a bronze depiction of the fist-and-lightning symbol the Human Front had adopted as their corporate mark.

  Aaron’s eyes had been drawn to it; he approached the desk, ignoring the screams filtering in from the floor below and the blaring alarm that now shrieked throughout the building. The receptionist stood up, greeting him with a smile and then with an illegal Glock, lifted into view from where it had lain hidden beneath the desk. “Can I help you?” she sweetly inquired. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Aaron broke into a grin and beckoned for the woman to shoot.

  26

  December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:03 P.M.

  Deena continued staring at the ceiling, watching frantic staffers rush to the nearest exit. She was astounded. Aaron Boucher has powers.
I mean, what the holy fuck?

  All her life, the single constant remained that Deena felt she’d understood the man who’d inspired her to be a cop. Despite Aaron’s treating her poorly and cutting off the relationship for what she’d felt to be an insufficient reason, Deena at least had taken comfort in the fact that she’d loved a good man. The last good man she truly ever knew.

  But these past few days … getting to know Aaron, immersing herself in his life once again, the layers of his carefully constructed façade had been peeled away—like a rotten onion—and now she knew him for what he really was.

  Also? Aaron Boucher has powers. Are you goddamn kidding me?

  He’d been the poster boy for hating the powered community, just shy of tattooing a fist-and-lightning onto his bicep. Not that he ever showed disdain for what a powered hero could be … there were many that he did commend and use as example. Aaron only hated the Powers he knew. The ones in Atlanta, the ones who’d let the city down.

  Now she discovered that he was one of them. He could have saved so many lives, could have ended the gang wars by being the poster boy for his own kind, rather than deceitful, deceptive Monroe. But instead, he chose to wear his mask—yet another in a succession of equally disappointing masks. Now, she learned Aaron was using his talents not to uphold law and order, no, but instead to undertake acts of vigilantism. He used his powers to kill criminals. What a fucking hypocrite.

  Sudden noise dragged Deena back to reality. Wet boots clomped on the cracked pavement, indicating the arrival of Malachi Crane’s goon squad. She dragged herself away from the hole above her head. Four well-armed bigots arranged themselves in a circle around the two detectives—and the comatose policemen—decked out in head-to-toe lightweight armor emblazoned with the colors and logo of the Human Front. Their faces were hidden beneath what appeared to be a set of motorcycle helmets; the visors were drawn, and she could see herself reflected in the glass. Each thug carried a two-handed, technologically advanced machine pistol, tricked out with laser sighting, flamethrowers, and computer-enhanced smart-tracking capabilities. Measuring one of the weapons, Deena could see the way it corrected its aim every time she swayed to the left or right. Thin beams of crimson light bounced across the cruisers, bodies, walls, and cars, and three of them sighted her chest, zeroing in on Deena’s heart.