West Pacific Supers: Rising Tide

by Johnson-Weider, K. M.

  Loren kept his smile intact as he tried to explain. “No, I assure you that we at You’re First Realty! are committed to showing our customers houses that they… ”

  “The thing is,” the wife interjected sweetly, “what we’re really looking for is a three-bed, two-bath, with an ocean view, but close enough to the city that we can drive to work within an hour.”

  “And for under a million!” yelled her husband.

  Loren nodded sympathetically. Every buyer was convinced that somewhere out there was more house, in a better location, for less money. Every seller was convinced that somewhere out there was a gullible buyer loaded with cash. And caught in the middle were the poor real estate agents, nodding sympathetically as they watched their own bank accounts dwindle.

  He dropped them back at their condo and checked his messages in the parking garage. It was the cardinal rule of You’re First Realty! that agents were absolutely forbidden from taking calls when they were with clients. “Our clients want to feel that you’re totally focused on them,” Mrs. Barton had explained on his first day. “And that means, no chatting on the cell phone when you’re out in the field.”

  “But what if a new listing comes available?” countered Loren, who hated to think of being out of touch for hours at a time. “It could benefit the client if I find out about a new listing.”

  Mrs. Barton waved her hand imperiously. “No calls,” she barked. “You take a call when you’re with a customer, you’re out of a job. Remember Michaels.”

  Loren remembered. Michaels had started work one week before him and got fired after his second showing. The clients had revealed in one of Mrs. Barton’s infamous follow-up customer service calls that Michaels had answered his cell phone while they were trying to determine whether the Jacuzzi tub had a cracked seal. No matter that his wife was expecting their first child. No calls meant no calls.

  Five new messages. Loren sighed. Real estate was turning out to be journalism all over again.

  Three were from the office. Loren was beginning to suspect that Frannie, Mrs. Barton’s secretary, liked him. At least she seemed to call him a lot more than the other agents, from what he’d been able to determine. She was cute, but Loren thought she had a roommate. Relationships were complicated enough as it was without trying to figure out that dynamic. Loren had his own cardinal rule when it came to dating: the girl had to have her own place. There was simply no way that he could bring anyone back home with him.

  Two of the calls were simply setting up times for showings this weekend. The third was more interesting: “Hi Loren, it’s Frannie again! I just thought you’d want to know that a bunch of new beachfront just hit the special listings. Some of them are really reasonable, must be someone motivated to sell. I know you’re showing a client right now, so… well, you know what? I actually have a lot to get to this afternoon. I might not be able to let the other agents know until Monday morning… Okay, well, good luck out there!”

  This was good news and Loren brightened. It was about time that he caught a break. Maybe some developer was on the verge of going under and was selling off a whole lot of single-family beachfront homes within commuting distance and at cut-rate prices. That could mean commissions, and commissions meant his half of the mortgage payment, brake repairs on his car, and maybe even the new Daedalus Consulting XR1300-series Multifunctional Monitoring System. He smiled to himself. This was really great. Maybe he should make an exception for Frannie…

  The fourth message was from his mom. He needed to pick up milk on the way home, they were out already. He made a mental note and turned to the fifth, which didn’t register on caller ID. He inputted the key code for the Daedalus Consulting Universal ID system but found the number still blocked. This was interesting; it must be someone using the Daedalus Consulting Universal Block system. His pulse quickened as he heard a faint husky voice. He pressed the phone close against his ear and turned up the volume. “Midnight at Industrial Island,” the husky voice said. There was nothing else.

  Loren jumped into his car. Thank God the Quick ‘n Good was on his way home. He had heroeing to do.

  It didn’t take long to gather the supplies he would need for tonight’s adventure. His lair had started out as a two-car attached garage, but when he moved back home after grad school he had convinced his mom to let him use it as his living place. The arrangement suited her; she had plenty of room in the house and the weather was rarely bad enough to regret not being able to park inside. Loren knew his mom was a little worried about his idiosyncrasies, particularly his insistence on keeping the garage off limits at all times, but he was a devoted son, he paid half the mortgage payment, and most Friday nights they watched the Super Channel movie together over take-out Chinese. All things considered, they were happy.

  The living portion of his lair was the smallest, just a bunk bed and an easy chair. But that was a small price to pay to have a complete laboratory and forensic investigation center on the other side of the makeshift dividing wall. His masters was in physics, but the last couple of years the other vigilantes had started to rely on him more and more for all manner of scientific analysis. He had really earned his stripes after Melody Lane retired from WPPD forensics investigations, after decades of running a backdoor fee-based vigilante consulting service. Her retirement sent ripples through the community. She assured everyone that she would continue to be available via the internet from her new condo in Myrtle Beach, but they all knew it was never going to be the same.

  So Loren taught himself about blood stains, fingerprints, and DNA sampling. Daedalus Consulting made it almost ridiculously easy for anyone with an actual background in the hard sciences. Most of their products came with beautiful technical manuals, and as a preferred customer he was eligible to log on to the many webinars that explained more advanced product uses. Sometimes he felt like he was back in school again, not that he minded. He had always enjoyed school; it was life after school that had proven so challenging.

  The Whisperer’s message had said Midnight at Industrial Island, which probably meant that the vigilantes were meeting at midnight tonight, though of course, it could be that the vigilante Midnight wanted to meet him on Industrial Island. Either way, the meeting place would be the Fun Plex on the northern end of the island. It was a favorite meeting place for the more social vigilantes of West Pacific City, both because it was easily accessible via ferry or metro from the mainland and because the place was so run down and filled with freaks that no one paid attention to a couple more. As a matter of principle and personal security, vigilantes didn’t meet up regularly, though Cupid liked to host the occasional karaoke night and Midnight was pretty big on strategy sessions to exchange information. Still, they didn’t get together more than once a month. For the Whisperer, the most secretive of them all, to be calling the invites meant that something big was going on. Loren could barely contain his excitement.

  He got off the ferry in a crush of half-drunk teenagers and made for the abandoned shooting gallery behind the Ferris wheel. The place was pretty trashed already, not unusual for a Friday night; he passed two kids making out by an arcade and another one vomiting into an overflowing garbage can. Back in high school, he’d brought a date here once, but he never made that mistake again. The place didn’t used to be this bad, though. Industrial Island really had gone to hell.

  Loren’s vigilante persona was Truthfinder, not the catchiest of titles, but it was hard to pick a name. Most of the really good ones were taken. There actually had been a Truthfinder back in the 70s, but Loren didn’t think his estate was going to track down a minor West Pacific vigilante just to raise a stink over it. His Truthfinder costume consisted of a black trench coat, which had enough hidden pockets to stash his most valued tools. On outings like this one, he also carried a briefcase with more high-tech analysis equipment. He thought it gave him a menacing professional look, maybe like he was part of the Russian mob. He was saving up his money for an ultimesh body suit, but in the meantime, he m
ade do with a bullet-proof vest from the military surplus store.

  The first person he recognized was Cupid, playing lookout and trying to act casual. Of course there was nothing casual about a midget with a quiver strung over his back, leaning against a darkened shooting range. “Hey there, Cupid,” Loren said with a smile as he headed up.

  Cupid frowned back. “The name’s Don Juan tonight, capiche?” he said, laying one finger alongside his nose and speaking in an outrageous Italian accent.

  “Right,” said Loren. Cupid loved secret identities and he was always trying out new ones; Loren had learned it was best just to play along. “So where is everyone, Don?”

  “Bumper car building, señor,” Cupid replied, jerking his thumb in the direction of a neighboring building. “I’m waiting for Samurai. He got stuck at some belt ceremony or something down at the dojo. You go ahead.”

  Loren nodded and headed towards the dark building. As he neared the door, a sudden unexpected movement nearby caused him to jump a foot in the air and sent his heart rate soaring. “What do you seek?” whispered the shadowy figure that seemed to have formed out of the darkness itself.

  “Jesus, Whisperer,” breathed Loren, mentally kicking himself because the Whisperer loved sneaking up on people and he should have expected this.

  “What do you seek?” repeated the faint husky voice.

  “Truth, justice, and peace for all law-abiding citizens of West Pacific,” said Loren, composing himself enough to remember the latest password. Thank God, Midnight had come up with this one; Cupid’s last month had been ‘Romance, true love, and passion-filled nights’, which definitely seemed to set the wrong tone for a meeting. “You may enter,” breathed the Whisperer, stepping back into the deeper shadows and allowing Loren to open the door.

  Inside the old bumper car building, a naked light bulb provided the only illumination. There were six old folding chairs set up in two rows facing a bumper car, in which was sitting Midnight, a shapely woman in a head to toe black body suit. Loren had spent many a sleepless night wondering what Midnight looked like under that suit, but her face mask covered everything other than her black eyes and attractive mouth. She couldn’t be that old; maybe mid-20s he figured, judging by her voice and the little skin he could see. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t interested in small talk and even Cupid had given up on trying to weasel personal information out of her. Goalie on the other hand was quite a bit friendlier and gave him a wave from her seat in the middle of the second row.

  “How’s it going?” he asked as he took the empty seat next to her.

  “Can’t complain too much,” she answered cheerfully, her voice somewhat distorted from behind her hockey helmet face cage. “We got into a scuffle the other night with some punk dealers down in the harbor district, but we showed ‘em the long stick of the law, if you know what I mean.”

  He chuckled along with her. He had seen Goalie in action, and between her inline skates and her reinforced goal stick, she was a force to be reckoned with, even without backup in the form of Samurai’s shinai and Cupid’s arrows. Sometimes he envied the West Pacific Trio’s camaraderie on and off the streets. But he had picked up enough of Cupid’s hints to know that their relationship was also kind of complicated. He suspected that they were some sort of love triangle or maybe even a ménage à trois. Frightening to think about, really.

  Midnight made an impatient sound and left her bumper car to check the door.

  “She’s in a rare mood,” warned Goalie in a low voice.

  “Do you know what the meeting’s about?” Loren asked.

  “Not really; she’s being more tight-lipped than usual. We’re guessing it has to do with the West Pacific Supers explosion. The city’s been flooded lately with wannabe supercriminals; probably whoever was behind the explosion is trying to finish the job.”

  “Really? Wow,” said Loren. “That’s big stuff.”

  A few minutes later, Samurai entered, dressed in full traditional kendo protective armor. He seemed to intentionally ignore Goalie when he nodded hello at Loren before taking a seat in the front row. Cupid came in and sat down on the other side of Goalie, mouthing at Loren behind her back “lover’s quarrel”. Loren pretended not to understand.

  Midnight stalked back into the room and looked around with annoyance.

  “If you’re waiting on Nightprowler,” Goalie called out, “you might as well forget it. She’s never on time.”

  Midnight waved her hand as if Nightprowler were the least of her concerns. “No, I would hardly allow her to hold things up. Though I fail to see how she can be consistently late to a meeting that begins at midnight.”

  “Maybe she works the late shift,” Cupid suggested.

  Goalie snorted. “Oh, she definitely works the late shift. I think she works the South side of Moreau Street, if you know what I mean.”

  Cupid laughed and Samurai gave a disapproving look back over his shoulder. It took a minute for Loren to get what Goalie was insinuating and when he did, he couldn’t help reddening. It was no secret that none of the other female vigilantes liked Nightprowler.

  The door closed with a sudden gust of wind that made them all jump. A patch of shadows to one side of the room grew darker as the Whisperer took his place. Midnight nodded. “Very well, if you could all please settle down, we can get started. We have a very special guest tonight and I want all of you to give him your full attention.”

  Loren and Goalie exchanged curious looks at this unusual introduction. Stepping out of the shadows where Loren thought only the Whisperer was standing was a smooth grey-white, man-sized, power armor suit: White Knight.

  Loren gasped in surprise. White Knight had stopped attending vigilante meetings more than a year ago when he’d moved up to the big leagues and became a professional super hero with WPS. Having him back here was a special treat - though apparently not everyone felt the same way.

  “Sellout!” yelled Goalie. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Yeah,” said Cupid. “This is a vigilante meeting and he’s not a vigilante.”

  Samurai’s back stiffened and Loren felt embarrassed. The relationship between professional supers and vigilantes wasn’t always the best, but this was uncalled for.

  “Behave yourself!” Midnight snapped. “Anyone who doesn’t show our guest respect will be asked to leave the room!” She pointedly glared at Goalie, who promptly stuck her tongue out, though Loren was pretty sure no one up front could see it due to the hockey mask. Still, he sank down in his seat a bit, wishing he was sitting up next to Samurai who acted much more like an adult than his compatriots did.

  “My apologies,” said Midnight to White Knight with obviously forced calm. “And let me extend the condolences of the entire vigilante community to your team on its recent losses. There will of course be vigilante representation at the funerals on Sunday. I cannot go myself, but the Whisperer will be attending and others may as well.”

  At the reminder of the superhero deaths even Goalie looked chagrined. Loren felt awful. He had never met Mr. Awesome or Meltdown personally, but they had good reputations. Mr. Awesome was a legend and had been a vigilante himself before joining WPS in the early 2000s. Meltdown was known as a sweet kid; he was even younger than Loren. It was horrible to think that they were both now dead. He wouldn’t mind going to the funerals himself, but he had an open house on Sunday; maybe he could get another agent to cover.

  “I am coming to you in a time of crisis,” said White Knight in the robotic voice that always made Loren wonder if maybe he really was just an alien robot and there wasn’t a human inside the suit after all. “West Pacific Supers has suffered the loss of two outstanding super heroes, one of whom was our longtime team leader. We need your help.”

  Loren sat up; this was more like it. Cupid whistled appreciatively.

  “Less than a week before the attack,” White Knight continued, “Mr. Awesome was here on Industrial Island investigating a lead from the PGZ break-in at West Pacific
Labs last month. There was a subsequent raid by the WPPD that resulted in various evidence gathered and suspects identified. We…”

  “What’s PGZ?” asked Goalie.

  “Do you think the investigation was related to the explosion?” asked Cupid.

  “Be quiet you two!” Midnight yelled. “You will give our guest your full attention while he is speaking! There will be time set aside for questions later, but if you have to ask one now, raise your hand and don’t speak until you’ve been recognized!”

  Goalie’s hand shot up. Midnight glared at her. “Yes, Goalie?” she said through clenched teeth.

  “What I said before. Plus I thought Cupid’s question was a good one.”

  “PGZ is a highly dangerous explosive that was being developed at West Pacific Laboratories,” said White Knight, his robotic voice betraying no emotion. “We do not believe that Mr. Awesome’s investigation was related to the attack on the team, which our sources indicate was carried out by the Infinite Circle. WPS will be handling that investigation. We want you, however, to continue looking into what Mr. Awesome was doing. We have concerns that there may be…”

  They all jumped as the door creaked open and Nightprowler entered. She was hot, hotter than Midnight even, with her low-cut skin-tight black suit and sexy little eye mask. She slinked through the door and flashed a smile. “Hey, y’all. Sorry I’m late. What’d I miss?”

  Midnight looked like she was going to hit someone. “We have a special guest tonight - White Knight - who has taken time out of his very busy schedule to debrief us on the situation currently facing West Pacific Supers. He has just explained that the team needs our help in continuing an investigation into a PGZ theft.”

  “Cool. So what’s in it for us?” asked Nightprowler as she leaned provocatively against a pole.

  “What?” Midnight’s mouth gaped. “We are being asked by the professional superheroes of West Pacific to assist them! We… ”