Rogues

by Darius Brasher

“Sure. As soon as you find me some of my betters, I’ll kneel like a nun in church.” Maybe I was better at quips than I thought.

  “Mouthy asswipe,” Elemental Man said. He threw a punch at my head. He telegraphed it almost as much as Viola had. I ducked, pivoted on my left foot, spun, and launching a kick with my right leg at his left quadricep, a couple of inches above his knee. My timing was off because of the stiffness of my arms and the fact my hands were bound together. Even so, my shin struck Elemental Man’s leg like an axe chopping into a log.

  Howling, Elemental Man went down like a felled tree. He grabbed his leg and writhed in pain. In my haste, I had hit his femur, not his fibula. I likely had not broken it because the femur was much stronger than the fibula, but I would take what I could get. The impact from the blow had made my teeth rattle; since he had been on the business end of the kick, it would take a while before Elemental Man was on his feet again.

  Movement behind me. Iceburn. I turned. Made clumsy by sore arms and bound hands, I didn’t move in time. He landed two blows on my back. Kidney shots, like the ones I had given Amok. Stunned, my body seized up. It felt like acid raced through my guts. A cry escaped my lips.

  Iceburn grabbed me by the neck, making my back arch. He tried to force me to my knees. Through sheer pigheaded stubbornness, I willed myself to remain upright.

  “You’ve handled yourself well, kid,” Iceburn said into my ear. “I’m impressed. You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you. Back then, I said you reminded me of me. Now you remind me even more of me.”

  “That hurts my feelings,” I said through clenched teeth. It was hard to sound devil-may-care when it felt like your insides were trying to drip out of your anus.

  Iceburn slipped a hand down my back. He pressed into where he had struck me. His hand got ice-cold. There was crackling and popping as ice formed on my back, spreading out from Iceburn’s hand. Even through the protective layer of the Omega suit, it felt like being stabbed with a frozen dagger.

  “Kneel like Alchemy said,” Iceburn murmured in my ear. “He has a flair for the dramatic. It’s not my style, but I work for him, not the other way around. The sooner you kneel, the sooner this will be over.”

  “Never!” I vowed through gritted teeth. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” That made no sense. I was going to die either way, but it was the first thing to spring to mind.

  Iceburn pulled back slightly. He kicked me on the back of my legs, right behind my knees. My legs collapsed. I dropped heavily onto the hard street. Hot pain radiated up my legs, mingling with the icy pain in my back. It was with a herculean effort that I didn’t fall over. I tried to rise, but couldn’t. My body would not obey my brain, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Panting, I looked up at Doctor Alchemy. He looked down at me the way an exterminator might look at a cockroach. Then he frowned, and turned to look at Elemental Man. He still twisted and cried with pain on the ground.

  “Be quiet,” Doctor Alchemy snapped. “Have some self-respect. You’re whimpering like a mewling baby.”

  But Elemental Man did not stop. He raised such a ruckus, perhaps he had not heard the order. Doctor Alchemy frowned again in disgust. He raised his arm, pointing a gauntlet at Elemental Man. A projectile shot out of the gauntlet’s barrel. It hit Elemental Man’s body, exploding with a dull flash of light and a puff of smoke. His moans of pain stopped immediately. Elemental Man’s writhing body froze in place, as if he were a movie that had been paused.

  Doctor Alchemy turned back to me. He bent over me. His head blotted out the dim sun. With Iceburn holding me in place, Doctor Alchemy very carefully, deliberately, almost surgically, spit in my face.

  This was not the first time I had been spat on. I had been bullied as a child, after all, and had tangled with some bullies whose go-to move was to spit on you. Even so, having a grown man spit on you was startlingly offensive. On my knees, unable to get up, in danger of toppling over, and without my powers, I felt as helpless now as I had when I was a bullied kid.

  My mouth had been open and some of Doctor Alchemy’s spit had gotten in. “Refreshing,” I said, breathing hard, speaking with effort, “but if given the choice, I’d prefer water. You don’t by any chance have some squirreled away in that Halloween costume of yours? I’m parched, and that little spritz from you isn’t cutting it.”

  Doctor Alchemy acted as if I had not spoken. Water-hoarding bastard.

  “You killed my daughter,” he said. His tone was calm, almost conversational. He sounded as gentle as he had looked when he had helped that mother to her feet.

  Sudden anger at his words gave me a surge of energy. Neha’s death was a wound that had never healed. “No, I didn’t,” I said hotly. “The Sentinels killed her. I tried to save her.”

  Doctor Alchemy slapped me so hard my head spun around.

  “Lies!” he screamed. The calmness was gone, instantly replaced by maniacal rage. Spittle was on his lips; his eyes blazed with anger. He grabbed me by the throat. His fingers dug into me. “You let her die to keep us apart. You knew that once we were reunited, no one in the world could stand against us.”

  “You are what kept the two of you apart,” I croaked. “Neha didn’t want any part of your crazy schemes.”

  “How dare you speak her name!” Doctor Alchemy screamed in my face. He slapped me again, so hard I tasted blood. “You keep her name out of your filthy, lying mouth!” The third slap knocked me over. My head cracked against the pavement. My vision dimmed. I threatened to black out. Doctor Alchemy’s swift kick to my side brought me back to full consciousness. My mind exploded red with pain.

  Doctor Alchemy went berserk, kicking, stomping, punching me, all while screaming at me in a hodgepodge of English, Hindi, and Gujarati. Thanks to my time with Neha, I understood snatches of the non-English. Mostly curse words and racial slurs.

  Immobilized by pain and by my hands being bound, I could not protect myself, much less fight back. The Omega suit protected me some, but not enough. Surely some bystander was recording this and would upload the footage to UWant Video. I wondered if the sales of my Omega merchandise would take a hit. It’s strange the things you think about when you’re being beaten to death.

  It was only when I heard Iceburn’s voice that I realized he had pulled Doctor Alchemy off me.

  “Unhand me,” Doctor Alchemy demanded, his eyes wild. Iceburn’s arms were around his waist. Though not close enough to strike me anymore, he still angrily kicked the air. “You dare soil the person of the great Doctor Alchemy?”

  “I signed up to kill the kid, not beat him to a pulp,” Iceburn said. He sounded disgusted. If it hadn’t been for the fact he had killed Dad, I might have been grateful. “Plus, you hear those sirens? They mean that the higher-ups you paid off in police headquarters couldn’t stall anymore. And if the cops are on the way, another cape is likely not too far behind. Stop screwing around with the kid, finish him, and we’ll collect the others and get out of here. I’m not going to prison again.”

  I heard sirens too, though I had supposed they were merely the product of wishful thinking and having my bell repeatedly rung. Iceburn’s words explained why none of the authorities had shown up yet. It was not as though our fight had been quiet and in an out-of-the-way place. The good old Astor City Police Department, as corrupt as ever. One would think cops would love me since we were both on the side of law and order. One would be wrong. I’d heard through the grapevine that a lot of cops were none too happy about the Omega Effect. Crime being down meant lower budgets and lower pay.

  Through eyes half-swollen shut, I saw the crazed look slide off Doctor Alchemy’s face. He shrugged out of Iceburn’s embrace. Doctor Alchemy tugged at his costume, smoothing its lines, making himself presentable, as if he was about to walk on stage and accept an award.

  “You’re quite right,” Doctor Alchemy said, as calm as he been crazed moments before. He patted Iceburn on the shoulder with the demeanor of a man patting his favorite d
og. “Ever the professional, as always. So unlike our comatose colleagues. There will be a place for you when I assume my rightful place as ruler of the world.”

  “Imagine my excitement,” Iceburn said dryly. If Doctor Alchemy noticed Iceburn’s sarcasm, he gave no sign of it. Doctor Alchemy was one way one moment and so completely another way the next moment, that I wondered if he had a multiple personality disorder. I only wondered that vaguely, though. Mostly, I was past caring.

  Get up! something deep inside of me said urgently.

  You get up if you think getting up is so awesome, I retorted. But neither of us did. We couldn’t. We tried.

  Doctor Alchemy raised his arm and pointed a gauntlet at me. Lying under the business end of it, its barrel looked as big as a cannon’s muzzle.

  “Know that you are dying because of Neha Thakore. She was my princess, and would have been the world’s. If not for you,” Doctor Alchemy said. He sounded like a judge delivering a sentence. I supposed he was.

  I looked up at Doctor Alchemy, unable to do more than twitch ineffectually and watch. If I were a superhero worth his salt, I would have something to say as last words. Something clever. Memorable. Quotable. Noble. Heroic. But absolutely nothing came to mind. It had been one of those days. Next time, I would have something ready.

  Then I remembered:

  Next time. Ha!

  They say your life flashes before your eyes when you were about to die. I can report that nothing of the sort happens. Or at least it did not with me. Instead, I found myself thinking about how the Revengers had gotten together, how the ones who had been in prison had gotten out, and how Iceburn was not paralyzed anymore. I thought of the great crisis the Sentinels had spoken of, and how I hoped the next vessel for the Omega spirit would be ready to deal with it. I thought of Angel, and hoped he would be able to turn his life around. I thought of Viola, and hoped she had gotten away safely. I thought of Truman, and what he might have done differently if he rather than I was in this predicament. I thought of my son James and how very real he still seemed. I thought of Isaac, and how he wouldn’t come up short if he needed memorable last words. He probably had a list of options written out and taped to his refrigerator, just in case.

  And, I thought of the people who had entered the great beyond before me and that perhaps I would see again soon: Hammer, Mom, Dad, Hannah, and Neha.

  I thought about how the last three had died because of me. I had failed them all. Just as I was failing the rest of the world now.

  The world became an impressionist painting through my tears. I was thinking about how a real Hero would not cry when Doctor Alchemy shot me.

  The blurred world faded away, and then was gone.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 12

  Eighteen Years Ago

  Ajeet Thakore knew something was terribly wrong the moment he opened the door of his Wilmington, Delaware home.

  The front door had been unlocked. That in itself was unusual. The Thakores did not live in a bad neighborhood, but it was not the best either. They were always careful to keep the doors locked to guard against casual thieves and junkies looking for a quick and easy score in their working-class neighborhood in the Ninth Ward.

  Ajeet now stood in his living room. It had been ransacked. Normally it was as neat as a pin thanks to his wife’s constant tidying. Chairs were turned over; upholstery had been cut open; holes had been bashed through the walls; books had been pulled off shelves and ripped apart. The family’s Hindu altar in the corner of the room had been swept clean and smashed apart. The things normally on the altar littered the floor, torn apart or smashed: tinsel, colored lights, photos of family members both living and dead, and figurines of Hindu gods adorned with swastikas, ancient Hindu symbols of goodness and prosperity that had been appropriated and warped into symbols of hate by the Nazis.

  The rich smell of curries, Indian spices, and cooked vegetables did not assault Ajeet’s nostrils and make his mouth water the way the aroma had every evening after work since his and Rati’s arranged marriage twelve years before in their native state of Gujarat, India. Theirs was a traditional Indian marriage, with Ajeet working outside the home and Rati working inside it. Ajeet could not remember a time he had ever come home after work without the smell of a freshly made traditional Gujarati meal to greet him, even when Rati had been sick and he had urged her to stay in bed instead of toiling over a hot stove. Rati took her wifely duties very seriously. It was but one of the many things Ajeet loved about her. The absence of the smell of freshly cooked food was in its way even more alarming than the disarray of the living room.

  Was whoever had ransacked the living room still in the house? Ajeet silently cursed the fact his Alchemist gauntlets were locked away in his secret underground bunker beneath the tool shed. Was there time to dart outside and get them?

  No. What if Rati or their daughter Neha was in danger? There was no time to waste.

  Suddenly sweaty with anxiety, Ajeet’s thick and heavy glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them back into place. Ajeet reached into the pocket of his work slacks. He pulled out the two metal pellets he always kept on himself in case of an emergency, even when he was not wearing his Alchemist costume. Ajeet called these pellets and the others like them his alchemy cartridges. The size of a medium-sized grape and not much heavier, each pellet was shaped vaguely like a bullet, except each end was tapered, coming to a dull point. Like a bullet’s, the pellets’ shape was for purposes of aerodynamics, so they would go where Ajeet aimed them when he shot them from the cartridges in his thick gauntlets. Despite its small size, the pellet now in Ajeet’s left hand contained enough gas to knock out a roomful of people; the other in his right contained enough explosive to blow through the toughest of bank vaults.

  That was Ajeet’s sole Metahuman power—he could make a container, regardless of its size, hold any amount of a substance. Years ago, when his powers had first manifested when he was a teenager in India, he had filled a thimble with several bathtubs full of water while barely increasing the weight of the thimble. Even all these years later, Ajeet had no idea how his powers worked. Did he open up a pocket wormhole in containers, allowing them to hold far more than their size would normally allow? Did he send the container’s excess to another dimension? Create some sort of singularity in the fabric of space? It did not matter. The fact that his powers worked did. And, with the Philosopher’s Stone, he could create a wide variety of substances with various effects to fill his custom-made metal pellets with.

  Ajeet had not registered as a Metahuman with the federal government under the Hero Act of 1945 as he had been legally required to do when he immigrated to the United States with Rati and baby Neha a few years ago. In India, Metas had a habit of disappearing in the dead of night. It was an open secret the government kidnapped Metas to experiment on them, hoping to unlock the secrets of their powers. The United States’ government was not nearly as corrupt as the Indian government, but why take a chance? As a result, Ajeet had kept quiet about his powers. Only Rati knew about them. He kept no secrets from his beloved wife.

  So, technically, under the terms of the Hero Act, Ajeet was a criminal. A Rogue. The fact he used his powers to rob businesses as the costumed adventurer named the Alchemist made him more than just technically a criminal. Ajeet did not think of himself as a criminal, though. In his mind, he was just a guy who used his abilities and the substances formulated with the Philosopher’s Stone to supplement his meager income as a chemical technician at Burke Pharmaceuticals. Nobody got hurt during his robberies. Ajeet made careful sure of that. Even the businesses he hit would be made whole by their insurance. No harm, no foul.

  With dread increasing its icy grip around his heart as he stood in his vandalized living room, Ajeet struggled to flip the tiny latch on each pellet to arm them. His fingers were damp with sweat, clumsy with anxiety and fear. Normally the mechanism in the barrels attached to his Alchemist gauntlets automatically armed the pellets the instant they we
re fired.

  Finally, his fingers quivering, he managed to arm the pellets. Now they would explode the instant they hit something. His throwing arm was not as accurate or as powerful as his gauntlets, but it would have to do.

  Emboldened by the fact he could now defend himself, Ajeet stepped through the living room. His senses were heightened, alert to any hint of danger.

  “Mother?” he called out for Rati in Gujarati. The only time the couple called each other by their given names was when they were cross with each other, which had only occurred a handful of times over the years. “Neha?”

  No answer. No sound. No movement. The house was as still as a grave.

  The kitchen was in the same state of disarray as the living room. As was the downstairs bathroom and the small dining room. As quietly as he could, Ajeet crept up the stairs to the sleeping quarters.

  There was no sign of life in the upstairs bathroom. The shower curtain had been pulled down, the lid to the commode’s tank pulled off and broken, and the medicine cabinet emptied and torn off the wall.

  There was also no one in Neha’s room. A complete mess, it too had been searched sloppily and violently.

  Ajeet found Rati in their bedroom. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom had been torn apart. It was not the only thing that had been torn apart.

  Ajeet’s world crashed down around him.

  Rati lay faceup on the bed in a pool of her own blood. Her thick limbs were twisted, contorted, like a discarded puppet’s. Her face was battered, obviously beaten. Her right eye was swollen shut. The other, unnaturally red, stared lifelessly up at the ceiling. Much of her long black hair had been ripped out. It was scattered in her blood like macabre confetti. Her traditional sari had been ripped from her body. Its fragments lay on the floor. The matching petticoat and short beige blouse she wore underneath the sari had been torn, almost to shreds, exposing Rati’s plump flesh. As a traditional Indian woman, Rati valued gold jewelry. The rings, earrings, necklaces, and nose ring that she so loved and always wore had been stripped off her and were nowhere to be seen. Her skin, normally olive, was discolored, splotched brown, black and red. Her legs were spread. Her genitals, raw and bloodied, gaped open. She had been shot at least twice in the chest. With all the blood, it was hard to tell.