Sentinels

by Darius Brasher

  Each woman I saw stood out to me for one reason or another that was uniquely her own. However, no one stood out in a way that made me think she was Cassandra. Unfortunately, no one had a neon sign over her head identifying her as Cassandra: The Stripping Clairvoyant.

  Could Cassandra be Lilith? She had come up to me, after all. Maybe her clairvoyance had told her I had come to see her and she had pointed herself out to me. Maybe giving me a genital handshake was her way of saying, “Hi, I’m Cassandra. I’m as pleased to meet you as you obviously are to meet me.” If Lilith had the power of prophecy, though, she hid it awfully well. When I thought of an oracle, I thought of someone ancient with wise eyes who wore robes. I didn’t think of someone like Lilith.

  I looked over at Lilith again. She now was leading the middle-aged man she had previously been groping toward the door to the private area. Now that I was no longer gripped by lust, I saw that she had an unfocused and hazy look, the way people who were high and liked to stay high often did. How many men would she need to objectify herself for tonight, I wondered, to get enough money for her next series of fixes? Now that I gave her a good look undistorted by the warped lens of sexual want, I understood why Truman felt sorry for her. I found it hard to believe she was the Meta who could give me the answers I needed. She looked like she needed answers to life’s problems, not like she dispensed them.

  I glanced at Truman, hoping he would help me despite what he said earlier. True to his word, he was not helping me look for Cassandra. Rather, he leaned over the bar, talking to the pregnant bartender. He might have been trying to convince her to get a different job in the best interests of her unborn child. Or, he might have been asking if he could get a glass of milk straight from her built-in tap. You never knew with him.

  Truman clearly was going to be no help. Since no one leapt forward and announced herself to be Cassandra, I needed to try something other than staring at everyone like someone who had never seen a woman before. If I couldn’t find Cassandra with my eyes, maybe I could find her with my powers.

  I closed my eyes and lifted my hands a bit. Normally I tried to be subtler when I used my powers. Here, no one paid me any attention. There were far too many other, jigglier, things to pay attention to.

  As I had when I used my powers to sense Antonio about to enter his apartment to find me and Isaac inside, I emitted pulses of my telekinetic touch. Like a submarine using sonar to find what was around it in the depths of the dark ocean, I used my telekinetic touch to feel everyone and everything in the club. I did it gently, not wanting people to feel me probing them. Though I could hit someone so hard with my telekinesis that it felt like a punch from a pile driver, I could also touch someone so gently that I could count the hair on someone’s head without mussing it. With the soft touch I now used, the people in the club would feel nothing consequential, like a weak puff of breath on the back of their necks, except all over.

  I concentrated on finding something unusual, something that would indicate who Cassandra was. It was an effort to not get distracted by all the flesh I ran my mind over. My powers confirmed what Truman had said about how more than just dancing went on in the private area. Some of the positions the people there sweatily engaged in I had never even heard of, much less tried. At this rate, I would be the most experienced guy who had only slept with one woman in the history of mankind. I wondered if there was an award for that. I shuddered to think what the award statuette must be shaped like.

  There! I found something unusual. A woman who sat on a man’s lap on the other side of the club from me didn’t feel like everybody else. Though the inner core of her was flesh and bone, the outer surfaces of her body didn’t feel like flesh. Touching her versus touching the other women in the room was like touching soft Styrofoam versus touching human flesh—something was there, but whatever that something was, it was artificial. It reminded me of when I using my powers to run my mind over the holographic characters which had been used during the Trials—something was there, but it was not what it appeared to the naked eye to be.

  If this wasn’t a clue, I didn’t know what was. I opened my eyes and lowered my hands. I strode through the club toward the woman I had identified. When I finally navigated through the throng of people, I found a woman with blonde bobbed hair dressed in pink hot pants and a matching halter top. The guy whose lap she sat on was burly, which was good for him because she was a big girl. A small man might not have been able to support her weight. She was not fat exactly, but thick, with ample hips, big thighs, plump arms, a muffin top, and a prominent chest. “Thicker than a snickers,” I had heard Deshaun, my friendly neighborhood drug dealer, say appreciatively about women built like this one when they walked by his usual perch on the sidewalk. Standing, this woman would look like the letter S, all boobs and butt.

  She had an arm around the man’s shoulder while her other hand stroked the man’s chest through his shirt. The man was doing a good octopus impersonation as his hands were everywhere. The woman’s face was turned away from me and snuggled up against the man’s. She murmured something in the man’s ear. He half-moaned, half-growled, and squeezed her butt. Maybe she had shared with him her secret angel food cake recipe, but I doubted it. A tall glass half full of an amber liquid was on the pub table next to the man’s elbow. A partially smoked joint was in the ashtray.

  I tapped the woman on the shoulder. She turned to me. Her lips were a thick, blood red slash in her face. She had dark brown eyes under thick dark eyebrows. I didn’t have to be a detective like Truman to surmise her platinum blonde bob was the result of a dye job. I wondered how much I would have to pay this woman to confirm that the carpet did not match the drapes. Then again, the woman’s hot pants were so tight it was clear she did not have carpeting at all. She appeared to be a fan of hardwood floors.

  “Are you Cassandra?” I said, half yelling to be heard over the music. Another hip-hop song was playing, something with a thumping bassline.

  The woman gave me a quick head to toe look-over. It felt as though she was expertly assessing my net worth, like a banker determining a loan applicant’s creditworthiness. “No,” she said curtly. The tone of dismissal was obvious. She turned away to bury her head in the crook of the man’s neck again, ignoring me like I was invisible. Something in the woman’s eyes belied her answer, though. I didn’t need Truman’s lie detecting abilities to know when I was being lied to. Besides, my powers certainly hadn’t been lying when they told me something was weird about this woman.

  I felt a hot surge of anger at being dismissed. I was fed up. I was sick of the stench of weed, sick of this loud music, sick of strippers, sick of jumping through hoops, and sick of looking for people who didn’t want to be found like Cassandra and Antonio. I wanted to talk to Cassandra, find out what I could about Mechano, and get out of here. I felt dirty. I wanted to go home and soak in a hot tub. I wanted to find Neha waiting in that bath, eager to touch me, not because I paid her to, but because she wanted to. But I knew I would not go home to find Neha. That made me even more angry.

  I grabbed the woman’s wrist. All the time I had spent in the gym the past few years getting stronger had not been in vain. I hauled the big woman off the man’s lap and to her feet. She yelped in surprise. She stumbled in her high heels before regaining her balance.

  “Hey!” the man cried in protest, his tongue thick with alcohol. He unsuccessfully tried to stand.

  “I don’t care what you say, I think you’re Cassandra,” I said to the woman. In her heels, she was a little taller than I. Now that I could see her more clearly in the dim lighting, she was not white as I had first supposed. Her tan skin and the shape of her nose bespoke of a non-Caucasian ancestry. Middle Eastern, maybe. “I need to talk to you. I’ll pay you.”

  “Plenty other girls here. This one’s mine,” the man said, his anger evident despite his slurred voice. He still struggled to stand. To an outside observer, it probably looked like he couldn’t get up because he was too drunk or high. In r
eality, he could not get up because I held him down with my powers. Avatar with his Omega-level super strength surely could have stood up despite my telekinetic hold, but not this guy. He looked like a fat cockroach on its back with its limbs flailing. I did not want to let him up. I was in no mood to get into a fistfight with him over a woman I didn’t even know. Actually, that’s not right—I was in such a sour mood from still being in this godforsaken place that I was in the mood to get into a fistfight, which is exactly the wrong time to get into a fistfight. Anger clouds your judgment. I especially had no business getting into a fight with a non-Meta who was no match for me.

  Looking down at me, the woman stared straight into my eyes, her face flushed with anger. Her pupils dilated, like a camera’s shutter. The world seemed to come to a stop and distort, centering on the woman’s eyes. As if hypnotized, I could not look away. I could not move at all. I heard a dull roar, like the sound you hear when you put your ear to a seashell. Only this sound I didn’t hear with my ears. I heard it in my mind. I felt a prickling at the nape of my neck, the same sort of feeling I got when someone was looking at me when my back was turned. Unbidden, I found myself thinking about why and how I had come to Areola 51. A kaleidoscope of images from the last couple of days formed in my mind, like a picture book whose pages were being rapidly flipped. The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. Though I didn’t know how I knew, I knew she had seen the pictures that had flashed through my mind.

  As quickly as it had started, it was over. The woman’s dilated pupils returned to normal. The world restarted, like a needle on a record player had momentarily skipped and now played normally again. I blinked several times, able to move once more. Though I was fully dressed and this woman was not, I felt more exposed to her than she was to me.

  Cassandra—for it was obvious now who this woman was—leaned down over the stout man who still struggled to stand. “I need to talk to this guy for a few minutes,” she said into his ear, though I could barely hear her over the music. “I’ll be right back. Then we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  Without waiting for a response from the man, Cassandra grabbed my hand and started to lead me toward the door to the private dance area. Since I knew she could peer into my mind, I did not take the opportunity to admire her ample backside.

  Well, okay, maybe I did peek a little. I was a Hero looking for answers. Not a monk.

  CHAPTER 14

  The door to the private area opened to a flight of stairs leading down. The stairs were ill-lit by several red lights. It had been hot enough in the club proper due to the heat of all the bodies there. It got hotter still as I followed Cassandra down the stairs. Between the red lights and the heat, this must have been what descending into Hell was like. The moans and groans that got louder the lower we went helped with that impression. Feminine wails mingled with masculine grunts. Sounds of pleasure, not pain. Further proof that more than just dancing went on in this private area. If Hell was like this, maybe it was not such a bad place after all. Besides, being from the South, I was used to hot places. Perhaps I would reconsider my plans for the afterlife.

  By the time we got to the bottom of the stairs, the sounds of the club above us were completely gone, swallowed up by the moaning and music that filled the long hall we were now in. Thankfully, the smell of weed and cigarettes was mostly gone down here, though the stench lingered on my clothes. Well over a dozen doors lined the hallway, each numbered. Most were closed. As I followed Cassandra down the hall, I heard different songs coming from behind each closed door. Between the music and the moaning, it sounded like a porno soundtrack.

  When we got to the middle of the hall, a door to my right opened. A dark-skinned stripper with watermelon breasts came out, hand-in-hand with a grey-haired old man. The man averted his gaze in embarrassment when he saw me. He wore a wedding ring. His hair was askew, his shirt was partially untucked, and his fly was half zipped. Somehow I doubted the stripper was his lawfully wedded wife. Not only was he old enough to be her father, he was old enough to be her grandfather. I didn’t know whether I should chastise him, or high five him. I did neither, instead brushing silently past the two in the narrow hall. Judge not, lest ye be judged.

  Cassandra led me toward the end of the hall to one of the open doors. Door number fourteen. If it had been door thirteen, I might have refused to go in. I was not superstitious, but my encounter with Antonio in apartment 1313 had not gone well. Once blasted through a window by an unexpected Meta, twice shy.

  Cassandra closed the door behind me once I followed her inside. The small, windowless room was quiet. The moans and music from the surrounding rooms trickled in faintly. The room was empty except for a couch, a small wooden table next to it, and a black speaker mounted on a wall near the ceiling. The lumpy couch had seen better days. A small remote control which supposedly controlled the music was chained to the table. In addition to the remote, the table contained several bottles of lotion and lubrication, a box of Kleenex, and a large glass bowl half full of condoms. Though the room was not particularly dirty, once I got a look at the contents of the table, it seemed filthy. The thought of all the people who had done God knew what in this room made my skin crawl. I didn’t want to touch anything. You could not get a sexually transmitted disease that easily, but better safe than sorry.

  “Truman Lord sent you,” Cassandra said. Her tone was businesslike, not at all the seductive cooing voice she had favored the big man upstairs with. I nodded yes, though I knew I did not need to. Her words had been a statement, not a question. How much had she seen when she had glimpsed my thoughts before?

  As if in response to my question, Cassandra asked “Aren’t you a little young to be a Hero?” First Truman, now a stripper I did not know from Adam. Uh, Eve, I mean, since this voluptuous woman couldn’t be mistaken for a man even if you suffered from glaucoma and spotted her in the dead of night. At the rate my secret identity was being exposed, maybe I should just fly to the top of the UWant Building again and shout out my identity to all the city’s residents. Save some time.

  “Aren’t you a little big to be a stripper?” I retorted, irritated. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Maybe it wasn’t the best move to insult a woman I needed information from. That’s me, Theo Conley, diplomat extraordinaire. I should move to New York City and get a job with the United Nations.

  Cassandra shrugged slightly, making her chest move interestingly. “Different men like different things.” If she was insulted, she did not show it. “You brought the money I require.” Again, it was a statement, not a question.

  I fished the wad of cash out of my pocket and handed it over. Cassandra shoved it down her cleavage. The money disappeared from view. She had not even bothered to count it. Maybe her breasts would count it. That would have been a neat trick I would not mind seeing.

  Cassandra directed me to have a seat on the couch. Reluctantly, I did so. The back of my neck immediately started to itch. Though I knew it was psychosomatic, I could not fight the feeling that countless cooties from countless dirtbags were leaping from the couch onto me. Most of me did not want to think about all the action this couch must have seen. A small part of me wished there was a video of it.

  Cassandra straddled my legs, and started to sit down. Startled, I tried to stand. “I want information, not a dance,” I yelped.

  Cassandra shoved me back down by my shoulders.

  “Stop being such a shrinking violet.” She settled down on my lap with her legs straddling mine. “This is my process. Do you want my help, or don’t you?”

  I tried to relax. When a stranger’s big boobs were in your face, that was easier said than done. I took a long calming breath.

  Cassandra was heavy on my lap, but not unpleasantly so. She put her hand over my ears, with her fingertips splayed over the sides of my skull. Her long nails, painted to matched her red lipstick, dug into my skin. Her skin was hot against my ears. Her smell filled my nostrils. Her perfume was musky and, unlike L
illith’s, seemed expensive. I liked it. Inhaling it made my heart thump faster. I felt the hardness of Cassandra’s thigh muscles underneath her plumpness. Her big chest and prominent nipples were right in front of my face. If I leaned forward a little, I could—

  Cassandra removed one of her hands. She clouted me upside the head, hard enough to make my ear ring.

  “Ow!” I said.

  “Stop perving on me, then,” she said matter-of-factly. Her hand returning to cover my ear again. “Lust is one of the most powerful emotions. It distracts me from what I’m trying to do. Look up, away from my chest. Try to empty your mind. Pretend like I’m not even here.”

  That’s easy for you to say, I thought. You’re not the one with big headlights shining in your eyes, blinding you. I looked up, into Cassandra’s eyes. I tried to shove the thought of headlights away before she smacked me again. My ear still stung. She had a lot of muscle under that flab.

  Cassandra’s brown eyes bore into mine. I focused on them and not on all the flesh in my lap. As I stared at her eyes, their pupils expanded, much as they had when Cassandra had looked at me upstairs. This time, though, they continued to spread out, like ink spilled on a piece of paper. Their blackness expanded to encompass her brown irises, and then the whites of her eyes, until her eyes were like pools of the darkest oil. My scalp tingling where Cassandra’s fingernails dug into it, as if a low-level electric current arced through Cassandra and into me.

  Bit by bit, the world fell away like pieces of broken glass. No longer could I smell the smoke in my clothes, or the musky appeal of Cassandra’s perfume. The music and moaning stopped, or at least I stopped being aware of them. The only thing left was Cassandra.