I shift uncomfortably, and Peterson presses the point. "An EMT is in the burn ward today because he was hit by lightning trying to put an unconscious woman into an ambulance. They eventually had to wrap her in a rubber sheet to move her, and she's been causing malfunctions in any machines that get within a foot of her."
I jerk involuntarily, rattling my handcuff, as I realize that it's not safe for the hospital to have me here, either. The panic recedes as I further realize that I'm currently hooked up to machines, and they're working fine. Which means that my power must have faded – which means I must have won!
Peterson watches my face intently through all of this, seeing the rapid progression from fear to relief to happiness. He leans forward in his chair, alert.
"This is the second time this week I've found you at the center of unreasonable lightning strikes. People are getting hurt. I need to know if this is going to keep happening."
I take a guess. "The storm cell that's been hanging over the city – it's breaking up, right?"
Peterson nods, and I continue, "Then no, it's not going to keep happening. I – would you believe me if I said I was trying to help? And I think I did, actually. I just – can't exactly explain how."
"And the woman we found. Would she agree with this?"
I snort a laugh. "Not likely! She'd probably tell you it was all my fault." A thought strikes me. "Is she – is she going to be all right?"
Peterson smiles. "She's a lot better off than you are. We've already talked to her, and yes, she believes this is your fault. Her story is... interesting." He turns that eagle stare on me again, searching.
I look down at the bed sheets, and after a moment, Peterson says, "You say this is over." I nod. "In your opinion, is it likely to restart?"
I’ve got options. I could say, "No, I built up her personal magnetic field to the point that it disrupts her ability to influence the ionization of the air around her." I could say, "No, whatever force granted her the power to control the weather has probably taken it away again, now that I've passed the test." I could say, "No, but until I figure out what's going on, something else is going to start up. Maybe something worse. I could use your help."
I could say any of these, but when I look Peterson in the eye again, my nerve fails me, and I simply mutter, "No."
He looks dissatisfied as he stands up. "I'll take that response for now, Mr. Everton." As he unlocks the handcuff from my wrist, he adds, "At some point, I'd like a more complete answer from you. No matter how it sounds."
I say, "And Re– the woman? You say she's doing all right. Is she out of the hospital?"
"She's talking to a psychiatrist before she's released," says Peterson, and pauses. "I take your point."
With that, Peterson leaves me alone. I take stock of my situation, consider my options, and close my eyes to go back to sleep. It's a luxury I've been denied too often lately.
- - -
When I wake up, it's the afternoon and my parents are there fussing over me. Mom fusses, anyway; Dad just says, "Looks like you took some good knocks," but I know what he means. We talk for a bit, and then Dad takes Mom out to go get a late lunch for me, since she keeps crying when she looks at me and it's making both me and Dad uncomfortable.
Frankly, I think I look pretty good, all things considered. The lumps on my head are barely noticeable, and the nurse tells me that they'll be gone in a few days at most. I've got a dozen assorted staples in my back, but most of the cuts were just closed up with glue after they removed the glass. The nurse shows me a picture of a small metal tub full of glass shards, and tells me that they pulled over three pounds of glass out of my back, arms and legs. That's kind of awesome.
I lucked out on my arm. It turns out that the back of the forearm is mainly meat, without any important tendons or ligaments there. That cut Regina gave me was pretty nasty, but since nothing delicate got damaged, all it needs is 18 staples and some time to heal. I can't tighten my fist completely right now, but that's because it pulls on the staples, not because of any internal problems.
Everything else is just superficial damage. My legs, arms and hands sting from all of the cuts, but none of them needed anything more serious than disinfectant and surgical glue. Also, the nurse tells me that the IV bag is just saline to help rehydrate me, so apparently the lack of pain and muzzy-headedness this morning was just residual effects from the surgery anesthetic. I’m apparently cleared to walk out of here whenever I feel up to it.
By the time Mom and Dad get back with lunch, I'm unhooked from the tube and sitting up in bed. I ask the nurse for my actual clothes, but she just laughs and shows me the torn and bloodied rags I was wearing when I arrived last night, and I agree that those aren't fit to wear anywhere other than a Halloween party. Fortunately, Mom and Dad have brought me some extra clothes to wear. They're Dad's, so they're a little bit too short and a little bit too tight, but I feel better wearing them than I did in the hospital gown.
And speaking of tight-fitting pants, my cast is gone! The doctor x-rayed my foot before applying a new cast, and according to the nurse, found that it had healed "freakishly fast." It feels startlingly good just to be able to wiggle my toes freely again.
I eat my sandwich in the hospital room while filling out the necessary paperwork to process out, and then my parents give me a ride back home. Dad compliments me on the upkeep of the house, while Mom goes into the kitchen and tuts about how much junk food I have in the cupboards. I swear, sometimes they're so stereotypical it's like they're working off of a sitcom script.
There's an awkward moment when Mom starts to make dinner. Dad and I are flipping through the Netflix menu and talking about nothing in particular, when Mom calls from the other room, "Danny? What happened to the pots?"
"Nothing, Ma, they're in the cupboard to the right of the stove, like always!"
"I see them, but why are they all stuck together?"
Evidently I forgot to demagnetize the stack of pots the last time I was practicing with them, and they got put away magnetic. I don't know if I can undo it now, either. I tried using my magnetism on the way home, and I've got just enough residual ability to pick up a paperclip from a few inches away and make it stick to my skin. Making the pots nonmagnetic will probably take days, if I can do it at all.
"It's, uh, a new kitchen gadget I found! It makes the pots magnetic, so they heat up faster on the stove. It helps the electricity conduct better, I think. Also, it makes them harder to spill if you bump into the handle, since they grip the burners."
"Oh, that makes sense!" Mom calls back. It doesn't, but it's nice of her not to call me out for wasting my money on As Seen On TV products. Dad, on the other hand, is giving me a pointed look, but when I say "What?", he just sighs and turns back to the television. So maybe my parents think I'm a bit gullible, but at least they don't think I'm insane.
Mom and Dad stay the night, which is more than fair, since it is their house. In the morning, we hug goodbye – carefully, because of my slashed-up back – and Dad asks if I need anything else from them.
"Nope, everything's going fine!" I say, which basically could not be further from the truth. I had a voicemail from Edgar yesterday, from icy, controlled Edgar, telling me that the museum would be closed for renovations, and that my services would not be necessary during that time, or indeed at any future time. He did say that I could expect a check in the mail for two months' pay in lieu of notice, but then concluded by telling me that the museum's lawyers were ready to vigorously argue that they were not liable for acts of God, should I also attempt to get worker's compensation.
Two months is plenty of time to find another job, though, plus I have savings. So this is not information that my parents need. Anyway, the sun is finally shining, my foot is healed, and in a week I'll be back at the hospital to have the staples taken out, so maybe things aren't that bad after all.
My phone buzzes as I'm waving goodbye to my parents, and I fish it out of my pocket. It's a text from Brian, and
it says, "Checked up: R released yesterday. Diag: concussion caused temp psychosis, no danger to self/others, full recovery."
So Regina's back out in the world, too. Despite the early morning sunshine, I feel a chill, which I do my best to brush off. After all, her problem with me was all part of the magnetic ability, right? So we're fine now. As long as she's not mad about having a personal magnetic field that keeps her from getting within a foot of anything electronic, anyway.
My phone buzzes again, displaying a follow-up text: "Wanna hang out?"
Which I do, so I grin and put my worries aside for a while. If I've learned nothing else from this, it's that I don't need to go looking for trouble. Trouble's got no problem finding me.
- Afterword -
This series is called The Experiment for more reasons than the ones internal to the story. The “superhero noir” genre is not a common one, and I wasn’t totally sure that it was going to work out well. But there’s a lot of overlap in the motivations of a superhero and the motivations of a noir detective; they’re both fighting for the little guy, and they’re usually deeply underappreciated. So I figured it’d be a fun combination to work with.
I’ve always been more of a short story kind of guy, and this was my first foray into a novel-length work. Of course, I only made it to novella-length, but I think that packing more into it was going to harm the story, and I’m very happy with the way it turned out.
Obviously, since The Reluctant Superhero is part of a series, I’m not done with Dan yet. I’ve got a lot left to explain about what’s going on. Like Detective Peterson, I assume you’ve got a lot of questions, and they’ll be answered in upcoming books. I didn’t want to just jam them in here; the overarching storyline needs time to develop. So you’ll have to wait and come up with your own hypotheses in the mean time.
If you’re bad at waiting, the next story in the series, Making Friends, is going up in weekly installments as a serial at http://experimentserial.wordpress.com. This statement is true as of February 2016; depending on when you’re reading this, I might have finished that book already, but my plan is for all future parts of this series to show up there first in serial format before being collected and published.
If you liked the book, write to me at [email protected] and let me know! If you didn’t like it but have specific criticisms and suggestions for ways it could have been improved, go ahead and write, too. I won’t pretend that I’ll be equally as happy to receive those letters, but I’ll definitely read them. I appreciate feedback!
I’ve really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it! Dan will be back soon with more superpowered problems. Until then!
Micah Edwards
February 2016
- About the Author -
Micah Edwards is an author, a comedian, or a systems administrator, depending on the day of the week. He also moonlights as the scribe for Richmond, Virginia’s chapter of the Hash House Harriers, an international running and drinking club.
He is also the author of Okay, So Look, an irreverent but completely accurate narrative retelling of the Book of Genesis – yes, the one from the Bible – and runs a weekly podcast with chapters of the book and discussions of religion in modern life. The book is available on Amazon, and the podcast can be found at http://micahedwards.buzzsprout.com.
He collaborated with Tom Brown to produce Ricky’s Spooky House, a kids’ book version of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. Sounds ridiculous? It’s meant to be! But it’s also great.
He should probably narrow his focus. He’s also probably not going to.
The Experiment (Book 1): The Reluctant Superhero Page 11