by Mark Gardner
“Subject 337, address the character customization of PrototypeX. I want it representing the original a little better…for the purpose of further tests.”
“Yes, sir. Adjustments added to the profile. Would you like to issue a codename?”
“Not yet,” Globe snapped back. “End the simulation.”
The room returned to normality, white-tiled floor, walls and ceiling blinding him with their brightness. The intensity was automatically lowered to help him adjust his eyesight. With the sensors removed from his temples and nape, Globe felt a layer of pressure lift off of him. The activity in the simulation had made him weary—Globe was not entirely surprised. After all, he’d pushed the limits of his senses, expanding them beyond their usual use. The experiment was useful as he had reaffirmed his decisions and actions.
Globe exited the room through the same sliding panel. Sinking into the darkness on the other side, no matter how stale and thick it was, helped to readjust his composure from Major Globe to Doctor Globe—the people’s choice candidate for mayor of Seattle.
“Doctor Globe? A newsfeed just entered the search tags you instructed me to follow. Would you like it transferred to your phone as you make your way to your office?”
Again, the lack of emotion in her voice made him cringe, but it was better this way. She was obedient and to the point.
“Yes, Subject 337. Keep observing yourself. I’d want a full report with detailed scans of all the suspicious elements, too.”
Globe fished his phone out of his pocket and opened the link pulsating in a message bubble on his screen. The feed was a livestream from Madison Park where police patrols were surrounding the scene. Jacob smirked as he exited the dark room and took the corridor to the right of the elevator. Bree and Silas had done a fantastic job. Even without sound he could understand the horror the scene evoked. The motionless figures in the sidelines, unsure what to do, spoke of mass hysteria settling in, overtaking their minds and lives. He had to wait for his men at the scene to turn on their body cams so he could watch it from a first person POV rather than from a drone controlled by Subject 337. He knew she could do so much better.
In his office at the top of the tower Jacob Globe was welcomed with a cool glass of scotch poured in anticipation of his arrival. Denisha knew how to make him feel special. Globe placed his sweaty body in the comfort of his leather chair and transferred the video to one of four screens. The other monitors exited their sleep mode and loaded in the new feed from a fresh angle.
Glass in hand, Globe sat back and watched as the SPD struggled to comprehend what exactly had caused the death of so many children in the lovely sunlight at Madison Park.
The Vigilante Case
Andy Kitz was following the feed on his laptop, sitting in the passenger seat of Massey’s car. None of the three men talked to each other, and Massey made quick calls to his partner to receive updates.
Heat still flamed inside Joaquin’s body, turning his gut to molten lava; the same heat that boiled inside of him in Andy’s apartment after that news feed began. His palms had been so warm he left sweat stains on his jeans as he tried to rub the heat off. He’d slumped back down in his chair while Massey paced, talking on the phone, before they all left the tiny apartment. That was the second time today that Joaquin had sat in a chair, in another situation he didn’t have control over, nor could channel his anger toward. He grabbed at the side of the chair to steady himself and hoped he wouldn’t break it. He didn’t relish another telling-off by Massey for making another mess. But it had been difficult to stand still and even though his body had been restless his eyes stayed glued to Andy’s computer screen.
An anxious reporter popped up on the screen and gestured at the yellow police tape that was now closing off a crime scene at a local park. The title of the feed had read 17 mysteriously dead at a local park, then soon after they’d left the apartment, Andy informed them that it had changed to 37-year-old man arrested at the scene of the crime.
By the time they arrived, the media had chosen their winning title, one that focused on the scarier news, the only news that truly mattered: Massacre at Madison Park: Superpowered man suspected in the deaths of seven children. The saying was alive and well in Seattle: If it bleeds, it leads.
All new headlines had to take Massacre at Madison Park into account. Each outlet fell into step, and there was no longer a chance to report on anything else. Once again, the media had made the sensational headline stick, and no one could even think about anything other than the massacre. With the absence of new findings, the news outlets took to quoting each other and attempting to one-up one another with more and more grisly photos of the scene. Their insistence that the content they’d be showing was not appropriate for all viewers was a sham. They vied for more pairs of eyes on their breaking news; more clicks on their websites, and would do whatever they needed to do to secure their place at the top of the heap of vultures. They were no longer interested in reporting the facts, merely more and more sensationalism.
Each new headline reinforced the fear that Seattle denizens suddenly felt: A 37-year-old man, identified as Miles Jensen, had disappeared from his workplace without a word to anyone and had allegedly strolled down to Madison Park located a few block away. Mr. Jensen was in possession of inhuman abilities, to which he confessed, but that information up to this point had been unknown to anyone else. One of the reporters on the scene overheard the unsubstantiated rumor in a conversation between two uniformed officers and reported it as fact.
The man already labeled as The Madison Butcher by online news websites had approached the playground upon which a total of seven children were playing while their politically correct family unit supervisors sat watching and chatting, unaware of the pending terror. A terror that had only recently been revealed by one Jacob Globe, champion to all non-supers in his valiant attempt to blow the whistle on the government supers programs; or so the press portrayed the former military man.
Miles Jensen, The Madison Butcher, then demonstrated his abilities which he stated were connected to the power of freezing objects and had rendered the entirety of the playground irreversibly to their frozen deaths. Despite his insistence that he tried every day to control his runaway super-powers, the press eviscerated him, delving into any dirt they could find. A ticket for leaving his garbage can out too late after pickup? Obviously, that was the precursor to mass murder.
The man stated to police that he had no memory of the event as it unfolded, nor did he remember how or why he had left his place of employment. Those that lived near him or had the slightest inkling of a relationship to him were quickly interviewed. The diatribe wasn't refreshing or even anything new. Seeking their fifteen minutes of fame, his neighbors revealed in solemn voices that Miles Jensen was well-liked by the close-knit community, and albeit a strange man, he never bothered anyone. But, they said, there was that one time that he did listen to heavy metal music too loud, and the police had to intervene. Typical. In fact, one of them said, I think he liked to collect comic books. Another insisted that he had an unhealthy obsession with horror movies. Didn't he go to one of those conventions dressed up as a character from that television show? As if. If only we'd seen the warning signs, they wailed, maybe we could've done something!
Joaquin listened silently as Andy read out loud the ongoing political commentary and the oft-repeated summary of the attack. He imagined himself pinning this Miles Jensen guy down on the ground and punching him until his head turned into a messy pulp of blood, skull, and hair. He frowned, narrowed his eyes and shook his head. A hero wouldn’t do that, would he? A hero would capture the man before he could act and then turn him in. But where was the justice in that? Joaquin thought, grinding his teeth in quiet rage. The guy would sit comfy in a jail cell and appeal after appeal would delay the death he so rightfully deserved. Even if he did receive the death penalty, which was doubtful, because some past governor had issued an order to stop all executions, Miles Jensen wouldn't be execute
d. He’d avoid what he actually deserved. Joaquin furrowed his eyebrows.
No one needed heroes to save the murderers. They needed a vigilante to punish them appropriately.
An idea slowly crept into Joaquin’s head, and he smiled at the prospect, the heat of anger subsuming into the cold realization of what he now knew that he must do.
Arriving at Madison Park, Massey told Joaquin to stay put in the car along with Andy. He made haste and Joaquin saw him slip underneath the yellow line of police tape. Then he was gone, absorbed by the crowd of bystanders and journalists. Doom merchants, Joaquin thought, watching the journalists photograph the scene from every angle. For convenience, Joaquin was sitting in the backseat, and no one was going to bat an eye at him. He had to convince himself he was playing a part, and anyone who looked at the police car would see just another thug. He knew better than that. He wasn’t that person anymore.
Andy whistled low from the front passenger seat, and the harmonious sound broke Joaquin from his bubbling thoughts. “There certainly is a lot of attention on this one," Andy declared. "Crazy shit, huh? That Doctor Globe guy makes a speech warning us how dangerous you supers are, and whaddayaknow, soon enough, BAM," Andy clapped his hands suddenly, making Joaquin wince, "there’s a fatal massacre and a super is blamed for it. What’re the fucking odds?” Andy raised his eyebrows and nodded conspiratorially toward Joaquin.
Joaquin bit his tongue and pretended not to hear Andy’s question.
“I tell you what, Joaquin, I’m gonna pop out of this here paddy wagon and see what the fuss is all about. You stay here and guard the car, yeah?”
Joaquin wished he could reach from the back seat and grab Andy by the neck. There was something messed up with the guy and the way he talked about supers. As if he knew anything about the powers and what they meant to people like Joaquin. The constant need to prove that those powers weren't wasted on a petty thug from the Seattle projects. Joaquin knew that he was so much more than that punk kid who stabbed a man on a rainy night to get a few bucks from his wallet. He would be better than the bumbling idiot who left destruction in his wake. Destruction so obvious, that an old-ass police detective tracked him down and turned him into some sort of sidekick. I ain't nobody's sidekick, Joaquin thought and realized that Andy was staring at him, waiting for a response.
“Whatchu so excited 'bout?" Joaquin sputtered. "You heard them kids got killed, right? Plus, Massey said 'you stay put.'”
Andy smiled and met Joaquin's eyes. “I didn’t know your moral compass pointed that way, Joaquin. I’m thrilled to know that it does." He crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and nodded. "And you needn’t worry about me 'cause I got this.” Andy reached into his inner jacket pocket and flashed Joaquin a press card with his name and picture on it.
“Man, that shit’s so fake!” Joaquin exclaimed.
Andy grinned from the front of the cruiser. He turned to sit in the seat properly, adjusted the rearview mirror, and regarded Joaquin's reflection. “Yeah, but they don’t know that.” He gave Joaquin a salute, a gaping smile, opened the door, and stepped out.
Joaquin didn’t protest to not being allowed to go with them. He watched Andy lazily jog toward the officers trying to corral the spectators and show them his counterfeit credentials. Like Massey before him, Andy disappeared beyond the crowd of gawkers. Joaquin kicked the passenger seat and slumped down in the back of the police cruiser. This was far from the first time that he’d been in the back of a police car, but today's situation was radically different from anything he'd ever experienced.
Unlike his life before gaining superpowers, Joaquin wasn’t used to being helpless. Yeah, sure, he didn’t always have the best of plans, but when the shots were fired, he was ready for action. But, back then, the situation had always been clear and the desired outcome was always predictable. You shoot, you score; you get shot at, you either dodge it or take it and bleed out on the street. Well, he thought, I don't bleed out. But still, the code of the street was alive and well, battling the ideas he learned from Peter during his stay in the Canadian wilderness.
After staying in the cabin with Peter, and after Major Globe’s little assault in the forest, everything had changed. Not only for Peter and Kristof but anyone they came into contact with. Even that stupid hillbilly and his ridiculous cigarette smuggling ring couldn't escape the long arm of Major Globe.
The game they’d all been forced to play was no longer predictable; at least not for Joaquin. There was no longer a need to steal cars, to rob shops, or to even point a gun. Joaquin was smart enough to realize that he was a weapon all by himself. But what had being a weapon gotten the father-and-son duo?
Disappeared, was the answer that echoed in Joaquin's mind.
So maybe Globe was right, and he had seen it before anyone else. People were turning crazy by the hour and maybe shooting someone cold dead on the street wasn’t enough for some of them. People had these powers, and they were sure to abuse them. People would use any leverage they had over others—even if it meant starting a fucking civil war. It only just clicked with Joaquin that he was now a part of this minority that people were going to notice, to fear, to hate, to seek to destroy, because they were bad blood. Throwbacks to a bygone era. They were the real murderers because they possessed some kind of superiority that they were bound to use against the common folk.
Maybe it was time to step into the light and do some proper shit for once: help turn the tables, help keep bad supers off of the street and out of reach of hurting someone. Sure, it wouldn’t be easy, but none of them had the temper Joaquin had, and none of them had tough skin. Maybe the idea that kicked his brain earlier was good enough to make real. Maybe it was time for a real vigilante to fight against these monsters.
Detective Frank Massey reckoned this was his slowest walk toward a crime scene. He dabbed his forehead from the icky sweat building on his skin. The last of the ambulances were just rolling away down the street. Massey respectfully waited until their sirens died away within the traffic. He sighed, and steeled himself against what was to come. Up front, cameras flashed as the crime scene investigators took photos of the site of the massacre. Massey refused to call it the Madison Park Massacre, but he had no doubt that the title would live in infamy until some other scandal rallied the attention of the sheeple. Flashes of light from the screaming bunch of reporters coalesced with the CSI ones making Massey walk through a white-lighted field of blindness.
Things had happened fast: the massacre, the news spreading, and the closing of the crime scene. Massey felt as if he was arriving at something done and over. Massey had baggage and a few nasty ones under his belt, but this tipped the lavish carriage into the ditch. Just minutes after Major Globe’s concerned and heartfelt speech, this had happened. It proved his point, he thought, and Massey wondered whether the Major himself hadn’t set it up. But his optimistic soul refused to believe that there could be someone so cruel. He silenced the nagging voice in the back of his mind that laughed at his naiveté.
Patrol officers struggled to keep the crowd further away, but they were in no viewing distance to the playground, so Massey was thankful for that. He hated being shown Facebook posts and Twitter messages with photos from the scene, and he had developed real hatred toward people who tagged themselves not present at the scene. It was all fake condolences and pretend concern these days and Massey couldn’t help but think that that simulation of care was the leading epidemic of modern society. They couldn’t let a crisis go by without making a statement, without being a part of it. Tragedy was the new mortal god. Posting how sorry they were didn’t help anyone; it only made them feel better about themselves.
The years on the force had turned him into a cynic. He shook his head; maybe he was just old fashioned and didn’t understand what a comment section on a social media platform could do for the dead. It only served to turn them into virtual ghosts. No doubt, tomorrow these children would be the poster faces for Jacob Globe’s mayoral campaign. If that ha
d truly been Globe's idea to begin with, Massey couldn’t wait to prop a gun to his forehead and watch him being cuffed.
Returning to the present, Massey took a steady breath of the humid air to calm jitters he thought he vanquished years prior, and rushed the rest of the distance. Nearing the murder floor he noted that the area was a few degrees lower, casting a chill upon him that prickled his skin. Massey bit his lower lip. The report he glanced at did confirm that Miles Jensen possessed the ability to temper with ice, but the ground surrounding the epicenter of the event didn’t feel just cold... It gave him the notion of something still, stopped, paused. Massey knelt for a closer inspection. There were no blood stains, not a drop anywhere. Usually, when there were this many casualties, the scene was painted with the blood of the victims. The scene he encountered was pristine, and he doubted they’d find DNA evidence different than the victims’. There were no peculiar smells either, just the faint scent of fading feminine perfumes. The crime scene guys always debated when and what an olfactory sampling of the air yielded. Not at this crime scene. Massey traced a latex-gloved hand on the ground. There was noticeable discoloration on the entire playground, a bluish imprint where the bodies had been. He brushed his finger against it and lifted light-blue residue. He stood up and asked the CSI team whether they had taken samples of it. He wanted to know as soon as possible what it was.
If Anne knew, why hadn’t she warned them about this extremist? She sounded hurried on the phone. Maybe she’d tried to but was interrupted.