“Deal.”
“Deal.”
HE DIDN’T SURVIVE a week.
The support for Quantum was consistent and steady, unlike the hysterical and polarizing responses to stories about Supercollider. She was the kind of person everyone wanted to claim some small intimacy with. A security guard at Collision Tower. A caterer who had worked a police benefit and placed a glass of champagne into her perfect hand. Young heroes she had once almost smiled at. A firefighter she’d placed a force field around. A photographer who captured the diamond tear trickling down her cheek at Accelerator’s funeral. A graduate student who had interviewed her twice.
She was shining and beautiful, and her walls were high and the moats around her deep. Everyone wanted to stake in her inner circle. They presented notes and signatures and tokens and things she had touched like holy relics. These were all poignant, but not damning. We needed to be patient.
He said he was her friend, at first. He was younger than her, but not by much, dark and thin with magnificent cheekbones and a generous laugh. He flew and had some moderate tactile temperature control powers; for most of his career he’d gone by Melting Point. They met when their respective teams had banded together to take on Electrocutioner, the time they pulled his flying fortress down.
They got to talking. They went out for a coffee. There was a connection, he said. A spark (pun intended). For a long time they would meet up here and there for dinner. She was funnier than anyone imagined, he said. No one would guess how warm and forgiving her sense of humor was.
I knew there had to be a greal deal more to their relationship than some laughter over appetizers. I quietly brokered a meeting between Melting Point and McKinnon, and assumed he’d sabotage himself in the interview.
I was slightly wrong. It wasn’t his ego that did him in, it was an ex. Immediately after a completely chaste and respectful profile about the “secret Quantum” came out, Melting Point’s long-term, recently former partner went to the media. Fractured and devastated, the jilted lover had clung to something too, something he’d clearly been waiting for the perfect moment to deploy.
“Let me show you what kind of friends they were,” he said at the ensuing press conference. “Let me show you what I found.” He produced a pair of her gloves—her costume gloves—and a very torn pair of her tights. Both were ominously stained. There was still a bit of duct tape clinging to the balled-up gloves from where they had been used as a makeshift gag, shoved in someone’s mouth and taped down.
He brought them out in a ziplock baggie in the middle of the press conference. He sobbed as he described finding them where they had fallen by the side of the bed, the side of their bed, careless and clumsy. Like Melting Point couldn’t even be bothered to clean up properly. The ex had been gathering his lover’s laundry, and instead of familiar pajamas and socks, there was the torn, debauched costume of the most powerful woman in the world.
“He didn’t try and hide it.” He closed his eyes when he spoke this line, grabbed the podium for support. “He didn’t care enough.” This was the clip they played, over and over, the force of his misery making him sway.
What made it so effective was that it was so pure. He bore Quantum no ill will, of course. She may have become a terrible symbol of his partner’s infidelity, but when he said he didn’t think it was her fault I found I believed him. His love for Melting Point had been so deep and so vast that it transmuted to hate with extraordinary completeness, the alchemical purity of gold into lead. Quantum was just splash damage.
I liked to imagine it was the press conference that sent someone on Supercollider’s crisis comms team completely off the deep end. The endless loops of this man’s pretty, ashen face, having his moment of vengeance, but taking no pleasure in it. After the constant bombardment of stories and testimonials, the continuous little slices into Supercollider’s image, the rolling disaster of the past few weeks, it was inevitable that someone at the Draft would be pushed to the breaking point. Just the right combination of lack of sleep and overreaction . . . and the most surprising people will call in a hit man.
Four days after the press conference, the jilted lover announced that he had handed the tights and gloves over to a journalist and private investigator, in hopes that the spit and come and sweat could be tested for a match to Quantum, just to settle any questions of authenticity.
By that evening, he and Melting Point were dead.
They made it look good. The narrative all made sense: After thinking it over, Melting Point had gone to confront his ex directly. There was a struggle at the apartment the couple had once shared; when Melting Point microwaved his lover to death (the media even kindly called it a “misfire” of his powers, a terrible accident), the disgraced superhero killed himself. Froze his own torso, to be specific. It was a poetic touch, I thought, turning his heart into ice. The story was so clean that it almost made up for the fact Melting Point’s powers did not work the way the coroner’s report suggested. He worked by contact, and externally; the two bodies were cooked and frozen, respectively, from the inside out. The official statement, however, made no mention of this discrepancy. Someone chose not to play that card just yet.
WHEN THEY ANNOUNCED Quantum Entanglement was going to make a public apology, I threw a party.
I booked the second-biggest conference space in the compound, hooked the livestream up to a digital projector, and sent out a company-wide invitation. I assumed almost no one would come, probably just my team and Greg and Vesper, maybe Melinda if she had the evening off or Keller if the knee-breaking business was quiet.
Instead, the room was packed. Once the chairs filled up, I watched my colleagues happily take seats on the carpeted steps and lean against walls. Vesper and Greg planted themselves next to me like an honor guard, deciding among themselves that they were my dates for the evening. This was a joke to Greg, who took on the role with goofy gallantry, but a little more serious for Vesper. It was remarkably comfortable watching the pair of them take turns getting drinks for the three of us and making a point to laugh at every remotely funny thing I said. I joked that they were going to make me start seeing the appeal of an entourage.
Melinda was not there but sent deep regrets; she was on call for Leviathan, but promised to watch on her phone.
Then the livestream started and the lights dimmed a little, and everyone settled in to watch the first lady of superheroism debase herself for the sake of her boyfriend’s ego.
“I bet she cries,” Greg said, angling a bowl of Cheetos toward me.
“Absolutely not.” Vesper’s eyes narrowed so quickly I heard a mechanical whir. “She’s going to read three sentences like a robot and run off.”
Greg shook his head. “Scripted tears. The guilt has been tearing her apart. She’s almost glad she got caught. All that shit.”
I picked up a single Cheeto. “I don’t think she’s going to cry,” I said, “but I think they’ll leave her up there for a while.”
“Yeah?”
I nodded, crunching. “This is her time in the pillory. They’re going to make her field questions.”
Vesper winced. “Cold.”
“I’m just observing, not handing out the sentence.” I sucked orange cheese powder off my fingers. “They’re desperate. If they think public excoriation is the only way to make this go away, it ain’t going to be pretty.”
Greg opened his mouth to say something, but then a dour handler in an immaculate gray suit walked out, taking the podium like he was about to deliver a eulogy. The dull roar in the room faded to the occasional snicker.
The representative (wearing a discreet Draft lapel pin, I noted) made a statement that was brief and damning. The “Family” was “shocked and reeling.” Every time he said the word “disappointed,” someone in the back yelled “Drink!” It happened four times in fewer minutes.
But it was not the Family making her do this, the PR flak was quick to specify. It was Quantum herself, who wanted to begin the “process
of making amends to her partner and her public.” At that, Keller exploded with an ugly bark of a laugh and the entire room cracked up.
Then the rep stepped back, and Supercollider walked out. The conference room filled with hisses and boos. Someone threw a Dorito toward the screen.
The hero took his place next to the podium, hands folded in front of him, eyes slightly downcast. His brow was furrowed and his lips set; his face was a better mask than any costume, the barest and blandest approximation of an emotion. I felt my lip curl in disgust.
Quantum walked out separately, wearing an extremely formal navy blue suit. I frowned and sat up straighter.
“They should have walked out together,” I muttered. “Gripping each other’s hands.”
It seemed to take ages for her to get to the podium, despite her long, steady stride. When she reached it, she put both her hands flat on the wood and stared straight down. Her curly starlight hair fell over her shoulders. She looked unwell. She looked at once perfect and barely held together. She looked off script.
“How many times is she gonna say ‘sorry,’” Greg asked.
“Twelve,” said Vesper.
“Seventeen.”
I put up my hand. “Something’s up.”
She stood a long time, just breathing, gathering strength from somewhere inside herself. Finally, she raised her head. There was something I had never seen in her strong, lovely face before: a strange, blind panic. The room got very quiet.
She opened her mouth. She gasped twice.
“No.” It came out a croak. “No.” It was clearer now. “I can’t do this.”
She drew a force bubble around herself, eerie and pearlescent. The microphone screeched with horrible feedback.
Then, she vanished.
The room exploded. Vesper grabbed my arm. Greg did a genuine spit take, rum and Coke soaking his shirt and the person sitting in front of him.
I stood as suddenly as I was able to, leaning on Vesper’s shoulder. “I have to go.”
I hadn’t taken a full stride before my head was ringing with Leviathan’s subaural tone. I felt it vibrate through me, making my flesh prickle and writhe, and I lifted my hand instinctively to my ear.
“Auditor.” Leviathan’s voice was ultraviolet.
“I’m on my way.”
“There’s a car outside.” The call cut out.
Vesper was suddenly at my side again, grabbing my elbow to steady me so I could move faster. He helped me keep my balance and we dodged through the crowd. One of the R&D boys was calling after me, but Greg shushed him. He knew what was happening. More people began to call my name—offering praise, asking for an explanation—until it was almost overwhelming. Even if Leviathan hadn’t called, I might have wanted to flee.
The supercar was humming anxiously and giving off heat. Vesper opened the door and I folded myself inside.
“My head’s buzzing,” Vesper said. “I need to get the jet ready.”
I nodded. “Neither of us are sleeping.”
In a moment of bravery, he leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek; the metal edge of one of his eye apertures clanked against my temple. “Be vicious.”
I grinned. “Fly like the devil.”
He shut the door with an efficient snap and the car roared to life. I looked in the rearview mirror and Melinda caught my eye; we grinned at each other. I gripped my cane, hard, and felt fear go to war with strange exultation in my chest. The ugly joy won.
When I walked into Leviathan’s office, there was a gif of Quantum Entanglement up on the screen, of the moment she said, “I can’t do this,” and disappeared. It was playing over and over in a haunting loop. Leviathan stood in the dead middle of the room unmoving, watching it. He didn’t react at all when I came to stand next to him. His armor was almost phosphorescent.
He didn’t speak for a while; I stared at the gif playing in front of us, transfixed. It was hard, seeing the anguish on her face, the bewilderment in her dark eyes giving way to a terrible kind of resolve. I saw the tremble in her shoulders, the way her throat moved, the tiny shake of her head she gave before speaking.
Then, slowly, I realized that Leviathan wasn’t watching her at all. His attention was fixed closer to the edge of the screen, where Supercollider stood. At the start of the gif the hero was looking at his disgraced partner; when she said “No,” his practiced mask of shame and mourning slumped into confusion. I could see how tightly he was clenching his lantern jaw, how taut and strained the tendons in his neck were. And then, the moment she vanished, his face contorted into a pure, awful rage.
“It’s time, Anna.” Leviathan said it so quietly. “He can no longer hide what he is. His facade has cracked at last.”
I suddenly felt cold. There was so much left to do. “A hairline crack—”
He shook his head. “More than that. Much more. It’s fatal. No amount of kintsugi will restore him now.”
A strange buzzing filled my head. I could practically smell Leviathan’s neurons firing, feel the ecstatic tension coming off him in waves. His armor was so much brighter than usual, throbbing and iridescent.
“It’s a solid blow,” I said cautiously. “It’s clear we’ve rocked him badly. The way he reacts now is going to be very telling.”
Leviathan inclined his head sharply. “I have seen all I need to see. He is weak and wounded. It is time.”
“Time.” My head swam. I needed more time. “The plan is still very much in process, we have much more to—”
“No more hiding behind petty schemes.”
I was shocked by how much that dismissal hurt. I swallowed hard.
Leviathan made a fist, the overlapping scales of his gauntlets shivering and gliding together. “Blood is in the water. My prey is injured. It is time to strike.”
“I worry that he is not injured badly enough. He is still very dangerous.”
“Do you doubt me.”
I felt like I was trying to breathe at the top of Everest. There was suddenly not enough oxygen and my chest felt full of liquid glass. It took all my strength to make steady, direct eye contact with him, but I did it, staring into the beetle-black apertures that he sucked light in through.
“There is nothing you cannot do if you wish,” I said. I meant it.
The coiled violence in his body dissolved. Without changing expression, his face was flooded with uncanny warmth. He moved closer to me.
“Auditor.” My name in his mouth felt so intimate. “Your faith moves me.”
“I want you to be in the best position possible when you take him down.” I felt like I was standing to the side of myself, watching myself speak. “I want him to be incapable of resistance. I want him to be wretched and kneeling, so all you have to do is tear his head from his miserable body.”
For the first time in a long while, he touched me. He wrapped one hand affectionately around my throat, thumb pressed gently against my trachea, his four fingers reaching toward the back of my neck. His fingertips were slightly rough, and I was surprised again by how warm he was.
Let me do this, I begged inside my head. Let me do this for you.
“But it must still be a challenge,” he said softly. “I am not collecting a prize; we are engineering his defeat. I want him weak, not incapacitated. I want him cornered, not neutralized.”
I shivered. He must have thought that I was reacting to the contact between us and began to pull away, but I wrapped my hand around his wrist to stop him. It was the first time I had initiated direct contact between us, and I held on. I was not afraid of him—I was afraid for him.
“I don’t doubt your ability to rise to this or any challenge,” I said very carefully. “I am—”
“You worry.”
“I do.”
He smiled, I think. “You have not seen me fight yet, Auditor. Let me show you what I am capable of. By the time this is over, you will have nothing to worry about ever again.”
He released his grip, and this time I allowed him to l
et me go. He looked at me just a moment, then turned away. Striding decisively toward the doors, I heard him call Vesper and demand his stealth jet, the Darkling, be ready; Vesper assured him that it was. He didn’t pause or look back then as he left me alone in his office. The huge double doors closed behind him, clean and final.
I stood there staring at Supercollider’s face, at the looping gif of his shock and rage. I saw him break and crumble, as Leviathan had, but I also saw something old and ugly crawl out. I saw it and, despite the disloyalty of it, I was so deeply afraid.
I wanted to believe with every ounce of my being that Leviathan could beat him, but powered by fury and rapidly losing the foundations of his support and control, I was acutely aware of how dangerous Supercollider was now. Leviathan was certain he was weakened. The hero I saw was desperate. If Supercollider had too much fight left in him (and the math I kept running in my head told me he was still far too strong for direct conflict to be safe), we could very well lose.
I could lose him.
I stayed in his office, alone, for a very long time.
6
AT FIRST, LEVIATHAN JUST VANISHED.
Vesper had prepared the Darkling, but had not piloted it; Leviathan was more than capable of flying that bit of sleek machinery himself. The runway was cleared, the vehicle cloaked and the comms encrypted, and Leviathan rose into the sky alone. He did not share his flight plans nor check in whenever he arrived at his destination.
“I wonder if we’ll ever hear from him again,” Vesper said, like that was a reasonable sentence to speak aloud. He was sitting on my desk, drinking a coffee. I was staring blankly at my screen, pretending to work. I found it difficult to focus on anything, instead just replaying that gif of Supercollider in my head, captured by my newly eidetic memory. That, or suddenly being overcome by the ghost of the sensation of Leviathan’s hand around my neck.
That got my attention, though. “We will.” It came out a little harsher than I intended.
“You don’t think he’s been quietly disappeared into the belly of some supermax?” Vesper took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, realizing he could have ended the sentence with the phrase “like you were?”
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