I turned to look at what was behind me and immediately knew for sure that we were in the right place.
Through a series of open doors, I could see a man on the floor, seemingly unconscious. He was next to a large, black duffle bag that was overflowing with cash. Standing over him was the metahuman I was looking for.
“Rare,” I shouted. He turned to look at me. It was him.
He had a smirk on his face.
“Sorry, the day has already been saved here,” he said to us. I was confused until I realized that he must assume we were also metahuman do-gooders.
“I’m not here to stop anybody,” I replied, “I’m here to talk…with you.”
Rare nonchalantly kicked the duffle bag of cash back into the vault from which it presumably came.
“I’m not speaking with reporters right now,” Rare said as he stepped over the bank robber he’d dispatched of before we arrived.
“I’m not a reporter.”
“What do you want from me then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely confused and maybe even a little bit frightened.
Good, I thought.
“I want an apology from you,” I said, trying to keep my tone as even as possible.
“An apology?”
“Yes. For killing my husband.”
He paused for a moment, then put it all together.
“He was the victim at Central Bank.”
“Yes, he was. And you killed him.”
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to speak with the police about that. I’ve already given my statement.”
He tried to walk past us to leave the bank.
“I had a feeling that you would feel that way, that’s why I brought this,” I said, holding up a cassette tape that I’d been keeping in my purse.
“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked.
“Evidence. Proof.”
“Of what, exactly?”
“Of who you are. Who you really are, that is. Your so-called secret identity. You didn’t think your first display of heroics through all the way before you performed them, did you? You left evidence. Evidence that shows who you really are.”
Rare’s eyes lost focus for a moment. He was running through the first time in his mind.
“That’s not possible, the robbers had knocked out the electricity to the building. All of the cameras were offline before I even stepped foot into that place.”
“But you returned the next day, didn’t you? And you weren’t wearing this get-up that you have on now. You returned to the scene of the crime to make sure you didn’t leave any evidence behind. It was just a matter of going through all of those tapes and finding the person who seemed a little too interested in the placement of the security cameras. When you know what to look for, it’s almost comical how obvious you are on the tape.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that tape in your hands is the only copy in the world, right?”
“You can believe anything you’d like, but you have my word that this is the only tape. And it’s yours, if you just apologize. Maybe I’m lying and I’ve already sent a copy of the tape to the authorities, but maybe I’m not, and you can avoid going away for a long time just by saying two little words: I’m sorry.”
Rare thought about it for a second before thrusting his hand toward me and using his powers to rip the cassette tape from my possession. It sailed through the hallway in an instant, snapping into Rare’s waiting hand.
“I think you’re probably lying, lady, but on the off chance that you’re not, I probably shouldn’t be leaving evidence about who I am just lying around.”
“All I want is to hear you say that you’re sorry for killing my husband.”
“I didn’t kill your husband, not on purpose at least. Look, I’ll talk with you. But I can’t do it here.”
“I’ve already met with you on your terms. Now you’re going to meet with me on mine. 324, 17th Street. My apartment number is 2701. Tonight, at midnight. If you don’t show, I’ll find you again, and the next time, you won’t be able to dictate the terms again.”
• • •
I’d worried that I would spend the entire rest of my day nervously pacing, waiting for Rare. But I didn’t. I spent the rest of the evening in a state of calm. It would be over tonight. One way or another, tonight there was finally going to be some resolution. Some sense of closure. I knew it.
I almost didn’t hear the tapping on the glass at first. The second time I heard it, I would have dismissed it as the wind if I hadn’t been waiting for a metahuman. I exited the kitchen and walked across the foyer to the living area. On a clear night, you could see clear across the river and into the next state through the ten-foot-tall, floor-to-ceiling windows. It cost a lot for that kind of view, I knew because I watched my husband work himself into the ground to buy it. He’d gone gray in his twenties from eighteen-hour work days, but on Sunday nights, when we’d settle into the couch and look out those windows on the world twenty-seven stories below, it all seemed worth it.
Now that was being blocked, ruined by a jerk in spandex floating in between the window and my view of the rest of the world. He rapped his knuckles against the window pane again, even though he saw that I was already on my way. I reached for the latch that held the window locked and pulled it in, disabling the safety mechanism that prevented the window from opening fully, lest anyone try to use it to take the easy way out. You can probably figure out why I’d already broken it earlier in the week.
“Sorry, I would have taken the elevator but this tends to be easier,” he said as he floated into my living room without waiting to be invited.
My blood was boiling. Everything about the way he entered the room reeked of ego. He thinks the rules of humanity no longer applied to him. Common courtesy, manners, they were all dropped in order to emphasize to me just how powerful he was, to remind me that he was different.
“I don’t have much time, but I thought it was important to speak with you,” he said.
I crossed my arms and waited for him to continue. I have no problem leaving him hanging for the next part of the conversation. He was momentarily flustered, obviously not being used to not being fawned all over. This is the man that killed my husband, and he was telling me that he didn’t have time to speak with me. My blood went from boiling to vaporized.
“I just wanted to say that it’s extremely unfortunate that your husband is no longer with us.”
“He’s no longer with us because you killed him.” There was silence from Rare. “You do know that, don’t you? Or has your own public relations team convinced you too?”
Rare exhaled, thought carefully about his next words.
“Look, I wish I could say more. I really do. But it’s just not smart for me to. I’m a big target. I’m not saying this about you, you’re obviously well off…” He scanned around the room, gesturing to the view and high-end entertainment system against the far wall.
“So you think because I’m rich I don’t deserve closure?”
“No, no, not at all. Of course not. I just mean that…you don’t have the same motivation to litigate that others might.”
“Litigate? You’re afraid of a lawsuit?”
“My line of work…it’s complicated. There aren’t a lot of rules or best practices for what I do. I just try to do my best, but I need to look out for myself too.”
“And your best, sometimes that’s killing innocent people?”
“No, of course not.”
“So you’re telling me that you didn’t kill my husband, that it was someone else?”
“No, yes, I mean…”
My patience was nonexistent.
“I don’t care about your job, I don’t care about your powers and I don’t care about court. All I care about, all I’ve ever cared about in this ugly world was my husband, and because of your actions he’s gone—“
“I never inten—“ he began to interrupt.
“No, you’re going to listen to someone el
se for a change, and I’m going to finish. My husband didn’t deserve to die, and he especially didn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud just to cover up your mistake.”
“I didn’t say that he did, and if it were up to me that would have never happened.”
“If it were up to you? You’re telling me that you can fly through the air, control metal with your mind, but you aren’t powerful enough to own up to your actions?”
He was quiet again. My words had finally pierced through. Just barely, but it was something. An opening.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” I asked him, already turning toward the kitchen. “I just made a pot of coffee. I hadn’t been able to sleep much lately anyway, might as well lean into it.”
This managed to catch him off guard and he mustered a smile.
“Sure, I’d love a cup.”
I returned a moment later with the cups in my hands. Rare was walking around the living area, admiring the artwork hanging on our walls.
“Harry picked all of this out. I don’t know the first thing about art, but he studied it in his undergrad. Said it helped him to relax.”
He took the cup of coffee with an appreciative nod.
“Why did you tell the media that my husband was working with the robbers? Why did you let them report that my husband was an accomplice on the inside?”
The question caught him off guard and he nearly choked on his coffee, which wouldn’t do at all.
“I didn’t tell the media that. In fact, I didn’t tell them anything.”
“And you didn’t correct them either. That’s the whole point. I don’t care what they reported. They weren’t there. They don’t know. But you were there. You do know. And you did nothing to correct the misinformation that spread about my husband.”
“To be honest, I don’t know much about anything that happened. It was all very quick, but if you tell me that he was a good man and had nothing to do with any of this then I’ll take your word for it.”
“And issue a statement correcting how my husband died?”
Rare turned his back to me and moved back toward the window. For a moment I thought he was about to leave, but he didn’t. He began speaking again, now with his back to me.
“It’s just not that simple. I feel bad that your husband died, I truly do, but you have to understand the kinds of constraints that I’m under. If I inject myself into the story then I open myself up to all kinds of—“
“You didn’t inject yourself into the story when you crashed through the roof?”
“What I do isn’t easy, and it sure isn’t clean. No one tells you that when you decide to become a hero.”
He was losing his patience now. He was not used to having to defend his actions to someone like me, someone with no powers.
“You’re no hero,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
He put his coffee mug down on the end table. I glanced over at it and noticed that he’d already drunk half.
“I said you’re not a hero. You’re a metahuman, yeah, sure, but you’re not a hero. A hero takes responsibility for their actions. A hero doesn’t just do whatever is easiest. And they don’t put themselves above innocent people.”
“It must be nice to think that way. It eats me up inside that I can’t just say whatever I want, whenever I want. That’s the kind of responsibility that I didn’t know I was signing up for when I started doing this, but it’s an aspect of the job that I can’t change. I’m not sure what else I can offer to you.”
“All I’ve ever wanted was an apology,” I said, determined not to let my voice crack.
“I’m sorry that your husband died.”
“You killed him. He died as a result of your actions.”
“Dozens of people were saved that day as a result of my actions.”
“I understand why my husband died. I’ll even allow for the fact that I wasn’t there and couldn’t ever possibly know exactly what happened, but that doesn’t change the hole in my life, and it doesn’t change that you’re the one responsible for it.”
“So what is this then? Do you have cameras hidden somewhere? Are you recording me right now, hoping that you can guilt me into apologizing and sue me later, or leak the tape to the press to destroy me? Is that why you’re going through this whole charade?”
“There’s no surveillance camera. I don’t have any interest in exposing you for the fraud you are. I’m not the one looking for attention. I just want to hear you take the blame and apologize. That’s all.”
Rare turned back to me, his face red with suppressed anger.
“Well, you’re not going to get that. Have a good evening. Thank you for the coffee.”
He turned back to the open window and lifted into the air, gliding into the night sky.
I watched him as he soared over the nearby skyscrapers and toward the horizon. He was only a blip in the sky when I saw him lose altitude. Just a hundred feet or so at first, before recovering and then faltering again. He slowed and seemed to be looking for a nearby rooftop to land on. Before he could find one he stalled in the air and fell to the ground far below, out of sight. A second after he was out of my view, I heard a muted crash from far away, followed by the sound of car alarms in the distance.
With any luck, he wasn’t dead before he hit the pavement, although that certainly finished the job.
I took a few steps back from the window and toward the end table where he’d left his half-empty coffee cup. As the sound of sirens grew in the distance, I took the cup of coffee and threw its contents out the window, onto the street below. I closed the window and locked it.
It wasn’t the apology I wanted, but it was closure, and sometimes that’ll have to do.
A Word from Tom Reynolds
While I’ve been a full-time writer for a few years now, this is technically my first anthology and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. “Rare” takes place in the same fictional universe as the rest of my Meta novels, but it does not share characters or events from those books, so don’t worry about spoilers. This anthology is the first place “Rare” has appeared.
I grew up on Long Island, NY and graduated from The University of Maryland - College Park with a Bachelor of Arts in American Studies, where I also accidentally minored in English (long story). I live in Brooklyn, NY with a dog named Ginger, who despite being illiterate proved to be a really great late-night writing partner.
I also co-host the popular comedy podcast, The Complete Guide to Everything. TCGTE has been downloaded over 10 million times, performed at SXSW and the London Podcast Festival, and has been featured in the New York Times, The Independent, and others. You can find me on the internet at tomreynolds.com.
NOW COMES THE BRINGER OF BLIGHT
BY ED GOSNEY
NOW COMES THE BRINGER OF BLIGHT
BY ED GOSNEY
Day 1
Maybe I should call it day 15, which is closer to the truth, but 15 has never been a good number for me. Besides, I didn’t have this garage-sale laptop until this morning, which means Day 1 is appropriate. So this is how I’m starting it. And if I’m the one writing it down, telling the truth of what’s going on, then who’s to say I’m wrong?
This is kinda weird, I guess, but I’ve always liked to write. Never had much to say before, but if I were a reporter, this would probably win a Pulitzer. Or something. If we had Internet maybe I’d post it to a blog . . . eventually. After it’s over, I guess it would be safe.
So it’s been 15 days since I found out that Zach Hochberg has superpowers. How long has he had them? Your guess is as good as mine. When something this big happens, most people would tell their best friend. If you’re reading this, maybe you’re scratching your head now. Especially if you know Zach and me. We used to do everything together, for as long as I can remember. I guess, though, that when you find yourself basically invulnerable and able to fly, and you become the most selfish person I can think of (worse than Lex Luthor!), then you don’t
tell your former best buddy. Because I was always Batman to his Superman. We’ve actually had conversations about what we’d do if we got superpowers, and we were like, “Dude, we’d be Power Man and Iron Fist.” Super friends through and through. I guess it doesn’t work that way when just one of us evolves into the most powerful teen on earth.
Back to 15 for a minute. That’s how old I was when my father walked away from us. Us being me and mom. I want it written here, for the record, in case I do post this and he reads it. Nice technique at fathering, wouldn’t you say? It’s been close to two years now. I’m 17 and still riding a bike, because we can’t afford a car. He drove away in the only one we owned. Mom rides the bus for both of her jobs. Cleaning houses in the morning and scrubbing office building toilets at night. Great legacy, dad.
We never had much money when you were here, but at least we had a car. And snail-slitheringly slow Internet service, but we had it. Not anymore. Mom sold the computer. She told me to go to the library if I need one for school assignments. Do I need to tell you how much that sucks?
Yet not everything is a negative. Today is Saturday, and I rode my bike around for a while, thinking about Zach and how to fix the problem, and that’s when I saw it. A beat-up old HP laptop at a garage sale. I pulled two dollars out of my jeans and handed it over as fast as I could. The lady seemed a little embarrassed when she took a look at me (Come on, ripped jeans used to be a thing, right? And who has the time to buy new sneakers these days? They’re falling apart, but they get me where I’m going.), so she said she was just about to mark it down to half price and gave me back a dollar. I took it. I mean, I’m not proud. Why should I be?
The laptop works good enough for me to write this blog. Who cares that it’s ancient. Anyway, Zach will be heading out soon, and I’m going to try to track his moves. Tomorrow I’ll have time to write more while mom is at church. I can report the latest on my “frenemy” and maybe fill in some of what’s happened over the last couple weeks. If I live.
This is Coby Cook, signing out.
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