Posts Tagged ‘Mad Dash’

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She’d known he was coming—she’d been alerted by phone.

But apparently he’d also been warned she was on edge.

All for the best, Zoe supposed, as she heard a twig snap in the distance and a youthful, jovial voice calling out amiably, “Fringe, not foe!” as Mad Dash came into sight. The mask he wore—revealing only his nose, cheeks, mouth and chin and sporting almost comically large dark yellow goggles—was only slightly less grin-inducing than the garish short-coat he wore over his gray-green unitard, which was a medley of different colors, types and shapes of fabric. A sturdy looking coat and well-constructed, but ridiculous as hell, she thought.

God can I use a laugh right now, even if it’s only a chuckle and gone almost as fast as it arrived, Zoe considered, flinging her spent cigarette into the road from the rock on which she sat near the tree line. Before she’d fully exhaled her last lungful of smoke from that butt she was already extracting another one to light.

“Those are terrible for you, you know,” Dash told her when he drew near, though to his credit, Zoe noted, he didn’t wrinkle his nose or wave at the air to disperse the fumes like so many people did when they said something like that. “Your lungfish are going to go belly up in the aquarium if you keep up that habit.”

He delivered the cautionary note so matter-of-factly, without any trace of judgment in his tone, that Zoe decided to forego the usual snide response. “They’re right; you do speak a little odd,” she said. Then she cocked her wrist so that the smoldering cigarette stuck straight up into the air and she pointed at it with the index finger of her other hand. “Bad for me though these may be, they’re the only thing making me feel a little human right now, a little sane right now and a little calm right now. Chain-smoking several butts is phase one. Phase two will be a very long, very hot shower and lots of scrubbing until my skin is raw and any blood I see I know is my own. Phase three would be getting piss-drunk, but I can’t even hardly get a buzz drinking, so I’ll settle for some herbal tea and a warm bed and not getting up for 12 to 15 hours.”

“I didn’t bring a shower. Or tea. Or a bed,” Mad Dash said, though he glanced quickly inside his backpack as if he might find one or all of them in there, while he awkwardly juggled a large and apparently mostly empty soft drink cup from Wendy’s in one hand. He rattled it a little, lifted the lid, and then downed the last swig and let the last few chunks of ice left slide into his mouth. “I have some water bottles left in my backpack and a few snickety-snackedy-munchies,” he mumbled as he crunched the ice. “If you like granola bars and Cliff Bars and stuff.”

“I think I can keep food down now, so a granola bar sounds great,” she responded with a smile. “I’ll make Query come up with the other things to make up for letting me get kidnapped.”

After he handed over the snack and a bottle of water, he paused and then said, “Oh, salmon! Your clothes look like they came from the fall war-refugee fashion line at Macy’s and I should get you a…whoa! I’m so sorry I’m looking at you I just saw a nipple sorry sorry sorry,” he stammered, wrenching off his coat and handing it to Zoe.

“I like you, Madster,” Zoe said as she put her arms through the sleeves and buttoned it up. “You’re weird, but I like you. Chivalry’s not dead, even though your fashion sense might be. Comfy coat, though.”

“Thanks. I make them myself,” Dash said, positively beaming.

“Well, don’t give up your day job, because I think there won’t be many customers for this kind of style. But you’re a Renaissance man, Mad Dash, and you’ll make a fine catch someday.”

“Oh, I’m already the lobster special of the day—got a girlfriend named Honey Badg…hello? Yeah? Querio? Where you at, man? I’m here with Chloe…”

“…Zoe,” she corrected him.

“Zoe,” Dash repeated, and then rattled off a series off a series of “yeah’s” and “uh-huh’s” as his part of the communication with Query.

At least I hope he’s really talking to Query via a Bluetooth or some hidden headset, because I don’t want to find out he has voices in his head, Zoe thought. I can’t deal with shit like that tonight.

Mad Dash paused, then turned to Zoe. “Query says we need to stay put, stay down and don’t get involved with what’s about to happen until he says so.”

“Huh? What?” Zoe sputtered. “No, no, no. Tell Query to call me on my cell phone right now.”

“Says he’s kinda busy setting stuff up.”

“Tell him to call me on my phone right the hell now,” she snarled and then, as if on cue, her phone rang. “Talk to me. What’s gonna happen?”

“Zoe, I need you to trust me right now. I’ve got stuff to do and probably not much time to do it and I just want you and Dash to stay out of the way for now,” Query said.

“Oh no no no no no,” Zoe said, dragging hard on her cigarette and then expelling smoke in a chaotic mass like some angry dragon. “Look, I’ve had a really shit goddamn day and I’m just barely holding it together and you failed to stop them from getting me and I want some damn answers.”

“I take all my jobs very seriously, Zoe, but you’re not being charged for this work,” Query said. “What do you want? A refund check for zero dollars? I’m trying to protect you.”

“And I just killed two guys and some of them is staining my clothes and that’s fucked up and I deserve some answers,” she retorted, her voice sounding angry and anxious all at once. “Plus, if shit is about to go down, I want to know what is going down. Tell me right now or I will walk out into that road and flag down the next car I see.”

“OK, fine. Zoe, they were taking you into the woods. Must mean they have a safe-house somewhere around here. If I were running this operation, I’d have at least a few people waiting there in case there was trouble getting you out of the car. I’ve made some best guesses based on the topography around here and I’ve got some ideas of the most likely places. Also, the guys you zeroed out aren’t able to check in or respond to any communications so chances are Janus and gang will know soon shit’s gone wrong, if they don’t already. I intend to ambush them when they come looking for their friends’ car.”

“How would they find it? You had me drive it off the road.”

“I already figured Janus would likely have all the cars fitted with locators,” Query said. “Pidwidgeon’s on-board sensors have confirmed transmissions from it—someone’s likely monitoring. So I’m going to wait for them to come. I promise I’ll get you out of here. Just sit tight.”

“It’s almost dark already,” she noted.

“I have night vision equipment.”

“We don’t.”

“Dash does. And if things get too hot, and I need you to pitch in, I’ll provide the party lights,” Query said. “I promise. Now find cover, keep quiet and let me do my job. Pretty please. With sugar on top.”

* * *

He was standing in the doorway to her office. Had he been anyone else, Underworld wouldn’t have cared. But she hated him right now, and she was trying not to think of murder right now so that she could get work done. It was way too soon to deal with him again.

Not to mention the fact he never visited other peoples’ office—he summoned them to his. That disturbed her even more.

“I thought we were done after we discussed Odium,” Underworld noted.

“I may have been too quick to praise you for your successful abduction plan,” Janus said, the sourness of his tone mixing in an interesting way with the slightly tinny echo produced by his two-faced helmet.

Underworld said nothing; simply arched one eyebrow.

“We’ve lost contact with the car carrying Zoe,” Janus clarified.

“Where?”

“It was last seen getting ready to get onto Grace Memorial Highway by Breathtaker and the two men in his car when they parted ways.”

“Then I still win,” Underworld said dryly, taking her eyes off him and returning them to the computer monitor.

“How do you figure that?”

“Because if my plan had been flawed, the car would have been stopped or commandeered or whatever long before it got to that point,” she said, still not looking at him. “And the other car, too, for that matter. I assume Breathtaker and the two guys with him are still in contact and running free.”

“Yes.”

“Then the problem isn’t that I had a bad plan or that I failed. The problem isn’t that my hand-picked team got sloppy. The problem is, I suspect, that you picked a fight with Query and he’s still got tricks up his sleeve for keeping tabs on Zoe because this shit is personal and not just business.”

A loud metallic sigh, and them a simple “Hmmmph” from Janus. “I hate it when you’re right,” he said as he walked away. “I think I’ll kill somebody after I finish handling this.”

* * *

A car finally arrived nearly 20 minutes after Query got off the phone with Zoe, stopping very near to where Zoe had driven her abductor’s car behind the tree line. Making some educated guesses about probable locations for any Janus-owned safe-houses out here, Query did some quick calculations about when the car with Zoe might have been expected to arrive at any of those areas, figured their comrades would wait until they were 10 or 15 minutes late to panic, factored in required travel times for those other bad guys to show up here from all the possible locations, and had the sites for Janus’ place in the woods narrowed down to three prime leads.

All while he used the scope on his rifle to size up the three men who were now getting out the car. One of them had a device in hand—probably some kind of receiver/locator—and was likely getting a read on just how far away their missing car was and in which direction it lay. All of them had flashlights; the two guys with Mr. Receiver—as Query had mentally designated the lead guy—had Uzis in hand as well.

If Mad Dash and Zoe were following instructions, they wouldn’t be anywhere near the car and its two corpses right now—wouldn’t be in any spot where the three new arrivals would be scanning the trees with their flashlights.

Hopefully, they’ll also be behind some cover, since Mr. Receiver has clearly figured out where the car is and is now pulling out night vision goggles to look for threats, Query thought. He probably doesn’t really expect any police presence here, or else the car they were seeking wouldn’t be out of sight. But he might be expecting a trap of some other sort. As well he should.

Mr. Receiver even took a long, slow look at the other side of the road, where Query had found a tiny hillock to give himself just a bit of high ground. Query didn’t flinch; the modified portable hunter’s blind he had set up in front of himself would block his heat signature and look like a rock or bush to the night-vision goggles. The barrel of his rifle like some branch.

The man was very thorough in taking stock of his surroundings; his companions were very vigilant in watching his back.

And Query’s trigger finger was feeling quite itchy.

But it was too soon. He trusted his instincts and waited for what he expected—for what he would have done in their place.

And so it was that a second new car arrived on the scene some five minutes after the first one, pulling off to the side a bit farther up the road. For a moment, Query considered waiting some more for a third car, but that was just getting paranoid. So he simply waited until the new quartet of men started walking toward the trio, pulling night vision goggles on as they did.

Odds are that the first team will be going down to check out the car and team two is here to give them some additional protection.

About 10 meters from the trio, the quartet’s tight formation began to fragment just the slightest amount as one man slowed a little, and Query knew that was the point one of them would stop, as the other three would continue on and each stop in turn so they could fan out for the best coverage and ability to kill anyone coming at them from the woods. The two armed men from the original trio were already keeping watch on the road from near the edge of the trees.

Since Query knew the most dangerous threats were getting into position, he decided there was no time like the present to prevent them from getting organized.

While the newest arrivals were still clustered relatively closely to one another, he said into his headset, very softly, “Dash, in 10 seconds the first three guys are yours—take them alive,” and then fired off five shots in rapid succession at the group of newcomers.

The first bullet entered the skull of the man who had just stopped walking. The second bullet went through the throat of the man nearest him, who likely would have been the next to stop in a few more meters. Figuring the time for piling up corpses had come to an end, the fourth and fifth bullets took the third man’s ability to shoot and to run with a bullet in his gun arm and another in one thigh.

Naturally, Query thought, the fourth guy would be alert enough and agile enough to take cover.

Query set down his rifle, picked up a grenade launcher not much larger than the Uzis that Janus’ men were carrying, and said into his headset, “Wait, Dash. Close your eyes until you hear two booms, then hit them.”

Query fired two flashbang grenades just past the roof of the original trio’s car, where his quarry had taken cover, one near the front of the car and the other near the trunk. A loud “whump” and another a second or two later accompanied two bursts of bright light and then Query was bounding down the hillock and toward the road.

He wasn’t trying to beat Dash—no sense in trying that anyway and there was a bit of cleanup work yet. Once he had sprinted across the road, he walked to the man he had shot in the arm and thigh and pepper-sprayed him in the eyes and mouth before quickly binding his hands to his ankles with nylon ties, then continued around the front of the trio’s car, confirmed that his target there was stunned insensate, and quickly bound him as well. He did his best to focus on the task at hand and not react to the sounds of shouting and running so close to him; did his best to be as quick as he could without rushing. Then when he was done, squatting behind his place of cover, he closed his eyes and let his ears sort thing out.

Feet running through the dirt, twigs and rocks—faster than a normal person’s. Mad Dash was still moving. Voices calling out to each other and swearing—only two, though, so Dash had likely taken one man out. Shots fired, but none of them in the direction where Query was huddled against the car, so the remaining pair was clearly too focused on Dash to think about or deal with their other threat: Query.

Query opened his eyes and stood, taking out a tangler. He was just in time to see Mad Dash do a furious high-speed zig-zag through the trees, sliding finally as if trying to beat a ball thrown to home plate and slamming into the legs of one of Janus’ men, who went down about as hard as one might expect when being hit at about 35 or 40 miles per hour.

I know Dash’s unitard is padded and/or lightly armored in places like the thighs and ass, but that costume’s likely going to be a goner and Dash is going to be sporting some rather bloody scrapes, Query thought.

The last man, seeing his comrade go down and realizing he was alone now, was already headed for the car and an attempted getaway, but came to a startled halt as he saw Query.

“Evenin’,” Query said, casually throwing the tangler at the man’s legs and smiling as the sticky tendrils burst out and then contracted back on themselves. The man wobbled for several seconds and finally fell over in a heap. Query tossed a small plastic bag of nylon ties to Mad Dash to restrain these last three men and added to the man on the ground at his feet: “You just relax while I make sure those two friends of yours are really dead and decide whether to make all of the rest of you the same way—only much slower.”

* * *

Underworld was finally in a decent frame of mind again—she’d done a quick set of breathing exercises and a few calming yoga poses and was finally able to get back to the work she needed to finish for phase one of her and Janus’ team expansion plans.

It was, therefore, very disheartening to her when a person burst through the door to her office, ran all the way to her desk and jumped over it, pushing by her legs and then crawling underneath it.

Underworld looked down to see a completely tattooed face staring up from between her legs, and resisted the urge to make any number of snide and risqué comments to the woman huddled underneath her large maple desk and only inches from her lap. She was less able, however, to control the flood of irrationally joyous feelings over the fact that Crazy Jane was near her, though she was pretty sure she managed to keep those feelings from showing on her face.

Crazy Jane’s eyes were wide and earnest as she looked up at Underworld. “If Janus comes looking for me, I’m not here. Please don’t tell him. Please say you don’t know where I am.”

Keeping her eyes fixed at a point she could see both her doorway and Jane in her peripheral vision, Underworld said quietly, “He’ll know if I’m lying. He always knows.”

“Not always,” Crazy Jane. “Not when he’s enraged. It doesn’t work when he’s really mad. That’s when he can’t do that and that’s also when he can do other things. That’s why I need to hide. He’s furious.”

“You do something naughty?”

“No, but Query did,” Crazy Jane answered. “At least I think it’s Query. We’ve lost contact with the team sent out to find out what happened to the car Zoe was in.”

“I don’t think you have to worry, Jane,” Underworld said soothingly. “If you got out of Janus’ way, he’ll likely find some staff member to take it out on. Pretty unlikely he’ll come to my floor looking for trouble, much less looking for you.”

“Thank you, Undie,” Crazy Jane said, and Underworld almost teared up at the sincerity in the younger woman’s voice. “Sometimes, we girls have to stick together, right?”

Underworld simply nodded.

“Can I stay here a while, just in case?”

Underworld nodded again.

“You know, while I’m down here I could give you a foot rub. I’m really goooooood.”

“Oh, what the hell,” Underworld said after a few moments of consideration. “Why not? Girls sticking together, right?”

This time is was Crazy Jane’s turn to nod. And to smile as well.

As Underworld settled in to get her admittedly aching feet pampered a little, she smiled, and not just at the wonderful feeling of having knots and kinks worked out of her toes and soles. She smiled as well as getting some unexpected intelligence about Janus.

I’ve long suspected his ability to tell when a person lies was gender-specific, since he only ever stresses to women that he can tell when they’re not speaking the truth, she thought, but I never realized it was tied to his mood, too. And Jane’s reference to “other things” makes me think perhaps Janus has two sets of powers: one for when he’s calm or relatively so, and one for when he’s not. Makes sense when you consider he named himself after a two-faced god.

Suddenly, being Crazy Jane’s friend, willingly or not, didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

* * *

Two corpses had been added to the pair already in the car with the ruined trunk. The five surviving members of Janus’ team were well past the tree line now and all of them bound and gagged. The two other cars were now parked near each other by the side of the road and a little closer to the tree line.

Query walked back toward Mad Dash and Zoe from those cars, after having left Mad Dash’s backpack on the trunk of one of them and a few scattered granola bars on the hood of the other, along with a jacket and a pair of shoes and socks from one of the dead men

“Why did you do that?” Zoe asked.

“To make it look like they pulled over to do a little wandering and hanging out, instead of looking like they need help. Less likely that a state trooper will check things out if a cruiser happens down the road, and regular drivers will be even less likely to stop and look at things,” Query answered, looking over each man in captivity as if assessing and comparing each one, and then setting down a small tool case he had brought back with him.

“What now?” Zoe asked, fiddling with her bright orange disposable lighter nervously.

“You and Dash will go to my van parked a couple hundred yards down the road and head to a safe-house I have near Fishmonger’s Wharf. Dash knows where it is. You can clean up and you should be able to find some clothes that’ll fit you, Zoe. Have a decent meal, too, if your stomach can handle it. Watch some DVDs or listen to some music. Get some sleep. Dash’ll keep you company there until I’m finished. If I’m not there by dawn, chances are I’m dead and Dash will know who to call to get your situation as sorted out as possible.”

“What about them?” Zoe asked, nodding toward the captive men.

“Don’t worry about them. I have that covered.”

Zoe looked at the case at his feet, and then stared down his concealed eyes behind the black mask for several seconds. She walked up to him, pointed to the red question mark on the mask over his mouth—her finger just inches from it—and said, “Your name is Query; I just asked a question.”

“I ask questions; I rarely like answering them,” Query said coldly.

“You’ll answer mine,” she said, nervous at his tone but reminding herself it was probably bluster to get her to leave—and reminding herself that even if she was wrong, she was hardly powerless. “What are you going to do with them?”

Query sighed behind his mask, and Zoe imagined that his eyes were probably rolling behind it as well. “Zoe, I’m going to ask these fine gentlemen where their little hideout in the woods is. If they don’t answer me, I’ve going to demonstrate how badly I can hurt them with easily accessible items here in nature, and then tell them about the tools in my case here that are more professional-grade. If they don’t answer me even then, I’ll begin using those tools on them.”

Zoe shuddered. “You’re going to torture them.”

“Only if they make me.”

“You mean only if it’s the most convenient route for you.”

“Zoe, I don’t want to debate situational ethics with you right now,” Query groused. “These men kidnapped you. They were willing to kill you.”

“Noooo,” Zoe said. “Two of the dead men in that car over there, and I guess some guys in another car from what Dash has told me, were the ones who kidnapped me, and only one of them maybe was trying to kill me. They’re dead. I fucking lost my composure and killed them. Two other men are dead at your hands. These men came to check on their buddies. I don’t know what they would have done if you hadn’t attacked them.”

“Surely you not suggesting I shouldn’t have…”

“Of course not. You shot first. Wise move. They work for Janus. They were armed. But goddamn it I’m not going to let you torture them just to find out where they came from or for anything someone else did to me. I mean, really, do you expect to find Janus at their hidey-hole? Do you expect him to come here to the woods and throw down with you? I’ve been dealing with Underworld all this time and nothing suggests to me that they’ve suddenly gone lax on their security. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts these guys probably don’t even know where Janus is or the other guys who tried to nab me before at graduation probably would have known.”

“I think we need to be sure, Zoe. And if I go to their place here in the woods, I can look for clues that will help me find Janus later,” Query said. “I need you to go now.”

“How would you even know if they were telling the truth if they did give up a location to you, huh?” she pressed. “People will say lots of things under torture or to buy time.”

“Because,” he responded, raising his voice for the benefit of his captives and turning his head slightly in their direction, “I’ve already figured out from their response time and what I know about this area where the three most likely locales are. If they give me any other location that isn’t in one of those areas, I’ll hurt them more.”

“No.”

“Zoe, this isn’t your operation. This isn’t about you.”

“Yes it goddamn is!” she shouted. “I was the one kidnapped. I’m the one who’s got bits of people all over her. People have been firing bullets all around me and one zipped right past the top of my head. You took on my case so I’m your fucking employer—kinda. It’s all about me and I say you aren’t going to do this.”

“It’s more about me than you know, Zoe. In any case, I need this info…”

“…fine!” she interrupted him, and stalked toward the bound men, morphing as she did to take on a slightly more attention-getting and menacing look—though Query noted her locs, while clearly hardened and sharp, were no longer animated as when she was panicked in the trunk. “Here’s how it’s gonna be, boys. One of you will tell me right now where your little place in the woods is. Then after you’re handed over to the police or whatever—somebody less likely to torture you, in any case—you can go back to clamming up and not saying any damn thing about Janus and if he asks you can all tell him you don’t know how Query knew how to find your hideout. He can just assume Query found your place on his own with his super-intuition. Totally plausible, since he’s apparently already narrowed it down. But he’s really cranky, as you can see, and if you make him search too long, or waste too much time talking to you about it, he’s going to go all Spanish Inquisition on you. Whoever wants to tell me can just nod and I’ll pull off your gag.”

No one nodded.

“Unless Janus is there at your place in the woods, this is a win-win for everyone to tell me, guys,” Zoe said more firmly, flexing her fingers with their sharp, glistening burgundy nails. “You stay quiet about it, then Query is going to start thinking Janus is there, and if that happens I think you’re all going to be probed in a lot of places humans weren’t meant to be probed with things that weren’t meant to go there. Your choice.”

Ten minutes later, Zoe was in the passenger seat of Query’s van on her way to a date with a hot shower, with Mad Dash humming some tune wildly out-of-key on the driver’s side, while Query was taking a ride in one of Janus’ cars to a place in the woods.

Zoe closed her eyes and smiled a little.

I win.

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Stale stifling blackness. Spinning bouncing. Smells—Greasy sweaty green. Sensations—rough, warm, damp, gritty.

No room to move; can’t focus. What? Where? How?

Drifting. Panic. Sleepy. Weak. Angry. Terrified.

I will no go…I will not…gone…go…quietly.

* * *

“Dash! Please tell me you’re not in the middle of something you can’t get out of.”

“Query? Yeah, I’m cool. Just at my place deciding whether to patrol or watch a chickety-chick-rom-com-flick on streaming.”

“Zoe’s been nabbed,” Query said over the phone. “She’s on the move with her captors and I need an intercept while I’m driving like a bat out of hell to get there.”

“How do you know where she is if you’re not…”

“Quiet, Dash! Listen. Time’s short,” Query said, thinking about how the private investigator had needed to drop out of the pursuit of the kidnappers mere minutes ago when they pulled over in a dark area to put an apparently drugged and now also handcuffed Zoe into the trunk out of sight of any passing motorists or cops. The last thing the PI had seen in his rearview mirror were the cars getting back on the road, the one with Zoe still heading toward Grace Memorial Highway, apparently, while the other car headed back into the city proper.

“I had someone following her,” Query said. “He lost them but I reacquired her with one of my drones. Pidwidgeon is following now and keeping tabs. But they’re headed into the woods using Grace Memorial; I may lose them if they go anyplace thickly forested.”

“Grace?” Mad Dash said. “Q-man, I’ve got a few pre-packed school backpacks for emergency crapiolus like this but that’s a long way over a lot of different species of terrain. I’ll have to pack a hiker’s backpack with one or two extra pairs of boots and tons of snacks to refuel on the way.”

“No!” Query snapped. “No time for that, and a backpack that big’ll throw you off balance. Last thing I need is you breaking an ankle. Throw one extra pair of boots in a small pack and toss as many energy bars and water as you can in it. Do you have cash around? A decent amount?”

“Yeah, surely whirly I do. I guess maybe 60 or 70 bucks?”

“Fine. Grab it all. Take Parliament Avenue then hit Madsen and then Mozart. Cut straight through Whitley Park near where the bike trails start and then pick up Route 136 on the other side of the park and head toward Grace. That route will take you by plenty of fast-food joints. Hit the drive-through lanes as you need to fuel up; ignore the lure of Happy Meal toys. Make sure you have your headset on before you leave, set to our channel; remember to turn it on. I’ll keep in touch and guide you when you’re close enough. Got it?”

“Gotcha. Getcha. You betcha!”

“Go! Run like the fucking wind, Dash.”

* * *

A large hand engulfed Cole’s right shoulder, settling there with surprising gentleness. Then the couch squealed a bit in protest as PrinSass settled her bulk down next to Cole.

“What’s gotcha down, bruh?” she asked quietly, the softness of concern weaving oddly amidst her more gravelly bass tones. It always struck Cole as odd how unfeminine PinSass’ voice was aesthetically yet how obviously female it remained nonetheless.

“Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s ever gonna change, PrinSass,” Cole said. “I’ll be the outsider that the top guys can’t stand as long as I’m here, and these fucking migraines and clouded vision will just get worse from the stress probably and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore anyway.”

“Muddling through, Quantum,” she said to Cole. “Gettin’ by. Toughing it out. That’s what it’s about, bruh. Just cuz I weigh a few hundred pounds and can squash almost anyone by sittin’ on ’em or punchin’ ’em, it doesn’t make it easy. I’m still a bitch. Cunt. Twat. Chick. Girl. To Desperado and all them. Whatever. You ain’t noticed that yet?”

“Of course I have…sorry…I know it’s not easy for you ladies and for a lot of other folks in the Corps. I know I’m having a pity party,” Cole acknowledged, grimacing and now flushing with embarrassment. “But is it worth going through?”

PrinSass made a rumbling chuckle. “For me, for you or for everyone else?”

“I was thinking about me, but…whatever you can provide your wisdom on, oh mighty oracle,” Cole joked.

PrinSass smiled. “I like beating folks up and not having to feel bad about it, so…yeah, it works for me, Quantum. Fightin’ crime’s good for my complexion, too. Keeps me a cute big gal. Is it worth it for you? I dunno…is it?”

Cole hesitated, frowned and finally sighed. “Doing what I do is worth it. I’m just not sure it’s worth doing with Desperado calling my shots. But what else is there for a noob like me? I’ve got a name—Quantum. I almost have a costume. But that’s about all I have at the moment.”

“It’s a start,” PrinSass said, slapping him hard on the thigh and making him wince. “Now let’s go grab a couple cups of really bad coffee while everyone else cleans up this time and we wait for Sweet Talker.”

* * *

Query’s altered brain functions since he became transhuman were well-suited for multi-tasking; however, trying to make phone calls while driving fast and trying to avoid police cruisers that might pull him over—all while checking on the video and GPS info from his drone—was straining that ability.

Not to mention the fact that the drone was moving so much faster than it should be while on autopilot that he had to make sure to adjust its course now and again with the tablet computer in the passenger-side seat of his car, lest Pidwidgeon crash and make this entire exercise a moot point. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to reacquire Zoe with another drone in time if that happened, though he’d sent out a summons for Bubo, the nearest of the other four drones out tonight—to join Pidwidgeon in the pursuit—just in case.

No telling how much longer that will be, since I don’t have any more attention to spare to track Bubo.

At full tilt, even with a few stops for food, Mad Dash would almost certainly beat Query to Zoe, if he was able to get to her in time at all. Dash’s apartment was closer already and he had the advantage of being able to cut through alleys and across parks and such, unlike Query’s van.

Would have been better for speed of travel had I been driving the Mercedes or Porsche, but it’s a little hard to stash much in the way of costumes and gear in a four-door sedan, he mused bitterly, and damn near impossible in a sports car.

There was a tiny flash of movement on the display of the iPad Quinto in the passenger seat. Something narrow and long. If not for his enhanced senses, it might not have caught his attention at all. Then another. And another.

Trusting his instincts that he needed intelligence more than he needed to try to keep up with Mad Dash’s arrival time at the narrow old highway heading into the woods, Query pulled the van over to the side of the road suddenly and snatched up the tablet computer.

He saw the trunk bulge slightly in one place, the dent produced from inside. By Zoe, no doubt.

Then another long, thin something punching through the metal. Four holes now.

Those looked like damned red, black and yellow snakes, Query considered. Or eels or tentacles. Or…Zoe’s locs. Her hair.

Another dent, and now there was a trio of razor-sharp, frenzied locs punching through. Then a flurry of them. Holes and more holes, and some of them tearing the metal a little.

Despite all the ruckus, the driver and his partner in the car didn’t seem to notice anything over the noise of an already bumpy road and their conversation and whatever music might be playing on their radio or disc player.

I want to get to her; I want to be close, especially if it might lead me to Janus or end up with Janus arriving on scene—unlikely though that would be, Query thought as he watched the video feed from Pidwidgeon. But in all honesty, it looks like at this moment, there isn’t a thing I can do about whatever’s about to go down, except watch, analyze, let Dash know and then get there as soon as I can.

The trunk was quickly becoming a ruin of holes and rips, and then Query saw a hand punch through, one cuff of a pair of handcuffs attached to it, but only a few links of chain dangling there. Five nails of that hand dug into the exterior surface of the car in which Zoe was trapped. Then her other hand, just as lethally clawed and bearing the other half of the broken handcuffs, tore a huge gash through the top of the trunk.

Her movements angry and panicked, she started flailing, finally ripping a hole large enough to let her rise to a squatting position, her head now level with the top of the sedan that had so recently been her prison. Her body was criss-crossed with various cuts and scratches, Query could tell—Pidwidgeon and the other drones offered fantastic video resolution.

But she’s not nearly as hurt as she should be considering all the jagged edges of metal she just burst through, Query noted mentally.

Her head swiveled slowly, taking stock of things. She still seemed a little confused, but he swore he saw something like realization now, and cold fury along with it.

They probably drugged her, but she’s not very much out of it anymore; perhaps she’s a Regenerator on top of her Acro and Morph powers.

Her locs of varied colors were swirling and writhing like the serpents on Medusa’s scalp, and then she looked through the rear window, toward the driver and passenger.

Query couldn’t see Zoe’s face after she turned to behold her captors, but he could imagine any number of expressions that might be on it, and few of them struck him as something either man in the car would want to see.

But the passenger had clearly registered the flurry of motion and the bulk of a human body now half out of the trunk, and turned to get a better view of what his peripheral vision had picked up. He saw that look that Query couldn’t, and Query was pretty sure it scared him. The driver himself jerked, probably in response to a warning from his partner—though perhaps he’d seen something in the rearview mirror as well.

Too late. Way too late, Query realized.

The only question remaining unanswered for him right now was whether it was too late just for Janus’ minions or for Zoe as well.

She surged out of the trunk and onto the roof, her sharp and apparently very hardened nails giving her firm purchase, aided by the uncanny balance and agility afforded to her by her Acro powers. But the hair and nails weren’t the only change from her Morph powers—her skin was glossier now, and seemed smoother and tighter against her muscles. Perhaps a tad darker as well. Her clothes were shredded from the metal of the trunk ripping at them, but her skin was mostly unmarred.

She managed to get above the driver and passenger seats and ripped a good-sized hole above the driver’s side with one hand. But before she could make any more progress, the driver hit the brakes as hard as he could without swerving completely out of control.

Query’s belly cramped and twisted at the thought of Zoe’s fate now, as physics won out over her firm grip and sure reflexes, and she flew forward past the front windshield, taking a small piece of the roof of the car with her.

One of her feet managed to make contact with the hood—intentionally, it seemed—and her leg thrust her upward even as she flew forward. Then to Query’s amazement, she flipped once in the air, came down hard on the road on both feet, and then flipped several more times, including a one-handed flip that sent her nearly straight up into the air.

She was awkward and almost lost her balance several times. In competition, such sloppy form would have lost her plenty of points with the judges. But considering she’d just been flung from a rapidly braking car, the fact she hadn’t slid across the asphalt earning a body-wide case of road rash was amazing to Query.

When she competed in college gymnastics, she was holding back as least three-quarters of what she was capable of doing, he estimated.

When she came to a stop some dozen meters from the car, she was in a crouch. The driver of the car was disoriented at first and unsure what was going on, but as soon as he saw her, he put the car back in gear. By then, though, Zoe was already on the move. By the time he was accelerating at all, she was already on top of the car again, and yanking his head up toward the hole she had made in the roof. He was strong, but it was clear Zoe was at least a low-level Brute on top of everything else, and she wrestled his head through the hole. No longer able to press the accelerator or steer, the car slowed and drifted toward the shoulder, as the passenger yanked the emergency brake.

Looking into the driver’s eyes for a split-second, and then glancing down to see one hand reaching for something under his left armpit, Zoe started yanking his head back-and-forth, slashing his neck against the sharp edges of the hole in the roof of the car, even as the claws with which she gripped his scalp dug furrows into his skull.

Satisfied that he was no longer a threat, Zoe let him fall back into his seat and leapt back to the road as the passenger scrambled out of the car and pulled a gun.

Query’s renewed concern for Zoe was tempered slightly by the knowledge that if this man did kill her, Janus would do something far worse to him than simple death for cheating the crimelord of his prize.

Zoe hesitated only a moment, pulled between the desire to fight and the urge to flee to cover, and then she lunged. The man got off a shot, but it went wide.

Zoe’s attack did not, however.

She slashed him with one set of nails, and then began to circle him in something that seemed half a dance and half an acrobatic spectacle. She whipped her head back and forth as she spun and flipped around him and over him. Her locs, clearly razor-sharp and harder than they had any right to be since she had employed her Morph powers, laid into him like a scourge in the hands of a Roman centurion. In moments, half his face and one arm were thoroughly flayed, and the rest of his upper torso didn’t look much better.

His gun was on the ground now, and Zoe stopped her deadly dance.

She looked at her victim almost curiously, and Query thought he detected a hint of shock and queasiness in her eyes now, dulling the rage. He stood for several moments, though dead or nearly so, before gravity introduced his corpse to the ground.

Query made a call to Mad Dash, hoping the man had remembered to turn on his headset.

“Dash?”

“En route, toot-e-toot-toot, Query. Moving as fast as I can,” Dash said, sounding winded but chipper.

“It’s not that, Dash. I just want you to know this isn’t as much a rescue operation as I had expected. It looks like more of a clean-up.”

“Oh, no! She’s dead?”

“No. No, she isn’t. Dash, when you get close to her position—and believe me, I’ll give you plenty of warning—go in as calmly and as non-threatening as you can. If you go in hot and she thinks you’re an enemy, I might be burying you in the woods along with the two guys she just laid waste to.”

* * *

“Thank you for coming, Underworld, though I had told you to be here 20 minutes ago,” Janus groused. He was wearing a bulky metal helmet with two faces on it today, but more science fiction or fantasy-like, Underworld noted, compared to the one he often wore with the ancient Greek-style dual faces of the god Janus gazing into the future and the past. The mask he was wearing now suggested something more like paranoid conjoined twin warlords looking out for attacks. Also, it seemed familiar, as if she had seen it in some movie trailer or poster some years back.

It was a Vin Diesel movie, now that I think of it, she remembered. What I wouldn’t do to have a nice-looking piece of man like that right now here beating Janus’ face in while I watch.

“Janus, you don’t tell me to do anything,” she retorted sourly. “And you should feel lucky I only showed up late and not with an Uzi or a pair of Rottweilers trained to attack anything that smells like your cologne or your sweat.”

“Are you still on about the Crazy Jane situation?” he asked. “You needed a girlfriend to hang out with; you should be happy. I can’t believe you’re still imagining the most vile ways of killing me because you think I’m responsible.”

“My choice of examples should indicate I’ve downgraded from the ‘most vile’ notions,” she half-growled. “Some of my earlier ideas involved blowtorches, red ants, sulfuric acid and things along those lines. You’ve got too many fucking sins stacked up with me, starting with threatening my family so no, it’s not just about having a Crazy Jane addiction. That’s just the final straw.”

Janus leaned back, the oversized helmet somehow both completely out of sync with the lean and sleek silver-gray suit he was wearing today and yet somehow going so well with it. “You need to lighten up, Underworld. I treat you with far more kindness and respect than 90 percent of the people I deal with. Relax. Enjoy our promising life of crime together. Get to know Jane. Stop projecting your anger outward and redirect your energies.”

Those words from any other mouth might have been reasonable, thought Underworld, but she was certain she detected a taunting note in them. He doesn’t fuck me over as badly as most people, but he enjoys pulling my strings like a puppeteer far too much. It’s intolerable.

“What do you want, Janus? Why did you call me? If you want me to stop hating you so much, you need to let me have some space from you when we aren’t interviewing or orienting new recruits and prospects.”

“Amazingly enough, I actually did call you into my office because of staffing issues—as well as to kill time while I wait for word on Zoe’s delivery to our wooded enclave,” Janus said. “Excellent work, by the way, on the snatching of Zoe. Stealing her right out of a party and no one at it any the wiser. I’d almost think you were showing off.”

For once, Underworld noted, there was hardly a hint of jeering or needling in his words; instead, he seemed pleasantly amused and legitimately complimentary. That threw Underworld off her game a bit. She wanted—needed—to hold tight to her hatred and anger. This was not a man she could trust; she could not allow herself to think of him as anything more than an uneasy ally.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I knew Breathtaker would be perfect for that job.”

“I hope you’re not going to petition for him to be on our A-list. He did well, but I’m not sold on him.”

“Not a chance,” Underworld answered, putting the slightest hint of offense in her cadence. “He’s B-list. Second tier. I don’t think he’s discreet enough and I wouldn’t trust him to be any closer to the center of our circle than he absolutely needs to be. But he’s certainly not on the C-list like Hellfire and your other cannon-fodder recruits.”

“Agreed. But it’s not really Breathtaker I wanted to talk about. It’s Odium.”

Underworld winced and made a small groaning sound. “I don’t deny that his powers would be useful—and his non-transhuman skill sets,” she said, “but he disturbs me. There’s something terribly wrong with him.”

“There is something terribly wrong with most of us, my dear,” Janus pointed out. “You are regularly hanging out with a woman who is guilty of several very grisly and sadistic murders and who revels in using baseline humans as material in the pursuit of her creation of artistic works of insanity.”

“You’re responsible for making her that way, Janus…”

“…you’ve just made my point,” he cut in. “There’s something terribly wrong with me—by society’s standards, at least—and I’m the kingpin of all this and you’re my partner.”

“Point is,” Underworld said sternly to retrieve her line of argument, “that I was never comfortable with Crazy Jane being around, either—at least not out of that giant bird cage you had made for her—until you directed her to use her powers on me and I was biochemically coerced into being her friend.”

“You know, I’ve never admitted to doing that; it’s all speculation on your part,” Janus noted. “Did you ever consider that Jane just liked you? She has odd ways of showing affection at times.”

“Stop trying to deflect me and stop pretending you didn’t order or at least strongly suggest she ensnare me.”

“Ooooh, ‘ensnare.’ I do like that word choice. Has a very sensually kinky feel to it. You continue to prove day by day that you were a much better choice than my backup plan of Madamnation as a partner.”

“Would you please shut the fuck up!” she snapped. “Point is that we need to be careful about bringing people onto the A-list—or the B-list, for that matter—who might be a little too crazy. We already have you in one of the top two seats, we then we have Jane and Tooth Fairy. Too much crazy already for my tastes, no matter how obsessive and effective a control freak you are. Eventually, you will have a herd of insane, murderous cats you can’t herd anymore.”

“In fairness, Tooth Fairy is in the A-list in only a peripheral sense,” Janus countered. “She’s going to be a key player, but she’s not a team player. She’s primo hired help.”

“Odium isn’t exactly striking me as a team player either, Janus.”

“Not exactly, no. But he wants to be, and I can use that to rein him in,” Janus said.

Underworld paused and considered. She’d already picked up on Odium’s self-hatred, but she hadn’t considered the deeper source from which that might spring. “You think deep down he wants a family, don’t you? Someplace to belong.”

“Yes, I do,” Janus stated. “And I don’t think; I’m sure of it. And Crazy Jane might be just the sister-figure he needs, with Papa Janus and Mama Underworld.”

“God, Janus, don’t use Jane to snare everyone and have some hold on them,” Underworld warned. “The more people she juggles and who want her attention, the more you set up risks for conflict and competition. Also, it goes both ways. She gets attached, even if it often is a creepy kind of attachment. What if she has her hooks in Odium and you have to sacrifice him later?”

“Worry not, my dear,” Janus said. “I’ve considered that, too. He’s not someone I’d just toss away on a whim, and we won’t have to worry about romantic entanglements—Jane would be going for a sisterly approach as she sets her hooks. And Odium is the only person on whom I plan to have her use that particular power—and tell no one on any of our teams about that power, Underworld—at least the only person for a very long time.”

“Aside from myself,” Underworld noted with a sarcastic edge.

“I continue to tell you that I am not taking credit for Jane and you. Perhaps she has deeply buried bi-curious tendencies or simply feels isolated by her demeanor and needed a girlfriend to hang out with as much as you did, for different reasons,” he responded reasonably. Then his tone shifted suddenly to the taunting mode that so infuriated her as he said, “Now, go toddle off and do some girl things together while I wait for word on Zoe.”

A sharp, hot ribbon of rage flashed into Underworld’s brain, as if a rocket of hate had launched from the base of her spine.

After all that, trying to mollify me, and then at the end he throws it back in my face again to let me know he did it without openly admitting it. Oh, I’m back to wanting you dead, Janus. Thank you for that. I don’t know how to pull it off yet, but I’ve been involved in long cons before—this is just a more lethal variant of that. I’ll find a way to end you and still keep Jane to myself without her ever knowing it was me—alone with her to console her and move beyond you.

* * *

She’d just killed two men. And she’d thrown up. And she was half-naked, her clothes largely a mass of tatters on her now.

One of the last things Zoe Dawson really expected or wanted was a phone call.

As she heard her phone ring and felt it buzz in her pocket, she began to reach for it, and then realized her hand was covered in blood. She started to wipe in on her pants, then thought better of it—as well as almost being seized by a desire to retch at the idea—and then she wiped it off on the car’s interior upholstery. By that time, the ringer had stopped and voicemail had picked up. Then the phone rang again, and she yanked it out of her pocket.

“Hello?!” she blurted in a voice too loud and shrill with anxiety and panic for her own comfort.

“Thank God your phone’s still on you and not damaged. This is Query. I need you to toss those guys in the car and get that car off the road and mostly out of sight now.”

“How do you know…”

“Zoe, do it now. We do not want police entanglement or witnesses. I’ve made calls to slow any traffic heading up the road from the city, but someone might come the other way. Get those men in the car and drive it off the shoulder and just past the tree line. There’s a small rocky rise you should be able to use to keep anyone from seeing the car. Now, Zoe, before someone sees that carnage!”

To her credit, Query thought, she was good under pressure, and got one man into the car quickly. The other one, closer to the shoulder of the road, she simply rolled down toward a ditch-like depression, which would put him out of sight from the narrow highway. Then she started driving the car, realized the hand-brake was still on, disengaged it and got the car off the road.

Then she put the phone to her ear, and asked, firmly and quietly, “How do you know what’s going on?”

“I had someone watching you tonight,” Query answered. “He lost you after they nabbed you, but I have some Air Force-issue military drones in my possession and one of them, Pidwidgeon, has been watching you since shortly after that happened.”

“Pidwidgeon…” she said dubiously. “You read the Harry Potter books?”

“I have eclectic tastes and sometimes a lot of time on my hands,” he answered in a dead-pan. “How are you doing?”

She looked down at her bloody clothes and stained hands, and said, “I think I may throw up again soon, if that’s all right.”

“By all means, Zoe. By all means. Look, I don’t want to worry you, but this isn’t over yet. I need you to stay put and stay alert and stay calm,” Query told her. “I have a friend, Mad Dash—you may know about…”

“…runs really fast. Acts a little loopy. But pretty much a straight-ahead good guy,” she said.

“Yeah. He’s on his way. Please don’t confuse him for an enemy combatant when he arrives and kill him or anything. He’s one of the few real friends I have.”

“OK.”

“You’re doing fantastic, Zoe. Really.”

Then she doubled over, threw up violently, and when the dry heaves finally stopped, she placed the phone against her cheek again, a thin trail of tears on either side of her face. “How about now?” she said in a whimper.

“Still doing great. You’re tough as nails, Zoe. I know that. But killing someone isn’t pleasant. It messes with you. That’s natural. It means you’re a decent human. You’re doing great.”

“Thanks. I want to go home. Very badly,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I think we need to find someplace safer than home, Zoe, but I promise I’ll keep you safe. We’re almost done with the worst part of things,” Query said. “Just wait for Dash. Zoe?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever watch Pulp Fiction?”

“At least eight times in my life so far, I guess,” she said, perplexed but feeling a sense of calm return. Just small talk now. She’d killed two men, but now it was small talk. Normal life in the midst of madness.

“Well, Zoe, you and Dash sit tight,” he said. “I’m sending in The Wolf.”

“Shit, nigger, that’s all you had to say,” Zoe said, laughing and crying a little at the same time, delivering the movie line in a half-anxious, wavering manner, but not too far off Samuel L. Jackson’s original cadences. “Wait, though,” she said. “If Mad Dash isn’t The Wolf, who is?”

“That would be me, Zoe,” Query said. “Big Bad Wolf, in fact. I’m going to blow down someone’s house. At least one of them. It might only end up being the straw house, but I’m gonna fucking blow it down.”

[ – To view the next chapter, click here – ]

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Cole looked out across the devastation of the main gathering area at the Guardian Corps’ central headquarters. In some senses, it didn’t look that much different than normal. It wasn’t as if the Corps had deep pockets. They survived mostly by donations and secondarily by whatever bits of money they might surreptitiously lift from some of the gang-bangers that tended to be their main prey as they patrolled the streets.

As such, their main headquarters was a smallish warehouse that a local company had found little interest in using to its full effectiveness and less interest in bringing up to code so that the city would let them, deciding that donating it to a crime-fighting cause was the easiest path. The furniture and computers were likewise donated—old and often not in the best condition. The members of the Corps themselves were often young men with at least a slight propensity for slovenly habits. As such, the place was usually a slightly dusty mess.

But this was something else entirely, and while it might not look tremendously more messy than usual, the substantive damage was more serious. Computers cracked open. Several chairs and one big table reduced to splinters. They were used to litter and clutter, but not from things that used to be useful and now were destroyed. Also, there were the numerous bullet holes in the drywall of haphazardly erected rooms that had been built to give certain members of the Corps a sense of having their own workspaces—something more than cubicles but less than offices. Now those walls were, in many cases, leaning and probably ready to fall over.

The various patches of blood on the concrete floor were also new. They’d been mostly mopped up, but while no longer thick, sticky and wet, they were still red stains that recalled the battle the night before.

Cole had been off-duty last night, so he’d missed that fight. That made him feel a strange combination of guilt and relief.

After weeks of having their patrols and raids sabotaged, some of their enemies had finally taken the fight directly to the Corps—to the main headquarters that it tried to keep as low-key as possible and a secret to their worst enemies, at least.

All in all, the string of ambushes and now an overt attack suggested that one or more people inside the Guardian Corps was a traitor who was feeding information to the highest bidder.

Or bidders.

The leaders of the Corps, including Desperado, were furiously directing people to clean up and pack things, as they also tried to secure a new location to which they could move soon and try to regain some sense of secrecy and security.

This place wasn’t much, but to Cole, it had become a kind of home. He wasn’t sure it was someplace he wanted to be involved with long-term, like Epitaph was, but it was home.

And now, he would have to move, and wonder if any place they might set down roots for the Corps now would ever be truly safe.

Cole saw Desperado in the distance, and met his eyes, which were hard and cold. The man said something to a few nearby lieutenants that Cole had no hope of hearing, and suddenly four sets of eyes were boring into him. Once again, among the most piercing stares was from one of Desperado’s top guys: Puma. A similar look as the man had used a couple other times recently when Cole was the object of attention and derision by Desperado and his inner circle.

But it was a look of deliberation and consideration, it seemed, and only tinged with hostility, while the other sets of eyes looked at Cole as if he were an unwelcome outsider.

Cole turned away, hung his head, and went to help Sweet Talker and PrinSass clean up some debris. At least the candy-themed, chewing-gum addicted woman and her burly, broad sister-in-crimefighting seemed to like him.

* * *

“So, how do you like the place?” Janus asked the man in front of him, who was clad all in black, from his shoes to his jeans to his shirt to his trench coat—all except for the full-head, red mask that revealed no part of the man’s face at all. “A little tender loving care from our new team, and it will be something to adore, don’t you think? A really sweet spot to enjoy life and have a few laughs.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” the man said grimly, not a trace of amusement in his tone.

“A joke? Why of course not…oh, all right, a little ribbing, I admit,” Janus said, stroking one side of his mask as if smoothing back some unruly locks of hair—it was some Central American themed thing that looked to Underworld like it was from a Day of the Dead celebration, with one side a smiling face and the other hinting at a skull. “I mean, you might actually end up working for me, after all. It would be nice to know if you appreciate my humor.”

“I’ll do my best to pretend I do,” the man said.

“Janus, his name is Odium,” Underworld noted. “I don’t expect much good humor from a man with that kind of name—and reputation.”

The red-masked head swiveled toward her. “Do you have something against what I do?” The voice was heavy with menace, but Underworld didn’t even flinch—only smiled disarmingly.

“While I know she’s more than capable of taking care of herself, I should point out, Odium, that if you use your powers against either one of us, this interview will be cut brutally short.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Odium answered. “So, what if I don’t want the job? Now that you’ve let me see where your headquarters is. Especially with the both of you being suspicious of my attitude.”

“Would that be a threat?” Underworld asked mildly.

“Observation,” Odium responded.

“Well, if you’re basing our worth as an organization with which to connect yourself on this location, you’d be underestimating us,” Janus broke in. “Underworld and I, along with core non-transhuman staff like my hackers and analysts, reside on several nicely appointed floors in a very reputable building.”

“And if I decide I want the job, I get to bunk down a lot with a handful of other folks here in Sparsity Land?”

“Janus and I value security, and whatever transhuman team we assemble will be more likely than us to draw tails and such,” Underworld said, “as well as being less able and sometimes less willing to follow strict security protocols. So, none of you will ever know about the central operations. Also, you won’t all be in the same place at the same time, unless for some seriously big shit. We have several small buildings like this one. You’ll get a small support staff and we will be doing substantial redecorating—fear not.”

“Although,” Janus interrupted, “you don’t seem the type who cares much about the finer things in life. Should we just put a cot and small table in your room at each location? Maybe a radio that only gets AM?”

“I find hate for hatred’s sake to be enough for personal satisfaction most days, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang out someplace with concrete floors and fold-out metal chairs and card tables,” Odium said. “I don’t hate myself.”

“Not entirely, anyway,” Underworld said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You fixing to psychoanalyze me?”

“Making an observation,” she said, putting just enough emphasis on the last word to let him now she was sending his earlier retort right back at him. “This is a job interview. Make no mistake. For a potentially very lucrative line of work. With benefits. I’d be your boss…”

“One of your bosses,” Janus noted.

“Yes, one of your bosses. But since some people seem to have trouble focusing on administrative details with staffing, I’d be the one giving you most of your marching orders and doing regular performance reviews,” she told Odium, trying to get back to ignoring Janus as much as possible. It was the only way she figured she could avoid the temptation to murder him for the whole Crazy Jane situation.

A line of thought that only reminded her she missed Jane a bit and hadn’t seen her in more than a day.

Shit, she thought, feeling both an eagerness to get back to the main building and see her as well as revulsion at the low-level addiction she had to the other woman’s presence. Problem is that the eagerness and desire have steadily come to outweigh the fear, disgust and annoyance, meaning that I’ve all but stopped trying to find ways to slip the snare that is Crazy Jane. But on the bright side, ending my interest in escaping her small hold will give me more time to figure out how to kill Janus without upsetting her.

“Job reviews, too?” Odium sneered, pulling Underworld out of her private thoughts. “Ah, hell, just what I wanted. A 9-to-5 gig.”

“Hours will be longer than that sometimes, shorter at others,” Underworld noted. “But few jobs will offer such moral latitude, including giving you many chances to hurt people and sometimes kill them, will they? Unless you think your prospects are better as a mob enforcer.”

“Don’t knock it,” Odium said. “I’ve made some bucks that way.”

“Yes, and probably been looked at like a freak and treated with about as much affection as a guard dog by a bunch of norms who don’t understand a damn thing about you,” Underworld noted. “And all so that if there’s a family struggle or organizational squabble, you can possibly end up taking a bullet to the back of your skull during a dinner at an Italian or Russian restaurant as part of the staff reorganization plan.”

“I’ll think about it,” Odium said.

“You have the prospectus,” Underworld said. “And now you have four days to get back to us.”

“And every day you wait, our interest in you will wane accordingly,” Janus added.

* * *

The tiny fluttering sensation of his belly rising a hair and then gravity pulling it back down a fraction of a centimeter. A ding. The tiny rumble of a metal door sliding open.

And then he was looking at it.

Ladykiller’s home.

Well, a hallway, anyway, Mad Dash considered. Not all that great of a hallway, either. Wallpaper is kind of bleu cheesy. Table might be nice in a Greek food temple. Flowers in the vase look like they could use some Vaseline Intensive Care lotion.

“You can go in, Dash—I mean, Peter,” Ladykiller said. She was in civilian clothes, as he was, and clearly she was uncomfortable having to think in un-costumed norm terms, though he noted an almost giddy expectation in her eyes. Nervousness, excitement and a desire to please all rolled into one. “Welcome to my home.”

Of course, this is the most intimate thing she’d done with me, he considered of his girlfriend—Ladykiller or Honey Badger in costume and Sarah out of them; they hadn’t graduated to sharing each other’s surnames yet. Letting me into her home. Her secret lair. The most personal thing we’ve shared aside from making out—at least since that time a few weeks back when she showed up at my tussle with that other Speedster and let me see her real face.

Peter realized he was still just standing there, and then chuckled nervously and stepped into the hall and set down the duffle bag that held his costume and various miscellany. Sarah smiled back, a little less nervousness there, and took her finger off the “hold” button for the private elevator to this penthouse condominium, stepping into the hall herself and taking Peter’s left hand in her right. Her palm felt warm and clammy and her fingers were quivering just a little, he realized, and he gave it a small, encouraging squeeze.

“My home,” she repeated. “Let me show you around.”

She gave him the rounds in a haphazard way, sometimes leaving a room only to bring him back to it again within a minute or two to point out something else about it. She seemed most proud of the bathrooms and living room. The kitchen and small bedroom where she slept got the least attention.

Eight rooms in total, with the last one on the tour a combination of office and armory, where she kept her costumes, weapons, a couple computers, some files and other things related to her vigilante work. It was the biggest of all the rooms, and looked as if it had once been an office and a bedroom with the wall knocked down between them. The door to it was heavy and fitted with several locks, as well as an alarm system.

“Nicey icey place,” the man known in costume as Mad Dash said finally. “How do you pay for this, Sarah? I don’t get the depression you work for a living. Are you noodle riche or something?”

“Noodle…? Oh, Nouveau riche? I wish,” she said. “Oh, wait, I guess I kinda am now for the past couple years. This was his condo. The guy who kidnapped me and kept me here for nearly a year raping me when was home—thankfully, that wasn’t very often. No day job since he locked me up here, though; didn’t even go back to being an office hack after I killed him. I spent my days working out for him; now I spend them working out so I can be Ladykiller.”

“He left you alone all day long in here with that war-room back there? I’m guessing it was his at first. You know, before you sent him to sleep with the daisies.”

“See those white lines on the floor on front of the elevator, doors, and windows, Peter? Well, if I got too close to those lines, it triggered a taser locked around my neck. And that would alert him by pager or phone or something. It only took one time to get the message quick that I shouldn’t try to go where I wasn’t allowed.”

“Still…if I were that freakazoidal I think I’d be nervous you’d get my keys and get into that room with the guns and whatnot,” Peter noted.

“There was a key chain thingy his keys were attached to. He told me if I got near it that would set off my collar too. I didn’t have any reason to doubt that was true; never got a chance to test it. He’d drop them on the table there in the hall near the elevator when he got home and getting near that table would set off the collar too. See? White line all around it.”

“So…but…how? The money. I mean, I know you killed him but it’s not like he put you in his will? Did he?”

Sarah laughed harshly and briefly. “As if,” she huffed. “Dash, no one remembers their account numbers and passwords. He had them all written down in the locked office like anyone else. Took me a while to find them, but once I did, there was no problem doing electronic transfers and stuff. Security questions weren’t that hard either once I went through enough stuff to figure out his mother’s maiden name and his place of birth and shit. Hell, he waxed poetic about his childhood more than a few times while raping me. Paying attention to his diarrhetic spewing about his pets and his cars and crap was better than thinking about what he was doing to me.”

“Sounds like a nasty chunk of work,” Peter said, “but apparently a hard worker if he could afford this.”

“Yeah, I think he was in investments or something along those lines,” Sarah said. “Finance-related, anyway. Also got plenty of money and items to fence from his criminal activities as Mister Master.”

“That name popped up now and again starting a few years back,” Peter said, frowning, “but I didn’t know much about him. Query wasn’t really all that reactive back then, so he probably doesn’t know much either.”

“Guess he was better than the average crook then,” Sarah said. “Anyway, I set up automatic payments from his accounts for some things he didn’t already have set up that way. The mortgage and taxes for this place and the utilities and all that will be covered for at least the next three years. After that, I guess I’ll have to move out.”

“Nobody knows he’s dead?” Peter asked.

“Struck me as being the kind of guy nobody was sorry to see never come back to the office or the family reunions. He was creepy when I first met him.”

“How did you get his keys with the jolty bolty thing on your neck back then?” Peter asked.

“I stepped over some lines enough times to exhaust the battery in the collar,” Sarah answered matter-of-factly, squaring her shoulders a bit and taking a deep breath. “Gave myself a couple days off in between each jolt cuz I was afraid I might fry my brain. Took four times.”

“Cheezy Louise-y!” Peter said. “Honey, you’re one tough petunia.”

“Determined or desperate, more likely,” she countered. “But they look the same as toughness sometimes.”

There was a long pause, during which she silently slipped her right hand into his left again and they simply stood there. Peter tried to process it all through the chaotic filter of his mind and seized upon one thing above all others. Eight rooms she had shown him. But that wasn’t the entirety of the place. There was a ninth one that Sarah had rushed him past at least three times now.

“Would it be impolitic to ask what’s in there?”

“Impolite, you mean?” she asked, then seemed to change the subject as she blurted, “You wanna stay over tonight after we do a patrol as Mad Dash and Honey Badger?”

“Sure. Yeah,” Peter said. “Ummmm, is this the night…”

She busted out laughing. There was a sad look in the back of her eyes, but mostly amusement. “No, tonight won’t be the night I take your virginity and find out if I can even have sex anymore. Wouldn’t mind a cuddle, though. And someone to help keep the nightmares away.”

“Sure, Honey. No problem.”

He realized Sarah’s question and offer to stay over wasn’t a diversion when she sighed heavily and said, “Well, then, if you’ll be staying here in the place I creepily live in, since it’s stuffed full of memories of my abuse and psychological torture, you should know what’s in that room.” After a long pause, she stated, “He is.”

“Mister Master?” Peter gasped. “Right now?”

“Yep,” she responded.

“Isn’t that un-hyphenic and stuff? And stinkerific?”

“You know those big bags they sell for storing your sweaters and stuff in off-season? They’re like big Ziploc baggies?”

“Uh. Yeah. But…”

“…Once you’ve chopped up a body into about four equal portions, they slide in really nicely. I bought a bunch of them. Quadruple bagged each big hunk of that sadistic motherfucker and then stuck the bags in four plastic bins with lids. Then I quadruple-bagged the bloody mattress and bedding in mattress bags. I’m sure after a couple years he’s liquified by now and there’s a nice toxic soup in those bags that can send me straight to prison. Oh, well. You can understand why I don’t invite many people over. Like, ever. Never before now, in fact.”

“But even with all the bags and closed door and spiffy air fresheners, can’t you…”

“My super-powered nose can smell him a little. If I pay attention. I tune it out, mostly. When I notice, I figure it’s a good reminder of how I got where I am today and why I do what I do.”

“I guess I three-wish you hadn’t had to go through any of that but if you didn’t, I guess I wouldn’t have met you,” Peter said, shuffling a bit. His feet didn’t stop moving until her hand slipped into his once more.

“Yeah, life’s fucked up that way, ain’t it?” she said, and led him to the kitchen so they could eat before suiting up and going on patrol.

Several hours later, after they had returned from patrol, they slipped up to the condo that had once belonged to Mister Master, masks off and wearing long coats to conceal their costumes from prying eyes. Exhausted, Sarah pulled off her coat and tossed her mask to the ground, leading Peter to her small bedroom. She quickly slipped under the covers with the faux-fur-trimmed outfit still on—as she did, he barely heard her mumble, “Too soon to see; too soon to show him”—then she told Peter which drawer to open to find her workout clothes so that he wouldn’t have to sleep in his costume.

And I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want me naked or in my underwear, or she’d probably be that way herself, he told himself. And she wouldn’t have told me where to find something to wear.

As Sarah drifted off to sleep, Peter remained awake for some time. He thought about the fact he was wearing a women’s pair of black yoga pants and a pink T-shirt with red lettering that read: Redheads Rock! He thought about how even with the air conditioning going, it was way too hot tonight to be spooning a woman wearing a partially furred costume. He considered the fact that just a few doors away, the putrefied remains of a rapist and murderer were locked behind a bedroom door.

Mad Dash buried his face in the auburn hair of the woman mostly dressed as Honey Badger right now, sniffed deeply of the shampoo and sweat there, and figured that despite all that, he was the luckiest man alive.

(Crimson mask image for Odium modified from an image of Black Panther; character copyright of Marvel Comics)

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Through a mouthful of glazed doughnut, Carl Beacham mumbled, “Are we there yet?”

“Yeah, and we’ve been here a bit over an hour and we’ll be here several hours more at least. But you already knew that. I warned you stakeouts were boring,” Query said from the driver’s side of the SUV, peering out the window that, like the others, he had switched to tinted mode when they parked near Zoe’s dorm. “You should have brought some music and headphones; maybe a Raymond Chandler audio book to really get into our theme tonight. You know, I can’t believe you brought a dozen glazed doughnuts.”

“Too cliché?”

“No. I just don’t like glazed, unless it’s Krispy Kremes. We’ve had enough morning meetings for you to know I’m a maple long john or buttercrunch person.”

“You wouldn’t take your mask even halfway off to eat them anyway while I’m around, so I don’t feel all that guilty,” the lawyer retorted. “So, why am I on this stakeout with you again?”

“Because keeping an eye on Zoe is big, if I want to nail the man that almost got you and me shot to hell,” Query answered, glancing at the eight smart phones mounted to the dashboard—all of them the new Droid Nexusz that people had been scrambling for since the novelty had worn off the iPhone Sextet. Each was receiving a spy-camera feed from some exterior part of the dorm they couldn’t see from the vehicle. “Because of that,” Query continued, “I can use a second set of eyes tonight, since I don’t think Janus will wait much longer to nab her. Plus, like I said: Stakeouts are boring. I could use the company.”

“You overpay me a bit for something like this, but I suppose it’s good to be useful,” Carl said sourly. “Even if the only reason you probably pay me is for you to have someone to talk to besides yourself.”

“Jesus, Carl! What’s with the sudden moody tone? I don’t need you going all emo on me during an already agonizing chore.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? You don’t really need a lawyer. You could do all that yourself with your big, bad, super-intuitive damn brain. I’m paid to be around to be the cushion between you and the outside world and to be your friend.”

“What? You don’t like me? We’re not really friends?” Query asked. Carl couldn’t tell for certain through the mask if Query was being light or sarcastic, though his voice seemed to carry vaguely amused tones.

“Yeah, I like ya, but it’s hurting my professional pride, man. You pay me to be around; not because you need my skills.”

“Man goes into existential crisis; falls apart like cells in lysis,” Query mumbled—thinking he should jot that down for a future set of lyrics—then said, in normal tones, “You’ve got no fucking clue, Carl. Of course I need your skills. I don’t know the first thing about lawyering.”

“You could probably pick it up in a matter of weeks—or a few months at most—with your powers,” Carl grumbled. “Some of us have to work years at this shit.”

“Like I said, you have no clue. Is that really how you think my intuitive powers work? That I can do anything I want; learn anything I want?”

“When I asked about the clarinet in your office a few months ago—”

“Alto saxophone,” Query corrected him.

“OK, the sax in your office—you told me you’d never picked up a sax before your powers emerged. But when you started on it, you became a good player in a matter of weeks and a great player not that much longer after. Probably the same with your electronics skills and everything else.”

“Carl, half of why I do all that shit is to give me something to do every hour of the day so that I don’t go crazy. I don’t sleep!”

“Insomnia’s a bitch, to be sure,” Carl said through another mouthful of doughnut.

“No, Carl. I don’t sleep. Ever. I can’t sleep anymore. Not for several years now.”

“Huh?”

“A couple years of working this closely with me and you haven’t figured that out? That I’m up any time you need to call? That I send e-mails at all hours every day? That I’m reverse-engineering military drones, patrolling New Judah, tracking people down through physical, electronic and virtual surveillance and still have time to keep up with all the best new cable TV series and read three books a week? Carl, I have two fake secret identities just to keep myself busy and not completely bug out, in addition to who I really am.”

“Which is Donald Trump, of course, right? You forgot to mention the time you spend doing real estate deals, hosting stupid reality TV shows and trying to prove President Obama isn’t a U.S. citizen, right?” Carl paused and Query remained silent, looking at the lawyer briefly and then glancing at the phone displays again. Carl cleared his throat and began again, his voice more somber. “Seriously, though, you never sleep? I didn’t know you were being literal all those times you said ‘I don’t sleep.’ Thought you were just being all mysterious and brooding and bitchy.”

“Carl, I can’t even be properly sedated. Believe me, I used to try,” Query said. “I do tons of stuff and learn to do lots of things so I don’t go insane. My Regenerator powers probably help, too, or I’m sure my synapses would just fall apart anyway, but yeah. That’s me. That’s what I do.”

“But still, you could drop one of your other identities or some extra hobby you have to eat up time, and learn all the law-school stuff I spent years on, and probably have it down in weeks. Ergo, I’m still just hired to be company. You could learn law and hire an agent or PR person or someone trying to earn their private investigator license to do the go-between stuff for way less than I cost.”

“I had no idea the depths of your self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy, Carl. Do I need to give you a raise so you can afford some therapy?”

“I’d just spend it on some cool wines to stick in my cellar and tell you I was going to therapy,” Carl said. “I’ve got no interest in shrinks.”

“And I have no interest in law, Carl,” Query said. “I also call a plumber when my pipes back up and I let mechanics work on my cars when they go to shit. Sure, I need your law skills pretty often, even when you’re not my go-between with clients and authorities and crap—a task alone that makes you worth your salary already—but I don’t want to learn that crap.”

Query paused and stared at one of the camera views of Zoe’s dorm for several moments. “Is that…no…just a possum running past the front entrance,” he mumbled, then half-turned his head in the direction of Carl, who couldn’t understand how Query could have picked out such a small detail on such a small display even with enhanced senses. “Look, I play the sax like a pro. The guitar almost as well. I’m great at electrical and mechanical engineering. Master of disguise. Good with a gun. And more. But at a certain point, if I don’t give those skills plenty of exercise, all the intuitive, hyper-learning potential is useless. Practice makes perfect. I spread myself too thin…well, then I won’t be pro at anything. I’ll lose my edge in the things I need to know and the things I want to do well because I like them.”

Carl nibbled thoughtfully at the edge of his doughnut, pursed his lips and finally responded, “All right, I feel valued and valuable again.” Then he pointed the half-eaten doughnut toward Zoe’s dorm and added, “Think that guy over there should be hanging around here?”

“A guy in his 30s or 40s? At a women’s athletic dormitory? Nope,” Query answered. “Probably a pair of Janus’ eyes; either means we can expect a nabbing tonight, or more likely he’s just keeping tabs on her because things are about to come to a head. There’s also a guy on phone number five that shouldn’t be there.”

“Which hopefully means a kidnapping squad shows up here soon, so that you can take them down while I play Angrier Birds on my phone. Otherwise, I guess we’re taking turns sleeping and spending all night in this SUV to see what these guys do and try to figure out where they go.”

If I slept, of course. But yes, you’re a quick study. We’ll make a gumshoe out of you yet.”

“Good thing I’ve got 10 more doughnuts, then. Don’t have the faintest idea what you’re gonna eat though, Query.”

“I’ll dine on imponderable mysteries and deep thoughts. Unlike your diet tonight, I won’t need to wash it down with lukewarm coffee and pee into a bottle later.”

* * *

Serene.

That was the feeling Dr. Jack Hansen had when he worked very early or very late at the Genesis One facility. The subjects were typically asleep or sedated, and aside from a few screams, curses and incoherent cries on some days, he could simply be.

Be the director of one of the most secret places in the United States. Be alone with his thoughts. Be clear enough to rationalize his actions and push down his guilt. Be calm.

Staff was mostly scant or non-existent in the central operations area before 7:30 a.m., so that desire to be drew him here at 5:30 or 6:00. It was easy most days, given how often he slept in his office—his apartment was usually a memory as vague and inconsequential to him as musings of being a six-year-old or recollections of his first pet.

But serenity was a fragile flower, and the unexpected arrival of Gen. Keith B. Alexander—whose many titles included head of the National Security Agency—a few minutes after six made that peace of mind wilt away instantly.

“General, what an unexpected pleasure,” Jack said.

“I doubt it is, Doctor,” the general responded. “A pleasure or unexpected.”

“Wasn’t expecting your visit to happen quite so early in a workday.”

“I know your schedule; we need privacy.”

“Did the president give the green light?”

“He didn’t have much choice, but there is a decent chance he’ll pull the plug before his term ends,” the NSA director noted. “I hope not, because it would complicate my life a great deal. I don’t need this facility being any blacker a black project that it already is.”

“What can I do to keep us open?” Jack asked.

“Showing him results that involve induced transhumans who aren’t crazy as bedbugs would be a good start.”

“We have many of the usual speed bumps in that regard, but we’re managing all right. If you can put him off another few weeks, that would help.”

“With as much as he has to deal with right now with the Republicans in Congress, I can probably give you a month and a half. Just don’t give me any disasters.”

“There won’t be any more cases like Dr. Kelly’s,” Jack said firmly.

“Which bring me to my next point: Under no circumstances do you tell or allow any information that we are responsible for creating Doctor Holiday to get to the president. Are we clear?”

“I voted for Obama; I still like him more than Bush. Asking me to hide information from the president of the United States is a tall order, Keith. I’m also not pleased you told me some weeks back that he wanted results by Thanksgiving; you had me believing he was already on board.”

“You needed incentive. As for my original point, Obama has been staunchly repeating—himself and through cabinet members—that Doctor Holiday was not a government experiment. It was easy to keep that from President Bush—he was never in a position to know anything but the most vague hints of what we are. But now we’re at a point where the president has to know what we’re doing—but he doesn’t need to know that.”

“Because he’ll shut us down if he does?”

“Jack,” the general responded gravely. “We take away his plausible deniability about that particular thorn in society’s side and his opponents pin him to the wall and make it seem like he’s responsible in some way for Doctor Holiday’s continued freedom—and they will—and the president might find us both special accommodations at Guantanamo Bay that the CIA won’t even know we’re in.”

* * *

Going on patrol with Mad Dash tonight had seemed like a good idea to Ladykiller at the time, since they hadn’t been able to get together for a couple days. It seemed an especially good idea since she had suggested their target: an apparent kidnapping and forced prostitution ring that she had gotten wind of.

If I can’t do my normal Ladykiller routine and take out rapists and such, at least I can go after a similar kind of target—though I wouldn’t have tried something this big solo, she thought.

Sadly, the operation they had decided to take down tonight also seemed to do a small but brisk business in meth and skeez—something she hadn’t expected—and so there were several more heavily armed individuals than she would have expected, an observation punctuated as several rounds whizzed by and dug chips out of the brickwork facade of a nearby warehouse where she had taken cover behind a car.

There was a sudden thump and clatter above her as a body landed on the roof of the vehicle and then rolled on onto the pavement right next to her with a loud “Ouchie!”

“OK, managed not to get shot with that turbo-charged-double-espresso pass, but I don’t see any good way to get near them without ending up dead-dead-deadio,” Mad Dash said, rubbing one shoulder.

Ladykiller was in her Honey Badger identity tonight since Mad Dash might be spotted with her, so she had a pair of bulky clawed gauntlets instead of her usual single, sleek one. She had to pull off both of them as she sighed heavily and then reached behind her back. From a small fanny-pack beneath her faux tail, she pulled a 9mm pistol that was half pink and half gunmetal gray and flipped off the safety.

“Cute gun, hon,” Mad Dash said.

“Thanks. Gift from an admirer. But I’m not that great of a shot and I’ll be out of bullets really quick. You carrying?”

“Gun? Like that?” Nah,” he answered. “I really try to avoid them. Chainsaws, too, but mostly because they’re bulky and burn fossil fuels.” He eyed her gun and then her tail. “Got anything else back there?”

“My ass. If we live, I might let you see it nekkid before bedtime,” she answered, then cringed as another bullet struck the wall behind her, closer than the previous ones. “Any other weapons on you, since you don’t have guns or power tools?”

“I try to remember to bring a couple taser guns but I forgot ‘em again.”

“Not that they’d be much use at this range when we’re being shot at,” she said as she unzipped Mad Dash’s small backpack and looked inside. “Let’s see…no…no…uh…what the fuck!” She pulled out a dark cylindrical item. “What are these and why didn’t you tell me you had them?”

“Oh, my ‘Flashdance’ grenades? Cool! I always forget those are in the bottom. Always burying them under the snickety-snacks. Gift from Query a few months ago. Got 10 more at home.”

“Flashdance? You mean flashbang grenades? Jesus, Dash!”

“Hey, I like Jennifer Beals!”

“I’m not questioning your taste in movies; it’s your total disorganization when it comes to accessorizing that drives me nuts,” she responded, pulling out the other stun grenade. She pulled the pin on the first one, threw it over to where their opponents were, then ducked back down, smiling as the loud blast and blinding flash put a theoretically non-lethal and sudden stop to the gunfire. A few seconds later, she pulled the pin on the second grenade and tossed it over as well. “Never do anything half-way,” she said, then fixed a glare on Mad Dash that was, in truth, only half-irritated. “Let’s go truss them up and get to business. Seriously, Dash, do I have to start dressing you for these outings so that I’ll know you’re properly equipped?”

“Oooo, sounds like fun. OK!” he answered. “Can you also put me in my strawberry jams at night before bed?”

* * *

Solstice didn’t like that Query had dumped the whole Marty the Hun mess back into her lap instead of solving the problem for her. On the other hand, exercising her investigative skills was probably long overdue.

Also, taking down Marty was going to be really fun if the plan her stepsister and roommate, Isabella, had cooked up ended up working. Marty might have dodged the other charges for now, but he would have owner and operator of a drug-cooking lab on the list, too, and likely not slip that one. A few other bits of planted evidence, and he should at least do a decent stretch.

Killing him would have been easier, but killing even a scumbag when she wasn’t in imminent danger from said scumbag was a line she hoped not to cross. Certainly not this early in her crime-fighting career.

While Query wasn’t willing to let her off the hook for dealing with Marty herself, he turned out to be very amenable to assisting her with the frame-up of the man. He seemed very pleased with the plan she and Isabella had hatched, and pointed her in the direction of an operation he’d apparently wanted to take out but had been too busy to address.

Now all she had to do was take down the few people that were usually there, call up Query to have someone pick them up and drop them naked on the turf of their bitterest rivals, and then lure Marty and his goons to the empty drug lab so that she could take them down, plant some more evidence, call the cops and be done with all this shit—maybe still have time to go out dancing with the cute redhead she had run into at that art gallery last week.

* * *

Sleek, stately and elegant, Hush-a-Bye sat in an oversized, dark leather office chair, but with only a small, sleek stainless steel desk before her. Her back was ramrod-straight, hands crossed over her lap, and one leg crossed over the other. The black gown she wore, so close in shade to her long, straight hair, was tight enough to reveal her every curve to perfection, but modest enough to make her appear regal rather than slatternly. A pearl choker graced her pale throat, and diamond earrings hung from her ears. The dichotomy of the short, shiny, red patent-leather gloves and the similarly-colored thigh-high, chunk-heeled boots lent a certain primal edge to the formal demeanor she otherwise conveyed.

At her feet was a man curled up almost like a dog—though doing so more like a pit bull than a lapdog. That man, GoodKnight, wore at least a half-dozen knives and three pistols on his body, clad in heavy black leather from head to toe, except for his mouth and eyes.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Janus?” the woman asked, the slightest sarcastic lilt on the word honor. “I was surprised enough when I heard you’d moved eastward and left a criminal void out west. Now you’re visiting Marksburgh? Paying respects to me? Offering some kind of tribute to me? Looking for me to take you under my wing?”

For a moment, Janus’ two-faced metal helmet regarded her silently, then a low laugh came forth. “Well, business and money are involved, but I was thinking that you might want to become a subsidiary of my operations.”

For a few seconds, Hush-a-Bye pursed her lips and placed one gloved fingertip to them as if in consideration, then put her hands back into her lap and shook her head slightly. “No, I think not. I rather like ruling the roost all by my lonesome, with my faithful vassal by my side.”

“Oh, but I insist. I don’t take ‘no’ very well,” Janus responded.

“Really, I thought you’d be more careful, Janus. Coming with just a pair of bodyguards into my lair. Into the dark heart of Marksburgh, where people watch documentary footage of the roughest gang-ridden Detroit and South Central L.A. neighborhoods to cheer themselves up have something brighter to dream of. To the throne of a crime lord who can put people to sleep with a thought.”

“I suppose it would be foolish if, in fact, I were here,” Janus said, “rather than having sent a minion in a really nice suit wearing one of my used helmets, helpfully installed with a speaker, mic and two-way transmitter in it.”

“I say that’s a bluff,” Hush-a-Bye responded. “GoodKnight, sic him—just a tiny bit.”

In a flash, the muscular man in leather was upon Janus and had two fingers of the left hand in his grip. With a quick jerk, he snapped them both and bent them back hard, until one broken bone of the little finger burst free of the skin. The helmeted, Armani-clad man screamed, but coming through calmly, mixed with that cacophony, was Janus’ voice.

“Really? Violence so early on? You know it’s going to much harder to hear me now over the moans and groans of this pitiful, pain-averse pawn.” The fake Janus was on his knees, gripping the wounded hand close to his chest, as the real Janus’ voice continue to issue forth from the helmet, unperturbed. “Satisfied that I’m not really here, or do you need to wound the two bodyguards, too?”

“Well, I had to be certain. I could have gotten lucky,” Hush-a-Bye noted.

“You’d consider harming the real me to be ‘lucky?’ This does not bode well for our future business dealings.”

“You didn’t come to do business, Janus. You came to get a foothold in my playground and a firm grip on the balls of my criminal enterprise. No one—no one, I say—takes from me anything that is mine. I worked hard to take it all from others, after all.”

“It’s true that I had hoped you’d be a bit softer or more fragile in person and perhaps easily cowed by a personage with such a notorious reputation as mine,” Janus admitted over the sobs and groans of the man on the floor wearing his attire. “But mostly I’d like to diversify. I propose to invest in your operations a bit. And in so doing, reap some of the rewards of your efforts.”

“I’m not a publicly traded company, Janus; I don’t need investors. I subsist on victims, pawns and customers. Privately owned and never imitated.”

“There could be benefits in this for you, Hush-a-Bye. I have begun to assemble a very impressive group of transhumans. I’ve been very exacting in finding just the right personalities and just the right incentives to have a stable dynamic. No infighting. Just a perfect collection of power at my command.”

Hush-a-Bye smiled, but there was no humor in it. She stood up slowly, and then rested one hand on top of the leather-clad head of GoodKnight, who had quickly and quietly returned to her side on all fours after breaking the faux Janus’ fingers.

“Are you telling me that such a force would be available to aid in my own endeavors from time to time, Janus,” she asked with a warning note in her voice, “or that it will be aimed at me if I don’t comply and let you ‘invest’ in my operations?”

“I’ll let you decide which is more likely,” Janus answered.

“You’re playing a dangerous game with a lethal person in the meanest city in the United States, Janus. And even if I do say ‘yes,’ your cut will be small, your obligations will be set in stone and your input will be silent.”

“A ‘silent’ partner? Is the pun intentional, Hush-a-Bye? Is that a sign perhaps you’re warming to my charms?”

“I’ll let you decide which is more likely,” she responded. “Have your two upright henchmen here pick up that whimpering fool and bring him back in two days. I’ll have a response to present through him to you then.”

“As you say,” Janus responded through the speaker in the mask, as the man was lifted by both arms and half-dragged from the room. As the trio retreated slowly toward the door, the voice fading slightly as they did, Janus added, “Let’s just make sure no nuclear responses will be called for.”

* * *

Cole had groaned inwardly when Blockbuster told him to show up at Desperado’s office in the Guardian Corps HQ at 3:15 sharp.

He almost groaned out loud after he passed through the empty meeting area and conference room—a shabby area filled with mismatched chairs and even more mismatched long foldout tables—and then realized that Desperado was meeting with a pair of his top lieutenants. He couldn’t hear everything, but much like the fiasco when he was doing the newsletters the other day, he was certain he was inadvertently intruding on a very private conversation.

For a few minutes, he hovered near the door, unsure whether to stay—it was 3:18 now and he had been told to be here—or whether to leave and risk Desperado’s wrath for being a no-show.

“Is someone out there?” Desperado demanded roughly, then threw open the door, throwing his imposing shadow over Cole in the process. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be hear for an hour. Get the fuck out and get the fuck back when you’re supposed to!”

The man stepped back into his office and slammed the door, but not so soon that Cole couldn’t see the piercing glares of the other two men inside—one suspicious and one almost hostilely curious.

As he left, the stress of the whole situation sent a piercing stab of pain through his head, and he stumbled to the nearest quiet space away from Desperado’s area as he could to ride out another one of those dirty, almost migraine-like auras dominating his vision. The dirtiest yet, turning his world into a haze of greens, browns and bloody reds.

[ – To view the next chapter, click here – ]

Bad Breakup

Posted: January 15, 2012 in Single-run ("One off") Stories
Tags: ,

Two pale faces were presented toward each other, though only one could see the other.

On one side of the door, a woman’s face whose worry had drained it of no small amount of blood, one eye pressed to the peephole.

On the other side, a man whose face was even paler—a corpse-like blue-white—though he could have chosen otherwise.

Both bodies shivered, one with growing fear and the other with rising anger.

“Let me the fuck in,” the man said firmly, coldly, and pounded on the door again with one fist. “This isn’t over yet. Not until I say it’s over.”

Her body quaked all the more at that, and she wondered if it that was the precursor of terror, or if he realized she was on the other side of the door and was using his powers to disrupt her body’s functions. Would he do that? Would he stoop to physical violence or harm her with his powers when so far he’d only chosen verbal abuse?

Come, come, come, the woman thought fiercely. Where are you?

The voice wasn’t as clear to her as it was to the man trying to enter her apartment, but almost as if in answer to her silent plea, she heard it from near the street.

“Giddyup away from the door, dude. Really, this is just not cool.”

The corpse-hued man turned at the sound of that voice, leaving only his back for the woman to see, and preventing her from seeing the newcomer who had spoken. She backed slowly away from the door, praying silently as she did, wondering if either Jesus or Buddha would care enough to grant her wishes right now.

“Who the hell are you?” sneered the man on the porch, looking down at the Asian man with the slight build wearing a pair of motorcycle goggles and standing on the sidewalk just at the base of the steps. “I’ve got business here, and none of it is yours.”

“It’s all mine,” said the young man on the sidewalk. He shuffled from foot to foot, giving off the vibe that he was more embarrassed than he was nervous. “The business, that is. Your business is my business…there’s no business like show business—no business I know. I guess you could say I’m inheriting the business. Glower of attorney and all that. Hi. My name’s Peter. Don’t call me Pete, though. I’d rather have a name that rhymes with heater than one that rhymes with sleet.”

For a moment, the man on the porch said nothing. Simply gazed at the newcomer with pure confusion. “What the hell are you on and where can I get some? Well, Peter…I have stuff to talk about with my girlfriend. You need to leave. My name’s Cadaverous.”

Peter shuffled from foot to foot a bit more, seeming more like a man who needed to pee very badly now, and said, “Do you know your name is an adjective?”

“I dropped my fucking human name a few days after I realized I was a transhuman,” Cadaverous responded. “And I never looked back. If you don’t leave, you’ll find out why I have that name.”

Peter frowned, and wished that Christine hadn’t been in such urgent need for help—meaning that he had to rush right over. He wasn’t wearing any of his many-colored coats, nor his mask or normal goggles. He also didn’t have on a pair of his good boots—just a pair of sneakers that would be well and truly shredded if things turned nasty here and he had to go all out. “Okey dookie. Well, uh, I thought the whole cadaverous thing probably had something to do with your complexion. Still, you’re using an adjective for a name, dude. That’s probably against some kind of high school English rule. Wouldn’t Cadaver be enough?”

Cadaverous didn’t speak for several seconds, while his skin went from corpse-hued to a light tan shade. “Better? I can demonstrate some more damaging powers if you like. This isn’t makeup,” he noted, as his face returned to its paler color. “I can change my skin color and even the shape of my face a little, and that’s just one of my powers. I’m a transhuman, and I will fuck you up.”

“Are you gonna fornicate her up, too?” Peter asked. “Cuz that’s what’s got me concerned. I’m kinda irresponsible for Christine and I need to make sure you leave her alone. Ya know? Like ride off into the sunspot and never come back to this town that isn’t big enough for the two of us and where you don’t feel lucky punk.”

“Seriously, I don’t have beef with you yet but I will mess you up, and if you keep talking crazy, I may just kill you. Except that no one will ever be able to pin it on me. I’ll just go down there, touch you, and your heart will stop. How’s that sound?”

“Heartbreaking?” Peter ventured. “Sorry, I’m not good with the witty red toupee stuff. Was that funny? Query said I should practice conversational skills like that as a kind of therapy. He does verse and rap and stuff like that to keep his head together. Me? I kinda like having loose lobes in my brain.”

“Query? Don’t try to play tough with me. No fucking way a skinny, scared dork like you knows Query. And I seriously doubt you have any powers—at least any worth mentioning.”

“I’m not skurred,” Peter said. “I just don’t like construct.”

“Conflict, you idiot. Conflict!” Cadaverous snapped.

“Conflict. Redshift. Twitpic. Drastic. Oh, bang it!,” Peter exclaimed. “All near-rhyme. What rhymes with conflict? If I have a pneumatic, maybe I won’t forget that again.”

“Pneumatic? What? You mean menomic?”

“Oooooh. Almost. You got it wrong this time instead of me. Cool! It’s mnemonic, right? Whew! Glad to have that sorted. One less confusatory in my Brian.”

“Brain.”

“Yeah, brine. Right. Thanks.”

“Go the fuck away! Last chance!” Cadaverous bellowed. “I’m not stepping aside for some idiot who wants my girl.”

“I don’t have any redesigns on her,” Peter said, scrunching up his face. “Ewwww. She broke up with you. She wants you to leave her alone. I’m here to make sure that happens.”

“If she wants to break up with me, she can come out here and tell me herself.”

“She tells me she told you herself nine times already. Four times in person, twice by telephone and three times by texting,” Peter countered. “Seems like enough. Any normal guy would get the message by now.”

“Why are so suddenly talking normal?” Cadaverous asked. “You were just fucking with me earlier, weren’t you? Well-played, but fun’s over. Go home and leave me to deal with my girl.”

“She isn’t yours,” Peter said, “and people tell me I start making more sense when the adrenaline starts pumping. You know. Just before a fight and stuff like that. Doesn’t always work like that. Guess it is now, though. Now. How. How now brown cow.”

“Or not,” Cadaverous said with an irritated tone. “Fight? OK, that’s funny. And you’re a dead man. Or at least one who’s gonna have a wicked long stay in an ICU.”

Peter chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. Dangalangadingdong. I gotta be careful here. I’ve said too much. Not exactly wide public knowledge that Mad Dash and Query are friends, so that slip isn’t too bad. But still, this Cadaverous guy’s not a total moron,and I’ve dropped enough hints that I’m related to Christine that I may not have a secret identity if I show too much.

He shrugged to himself more than to his adversary and, as Cadaverous started down the top step, Peter took the initiative to close the distance. He held back on his speed considerably, so that he’d seem to just have quick reflexes rather than Speedster powers, and grabbed the other man before he could react, then spun him off the porch steps so that he tumbled onto the sidewalk and rolled into a tree planted near the curb. The thud was audible, and Peter wondered if the man’s head or back against the trunk had made the sound—or both.

Peter considered his options, realizing he hadn’t really planned out how to dissuade the guy from bugging Christine anymore when he was running over here. Or maybe I did work it all out and forgot, because I think I have an idea.

He keyed up the phase-shifting aspect of his Speedster powers but didn’t move from his spot on the middle of the porch steps. Then he started shaking, making spastic motions while kicking in the simple quickness aspect of his Speedster powers.

Normally, the effect of those two Speedster powers together would be to pump him up to relative speeds that could put a speeding car to shame, but he wasn’t going anywhere, just spasming and jerking to and fro. He wasn’t sure exactly how it looked to Cadaverous from his vantage point, but Peter figured it looked pretty eerie, and it probably looked a lot like one of those freaky ghosts in a Japanese horror flick—maybe a bit more unnerving. To Cadaverous, it probably seemed as if Peter was disappearing and reappearing like some series of scenes on a stuttering reel of film and as if his body were attaining unnatural angles and stretching or contracting in freakish ways.

“I’m a trucking Warpsmith like you’ve never seen before,” Peter said, wondering if what he was doing was giving his voice a disturbing timbre. “You can’t kill someone quick. I know you need time; Christine told me. You won’t get me in a dreadloc or any other wrestling holds to do that. But I just need to touch you for a a few seconds—all over your body—really quicktime, and I’ll shred half your skin and muscles into another dimension and all over the sidewalk. You’ll really be cadaverous then, dude.”

Then Peter shut down his powers suddenly and ceased acting out his ruse, then said, calmly, “Your indecision, dude. I’m a Casanova, not a Rocky Balboa. Or something like that. Not much of a romantical, either, I guess—not really—but I can fight you if you want even though I won’t like it much. If you’re tired of life, the universe and everywhere, that is.”

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and looked into Cadaverous’ eyes almost shyly. He slouched a little, leaning against the railing of the porch steps, and waited for the other man to make a move—or not.

“If I ever catch you in a dark alley, you’re dead,” Cadaverous finally said shakily a minute or two later.

“OK, so as long as I’m still alive, you leave Christine alone, right?” Peter asked, and wondered if he’d still be talking this much or this long if he was in his full Mad Dash attire and could treat this guy like any other transhuman punk—or normal vanilla human punk for that matter.

“I…I don’t…shit…fine. She was a lousy lay anyway.”

Peter studied the man’s eyes and posture—now that he was standing again. He’d learned a lot about body language and intonation from Query tutoring him, and also just from dealing with enemies on his own as Mad Dash, and his people instincts were better honed than his ability to convey a coherent stream of thought in words. The fire was out of Christine’s ex-boyfriend. He was an abusive fuck, but not committed enough to abusing this particular woman when his life was potentially on the line.

Probably.

Life didn’t give guarantees. But likely his cousin would be free of this jerk now, as long at she didn’t decide to hook up with him again.

Peter stood there a long time, until Cadaverous got up finally and walked away, looking back with hate at Peter several times. When he was long gone, Peter sighed, went back up the stairs, and knocked at the door. Christine opened the door, gave him a fierce hug, and said, “Thank you thank you thank you thank you.”

“Uh, you’re welcome. A swifferier way to thank me would be to stop dating jerks. Especially transhuman ones.”

“Bad boys are more fun,” she said, stepping away and sliding her hair away from one eye, smiling. “And you know, having such a great cousin who’s got power and stuff makes me feel like just any old boring guy won’t do.”

“You have bad taste in men, and adding transhuman powers to the spaghetti mix makes it that much bread crumbier,” Peter said.

“I don’t have bad taste. Like I said, it’s more fun.”

“Until one of them hits you. Or hits you harder than any of the others did. Or kills you.”

Christine was silent for several moments, then muttered, “No one’s hit me yet. At least not all that hard. Can you stop playing the dad role now? Or big brother. Whatever.”

“You’re like a sister to me oh, my oh,” he responded, “and I don’t want you hurt.”

“I don’t want you hurt, either, but you keep going out and fighting bad guys and shit, so maybe…you know…glass houses and all that?” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. People in greenhouses shouldn’t juggle knives or something like that,” he said with a smile, and his cousin wondered if he was joking or just speaking his jumbled thoughts and not noticing as usual. “But my situation is different.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Peter Nguyen,” she said grimly. “Choice is choice is choice. You think he’ll be back?”

Peter shook his head. “Nah. Neverland, I think.” He stared off into the empty distance into which Cadaverous had walked, and wondered if the man would enter a life of crime and they’d cross paths again—or maybe he already was a criminal; it wouldn’t be Christine’s first time dating one of those. “I don’t think he’ll be back, Christine. But the next guy might be, and no matter how fast I run, I can’t always get here before something bad happens. I can’t outrun a bullet. Remember that.”

“Yeah,” Christine said, a tone both morose and sarcastically amused tinging her words. “You remember that, too.”

[ – To view a list of all current chapters, click here – ]

Entering Janus’ office, she moved with slow, purposeful steps, like a ballet dancer building up toward some grand maneuver—then she abruptly stopped 12 feet away from the imposing mahogany desk, where Janus sat and Underworld and Crazy Jane stood nearby. Standing with straight and perfect posture, arms loosely at her side, her ankles crossed, Tooth Fairy kept her head slightly bowed as she regarded the trio before her.

Underworld had no illusions, though. There was nothing of subservience or deference in the angle of Tooth Fairy’s head. Her eyes still regarded them directly from just under the brows of her fractionally inclined visage. She was intent on them, and there was a coldness in her gaze. Calculation in it, Underworld decided. For all the oddness of Tooth Fairy’s pose, it was clear she was poised for action. A casual observer might think she was  standing at ease. Underworld knew she was holding everything inside, a concentrated force. She was like a living bomb, Underworld concluded, and wondered what might be the trigger that would set her off in this very room.

I wonder about Crazy Jane’s ability to discern all of this, Underworld thought, but I doubt any of my observations would be any surprise to Janus. With her thought of Crazy Jane’s perceptions—or perhaps lack thereof—Underworld realized the woman was less than a foot away from her. Damn, I must be distracted these days to let that freak get so close to me. Nothing to do now but endure it until Tooth Fairy is gone, lest we look like anything less than a unified group.

Underworld found herself immensely glad they were meeting in a dummy location and not the actual headquarters building—Tooth Fairy was someone she felt could be useful. Not someone she felt could be trusted.

“So. I’m here,” Tooth Fairy said, very slowly. “You invited me. I accepted. I’m listening. Make it worth the trouble of my visit.”

As she was speaking, the tone of her words gradually morphed from soft and motherly to something both sensual and grating. Her mouth had also grown slowly into a teeth-baring feral grin, giving Janus, Underworld and Crazy Jane a chance to watch her teeth go from middle-class, soccer-mom standard to a set of 30 or 40 demonic incisors. All of it so at odds with the white body suit and its iridescent accents, silky lavender sash belt and fuchsia ballet slippers—not to mention the vaguely rainbow-hued fairy wings attached to the back of the costume. Of course, the ornate necklace made of teeth and finger bones matched her newly altered dentition all too well, Underworld considered.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,” Crazy Jane gushed before Janus could say anything in response to Tooth Fairy’s arrival and opening statement. “I’m so glad you took Janus’ invitation. Welcome to our happy family.” She stepped toward Tooth Fairy, hand outstretched to offer a shake.

With sinuous grace, Tooth Fairy’s head turned slightly toward Crazy Jane even as she shifted her weight slightly backward on her feet. Underworld noted how the faux wings on Tooth Fairy’s back twitched ever so slightly as muscles tensed. She felt a sudden and odd sense of protectiveness toward Crazy Jane that surprised her, but ultimately she made no move to intervene.

You’ve made your bed, Jane…

“Go back to where you were standing,” Tooth Fairy said in a near-snarl, and Crazy Jane paused, fidgeted a bit, and then stepped back, giggling a little—Underworld thought she detected a bit of hurt in Crazy Jane’s gaze, but also sensed a bit of satisfaction there, as if she had just completed a small task. Underworld let her eyes quickly flit toward Janus’ own and what she saw there confirmed her suspicion that Jane’s exuberance had been at least partly planned.

“My personal space is really big,” Tooth Fairy continued, “and you don’t want to violate it. I’m picky who I invite in. Also, speaking of violations, if I feel even the barest tickle of anything in my brain or body that doesn’t feel natural, you die first Janus—you know, just in case you or any of your crew is a Psi or Feral. Also, if anyone touches me physically or tries to, they’ll pay in flesh. One of your lackeys already discovered that when they let me past reception.”

Behind a face mask that was equal parts angel and demon, with an intricate tiara-like attachment that depicted a half-halo on one side gently morphing into a single horn on the other side, Janus’ eyes never blinked or registered any emotional reaction to Tooth Fairy’s words. “I thought I vaguely heard a scream,” he said without notable inflection. “Did you leave anything my medical team can salvage so that he’ll still be a useful employee?”

“That depends, Janus,” Tooth Fairy said. “Do you require your workers to have noses? And such a nice, big, strong Roman nose it was. Yummy.”

“Well, I don’t see any blood spatters,” Janus said, not missing a beat, a faint note of admiration creeping into his voice. “You certainly did manage to clean up very nicely and quickly.”

“I’m too quick to leave messes on my finery,” Tooth Fairy said. “And I lick my lips after every meal.”

“I do so love fastidiousness,” Janus said, with a slight tone of impatience or perhaps exasperation, “but while I could discuss violently expressed and socially unacceptable expressions of obsessive-compulsive disorder all day long—as well as fashion and finance…well, actually, I guess I will be discussing that last item, won’t I? After all, I did invite you here to extend an offer of employment.”

Tooth Fairy slowly slid her tongue across her lips in consideration, then smiled—her teeth more or less back to normal human shape. “I kinda like being my own boss; no thanks. I don’t take direction well. Or orders. Or criticism. Or job reviews. And I already have a great set of insurance and retirement plans, all funded through self-employment.”

“There are no ‘teeth’ in teamwork, so we weren’t really thinking you’d be all that interested in group activities,” Underworld interjected. “We had in mind something more along the lines of being an independent contractor. You know, consulting, troubleshooting, miscellaneous wetwork.”

Tooth Fairy said nothing, but frowned neutrally in contemplation for a while, one toe tapping nervously. Underworld wondered if the woman had issues with being indoors—perhaps a form of claustrophobia. She mentally filed away the information and waited in silence.

“How much discretion would I get to exercise?” Tooth Fairy finally asked.

“I’d be giving you most of your assignments, and I have better things to do than micromanage…” Underworld began.

“…do the jobs you’re given and don’t draw attention to us unless we want you to, and I don’t care how much collateral recreational mayhem you cause,” Janus interrupted.

“Besides, if we want to sic you on someone, it’s because of your champion-level creeptasticness,” Underworld said, noting mentally that Crazy Jane had moved a few inches closer to her while the exchange with Tooth Fairy had been going on. She mentally gritted her teeth and moved an inch or two away from the woman with as much casualness as she could muster.

“I’m not sure how to feel about that characterization,” Tooth Fairy said archly.

“Do you like striking freakish terror into the hearts of most everyone you encounter?” Underworld asked, welcome to have something to take her attention away from the nearness of Crazy Jane.

“But of course.”

“Then take it as a recognition of how good you are at what you do,” Underworld said, “and keep your teeth away from my extremities.”

“There won’t be any Janus-signal, you promise?” Tooth Fairy said, her gaze and voice hard. “No asking me to partner up with one of your specialists or assembling me to some big brawl or to bail all of you out of a jam with a bunch of do-gooders?”

“Cross my heart and hope to gain 40 pounds all in my hips and thighs if I’m lying,” Underworld said.

“Well, that’s more serious than ‘hope to die’ among a couple body-conscious ladies like ourselves, right?” Tooth Fairy said with a exceedingly wide and utterly human-toothed grin, which almost unnerved Underworld more than the fangs had. “I’m in. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say—of a few pounds if flesh and bones are involved.”

* * *

June. Solstice hated it with a passion. Nothing against the month itself, or the coming of summer. She liked being able to hit the beaches and parks like anyone else and frolic among freshly released college students and work-skipping young professionals. Rather, she hated what it represented among her transhuman peers.

The hotter it got, the more the white hats slacked off. And it wasn’t just the lure of summertime festivals and other recreation that pulled them away from the crime-fighting. It was the damn costumes. So many of them were attired in a manner that was completely at odds with conducting a heavily physical, often combat-oriented avocation under very hot and sometimes humid conditions. Some had summer outfits but many others simply toned down their patrols and stopped regularly listening in to public safety communications until the arrival of autumn.

It wasn’t like she’d be alone in the streets fighting the bad guys, but crime always went up in the summer—the more lackadaisical attitudes of many heroes being just one factor—and more burden would be on her, since she could actually use her powers to keep cool.

Sometimes I think I should just stop caring and ramp down my activities in the summer, too, she complained silently.

But she wouldn’t. She’d keep cleaning up messes.

Including her own now—the one Query had dumped in her lap, damn him. But then again, he was right. She’d made a huge mess and put a lot of women in danger with her recent actions. No matter than she couldn’t have predicted old-school, uber-psycho gangster Marty the Hun would react this way. He wouldn’t be doing it at all if she had done her job right.

She pulled out her smart phone, checked her notepad app to see where her next stop was, and got down to some more investigating.

* * *

Speaking through a half-chewed bite of pizza, Carl Beacham said to Query, “Sure you don’t want a piece?”

“We have these meetings regularly, Carl, and I’m happy to order out for pizza or Chinese or whatever on my tab, but you should know by now that whatever’s left, I’m gonna eat it after you’re long gone.”

“You’d be less grumpy if you had a little cheese and pepperoni in you,” Carl insisted, picking up a fresh slice and dangling it like bait.

“I think pizza’s great, Carl, though I prefer bacon or sausage to the pepperoni, and I don’t share your disdain for mushrooms,” Query said through the near-featurless black mask, the red question mark over his mouth never moving as he spoke. “But I’m not showing you any part of my face, even from lips down—no matter how handsome my mouth may be.”

Carl coughed, paused then took a long swig of his Coke. “You do not want to know where my mind just went with that mouth comment, Query.”

“I’ve known you long enough to guess, Carl.”

Setting down his drink and the slice of pizza, Carl cleared his throat and looked at the agenda on his the screen of his iPad Quinto. “Well, that brings us to the end of things, unless you have anyone to add to the discovery list.”

“Oh, but I do. I know it’s been a while, but you’re gonna love this: I have a two-fer for you today. I have the identities of Coldraven and Good War.”

“Jesus, Query,” Carl said, and then whistled sharply. “You know, if you get killed fighting the good fight, I’m going to make a fortune off this list, even if I don’t do anything but demand that everyone on it pay me $50 a month to never reveal who they are publicly.”

“Yeah, that’ll be good for about a year at most until one of them kills you, Carl. Besides, with these two, I’m going to hold my knowledge over both of their heads soon to secure a favor owed from both of them—leave the blackmail to the professionals, Carl. Anyway, the cool thing is that I figured out both their identities almost the same way. I have to admit, Coldraven was the toughest of the two. I never could understand her name. There’s nothing cold-oriented about her powers and nothing avian about them or about her costume, either. Drove me nuts. Then it occurred to me maybe her codename was related to her real name, and then it only took a few days once that happened. My intuitive powers went into high gear.”

“What? Her name is Winter Byrd—her parents are hippies?” Carl mumbled through another bite of pizza.

“Not a bad guess, but it was nothing that obvious, which is why it took a few days. But I did do some name searches with some homemade data filters and came up with several possibilities. One of them wasn’t far off your snarky guess: Autumn Hawke. But no, actually it turns out to be a woman named Christmas Poe.”

“OK, I get the Christmas equals cold thing, but what’s her last name got to do…ohhhhh. Edgar Allen Poe’s poem ‘The Raven.’ Gotcha.”

“Yup,” Query said. “After that success, I tried a similar strategy on some other names that had always stumped me as far as their origins. And that’s how I got Good War’s name.”

“No much of a stumper there. He’s a good American boy—a real patriot. Or a fan of Captain America and Sgt. Fury both with the red, white and blue infantryman theme going.”

“Yeah, but even though he’s been known for going after domestic terrorists and such, he’s also gone after dirty military types and crooked cops pretty often,” Query noted. “A dyed-in-the-wool ‘America rocks’ type probably wouldn’t go after guys in uniform, I figured. But then I came across a guy who’s related to an FBI agent—who probably gives Good War the tips on most of his targets, by the way—whose name is Bill Wilcox Jr.”

“OK. Not getting that one at all, Query.”

“William Wilcox II—WWII,” Query said. “That was actually his nickname in college.”

“Still not getting it.”

“Guess you didn’t do well in American History in school then, Carl. World War II—sometimes called ‘The Good War’.”

“War…Huh! Yeah!…What is it good for?…Absolutely nothin’…say it again!” Carl belted out, singing the song wildly out of tune. “I always did better in music class than history. By the way, Bruce Springsteen’s version of ‘War’ is the only one worth listening to. That’s my opinion anyway, about warfare and modern rock. But it does explain why Good War’s costume is so 1940s military-looking—aside from the bright Captain America colors.”

“Yeah, play it cool, Carl. You know you’re impressed with me. Now get the hell out of here. I’m sure Patsy would like to be cuddled while the two of you watch some episodes of ‘Big Love’ or ‘Dexter’ or something, and I’d like to get to finishing what’s left of that pizza.”

* * *

Returning the the Guardian Corps headquarters, Cole was sweaty and sore, bruised and feeling the sting of a cut on his lip that was just barely beginning to scab over—and he was feeling more alive than in a long time. He’d just completed his first real patrol. Not simply a babysitting mission like before to show him the procedures and get him used to things—the one that had unexpectedly turned into a firefight that landed him on Desperado’s bad side.

This had been a full-fledged patrol. Cole had been a junior member of the team, but treated like a peer. Even though in some ways it had been a less harrowing and less exciting patrol than his previous one, it meant more to him.

He felt good, having been in two fights tonight with criminals, but without the madness of his first encounter. It felt different in qualitative way. He was a member of the Corps now. He even had a codename other than Puppy now—Quantum. But something nagged at him.

Why?

Desperado had been so dead-set against letting Cole be a part of things mere days ago, and the man didn’t seem like the type to forget a grudge. And yet just last night, he had green-lighted Cole to go on patrols and have free run of the Guardian Corps buildings. He had told Sweet Talker that Cole wasn’t her responsibility anymore. None of that made sense, as there was nothing Cole could think of that he had done to justify Desperado changing his tune.

Had it all been a test just to see if I would take his shit? Cole thought, a shadow of doubt crossing his mind even as his vision blurred for a split-second like a dirty smear across his eyes. Perhaps, but the likelihood of that seems slim. Still, he didn’t feel like he should dwell on it much or complain. It had been a good night of fighting the good fight.

Moreover, he had finally gotten a taste of his full powers in a conflict. He’d grown increasingly comfortable with his Warpsmith powers already, but then again, he’d been toying with those for years. What hadn’t been clear was how to use his other powers—either Ecto or telekinetic Psi powers; he’d never been able to figure it out. Desperado’s approach to training wasn’t likely to have ever helped Cole sort out the confusion and gain insight, since it tended to involve a lot of yelling and screaming to “get it right” and “do it now.”

But Sweet Talker and her all-female crew—who seemed to be united around the idea of being a small but strong front against Desperado’s assholery—had worked with Ectos before, and took Cole under their wings. PrinSass in particular had a knack for explaining things, and now Cole finally knew for sure he was an Ecto as well as a Warpsmith, and finally started tapping his powers.

His control was still awful, though. In the patrol tonight, his quasi-matter constructs were barely in existence long enough to give enemies a good, hard slap. But it was progress.

As he wandered among the other Corps members, he caught snatches of conversation about another patrol that was ambushed tonight, and that soured his mood a bit. From what he heard of the accounts, the ambush had been so thorough that it meant the attackers probably had acquired some inside information. One person in the patrol was dead, another was in critical condition and the third was going to be sporting a couple casts for the next few weeks until Asclepius could fit him in between more critical work.

Cole winced as a slight sharp pain lanced his brow briefly, and another dirty smear crossed his vision and vanished. It reminded him a little of the sensory distortion his Warpsmith powers sometimes produced, but this time more focused on visual alterations.

Not a total buzzkill, Cole thought, but definitely a sign I should probably find a cot and take a quick nap, just in case there’s any more action tonight I can be a part of.

* * *

“Bingo, bango, yatzhee and eureka!” Mad Dash exclaimed. “I’m here, Query. What’s zapping, my man in black?”

Query was leaning against the wall of a building in the secluded back parking lot he often used for meeting with other transhumans at night, his arms crossed. “Thought we might talk about girls, Dash. You know, dating? Something I never thought I’d see you doing so publicly.”

“Uh…I didn’t know you cared enough to send Hallmark?” Mad Dash said. “I kind of figured you for straight-man all the way, Q. You aren’t feeling zoned out, are you? You weren’t…”

“No, Dash,” Query said patiently, accustomed as he was to the Speedster’s sometimes chaotic and rapid-fire stream of consciousness. “I don’t feel left out. I did not have designs on dating you myself. If my schedule ever allows for dating, it will be a woman. I just wanted to discuss the wisdom, or lack thereof, of dating Ladykiller.”

“Um…not reading you clearly on this frequency, Querio. Last I checked my gal-pal was a lot more badger-ish than killer-ish,” Mad Dash said with a huge smile.

“Uh huh. Look, Dash, I know not everyone got the memo on what Ladykiller looks like in costume, because I didn’t give that memo to everyone, and those couple times she was with you in her normal outfit, those folks weren’t around, didn’t notice or just didn’t give a shit,” Query said, then pointed the first two fingers of his right hand to where his eyes where, even if they couldn’t be seen through his black mask. “I pay attention. I keep tabs on things, even if I might be a few days late in catching up on the intel my eyes gather all over the place.”

“Soooooo…you’re saying…that you methinks…that…”

“You don’t lie all that well, Dash.”

“C’mon, Query,” Mad Dash said, a tiny whine in his voice. “You’re not going to bust my gal, are ya?”

“No, Dash, I’m not going to bust her—I’ve got no particular reason to. Which isn’t the same as saying I might not have to take her down someday. But that ain’t my point. My concern is that someone I like is getting personal—and I’m guessing naked and vulnerable—with someone known for wounding, crippling and gutting men. Men almost exclusively. Sometimes on a nightly basis. Many nights more than one guy.”

“And this has whatnot to do with me me meep?”

Query sighed heavily—heavier than he would have in an un-costumed situation, but he knew Mad Dash wouldn’t be able to see his exasperated expression. “Dash, you still have testicles, right? She didn’t claw them off, right?”

“She’s tickled them a little bit with her…”

“Too much info, Dash. Too much. The question was rhetorical.”

“OK, OK. I getcha Q-man. She hurts guys and offs guy. I’m a guy. But she offs total asshole abusive guys. I’m harmless to the average gal unless she’s robbing a bank or trying to kill someone or something.”

“How much do you know about her, Dash? I mean, really know? Do you have any clue what might set her off? What if being late to a date or having lipstick on your collar is all it takes? It’s not like I know a whole lot about her, either. I’ve got some video of her in action, but admittedly even I haven’t tracked her to her lair, though I suppose that should be a priority now…”

“Like hell, goddammit!” Mad Dash blurted, and Query stiffened a bit, startled at the sudden shift in temperament and tone of his friend’s voice. “I’m not a little boy.” Mad Dash paused, his face confused at his own outburst and the angry clarity of his thoughts. “Leave her alone,” he said more quietly. “If you don’t have a reason to need to bust her, leave her be. Leave her secrets alone. I think she’s got some bad ones. And by bad I mean they were bad things that happened to her. Let us do our thing, however long she’s willing to stay with my crazy self.”

“Dash, I…” Query began, then paused for a few moments. “Sorry. I’m so hyped up on keeping tabs and watching out for the few people I care about. It’s easy to forget sometimes you’re not immature. Just…disjointed. Scattered. But even with that…Dash, I don’t know that your judgment is sound given your general state of mind—this sudden splash of cold and lucid water notwithstanding.”

“What guy’s brain is ever screwed in all the way when he’s getting nookie, Q-cue-cue-dee-oh?” Mad Dash said, his normal demeanor and soft voice back in the forefront. “My road is so straight-and-narrowish most days I guess some sinkholes and speedbumps and dead skunks along the way are a nice change. Don’t tell her I said that. She might not get the romantic themes all squirreled away in that biblioteca of amore.”

“All right, Dash, I’ll try not to worry that a violence-prone woman with clawed gauntlets is dating one of the few people I consider a friend. I won’t tell anyone Honey Badger is really Ladykiller. But don’t be surprised if I keep my eyes on the two of you—I’ll avoid peeking in on any intimate moments. Scout’s honor.”

“Well, if you do record anything like that by accident, and it’s all hot like Papa Bear’s porridge or hot sauce in an eyeball, let me know. Maybe we can sell copies and split the cash-bar. All right, dude, are we all done here? I actually do have a date with the cute mammalian predator in query-dom.”

“Off with you, Dash. Be smart. Use protection. Like a titanium sheath on your dick, maybe.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Mad Dash teased before racing away.

A few moments later, Query said, “You can come out now, Epitaph. Sorry to keep you waiting. I guess I don’t have to worry about you sharing all that—it’s not like there are adequate death or remembrance-oriented quotes in literature and movies for you to use to tell people that Dash is dating a potential psycho-killer. ”

Stepping out from behind a dumpster, Epitaph shrugged. “Pleasure is a sort of oblivion, a forgetfulness. Pain is remembrance, you cannot forget pain,” he said, looking in the direction Mad Dash had run.

“Yeah, nothing like bought experience. I agree. Dash will learn—and maybe he’ll prove us both wrong about Ladykiller.”

“There are stars whose light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people whose remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow.”

“Dash is one of a kind. No doubt about it. Maybe that’s why I worry about him. This crazy transhuman world we live in would be a lot less nice without him. But enough of that. What do you have for me?”

Epitaph reached under the large gravestone fragment over his chest and pulled out a manila envelope, handing it to Query, who pulled out several computer printouts from inside. After perusing them, his head snapped upward and his body language suggested he was giving Epitaph a glare or hard stare.

“Ep, I’ve told you time and again to stop bringing me a printout of Sweet Talker’s summary. She’s fine where she is. I don’t want to pull her out of the Guardian Corps. No matter what you think about how put-upon she is there, her presence in the organization is just about the only thing that moderates Desperado’s dickheadishness properly, in my mind. Any use I could put her to or anyone else I could direct her toward would squander her value.”

“Youth lives on hope, old age on remembrance,” Epitaph said.

“Well, you just keep on with the ‘hope springs eternal’ thing, Ep,” Query said with a snide tone. He figured he was one of the few—perhaps the only person—who could almost always get Epitaph’s meaning or most of it; doubtless, he figured, his transhuman intuitive powers were almost like a translator program for that, especially after the first few months of working with Epitaph and getting a read on his personality. “If Sweet Talker needs to leave, she’ll leave. She’s smart and knows what she needs. Your job is to bring to my attention people with potential who might not realize they have better options than the Guardian Corps.”

“I desire to leave to the men that come after me a remembrance of me in good works.”

“OK,” Query said, “your work is otherwise solid week in and week out, aside from that annoying ‘oversight’ you keep making with Sweet Talker. All right. The other two, then. This Wayne Henderson kid. He’s been with the Corps for two months and still hasn’t taken on any kind of codename? No costume of any sort?”

“Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men,” Epitaph noted.

“You’re probably right, based on the historical notes in his file here,” Query responded. “Orphaned. Abused. Abandoned. He’s either looking for an end to his life through working with the Corps or he doesn’t think he has any options or anyone else who would give a shit about him. But he doesn’t really seem to embrace the whole transhuman thing. I’ll think it over and see if there are some better options I can send his way or have you pass along to him. Okaaaaay…Cole Alderman. Going by the name Quantum. Still in street clothes, though, but working on a costume. Newbie. Trouble with Desperado.”

“Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.”

Query looked at him. “You think Desperado is playing him somehow? Hmmm. Cole is green, but fairly competent for a newbie. Still learning his powers. Seems committed to the heroing thing. Not kissing Desperado’s ass or looking for approval. All right, I see two things here. One is that he could do better than the Guardian Corps, but teams aren’t all that common and I’m not sure anyone who’s looking for a sidekick, apprentice or intern right now are people I’d want to toss Cole to. Second thing is that Desperado, as much of a douchebag as he is, wouldn’t try to get someone killed whom he didn’t like, which makes me think there’s something going on I shouldn’t fuck with here.”

Epitaph raised an eyebrow, scowling.

“Not right now, anyway. Keep me informed, Epitaph. Cole has potential, and I’d like to see him in a better place. But I don’t think this is the moment to pull him out. Besides, like I said, I don’t have anywhere to place him or anyone to refer him to,” Query responded, and handed Epitaph a small envelope filled with cash. “Another clandestine meeting, another payday. Thanks, Epitaph. Do me a favor and have your dinner at the Caped Cuisiner tonight. Make it a really leisurely one. Dash and ‘Honey Badger’ tend to have their dates there, and I’m 90% certain tonight will be one of those nights. I’d like some eyes on them. It’ll mean a bonus next week, and I’ll reimburse you for the tab you’ll run up. Just bring the receipt.”

Epitaph nodded, gave Query a quick military salute, and sauntered off, the two gravestone pieces over his chest and back swaying slightly—his feet hovering just a fraction of an inch off the ground as he walked.

Then Query was off to disappear into the night, and keep watch on Zoe Dawson. She’d probably be his focus until at least mid-June, since UConn’s New Judah campus had an entirely different schedule than the other University of Connecticut campuses, which had all held graduation in May. He’d never understand why the campus wasn’t just spun off as an entirely separate state university or simply privatized—juggling curricula with one campus on the quarter system and the rest on the semester system had to be a nightmare. In any case, whatever happened to Zoe, if anything, was likely to be anytime between now and commencement. Given Janus’ usual impatience with people who disobeyed or show disinterest in him, probably closer to now than to graduation.

Welcome to the real world, Zoe, Query thought, though certainly not the version you were hoping for.

* * *

The best thing about working with Janus, Underworld had recently decided, was the commissary in the building he had purchased for the criminal enterprise that he and she were more or less jointly running. The building held many advantages, not the least of which were spacious living accommodations and many forms of secret egress and ingress so that all key members of the organization—from Janus’ small army of IT geeks to the transhuman operatives to the top-ranking individuals like herself and Janus—could live and work in comfort and with almost no fear of being discovered or tracked by any enemies. Between multiple layers of security measures, threats of the worst kinds of torture for those who broke even the slightest security rule, and the fact the building offered enough amenities that most staff who knew about the criminal side of things didn’t have to leave very often, they were as safe as a group of criminals could be. Janus also had a number of other legitimate businesses in the building, all of which he or Underworld owned and controlled either directly or through proxies, and that also helped hide them and what they were doing that lay outside the bounds of the law.

But while all that was nice, oh, that commissary…

Even the most entry-level lackey in the criminal side of the organization gets to eat there free, and Janus’ insistence on calling it a commissary does it absolutely no justice, Underworld thought. From comfort foods to gourmet fare, everything is the best quality—a testament to his commitment to hedonism in all its forms. The entire culinary operation takes up an entire floor and the cafe is the best part, giving me a constant flow of cappuccinos, Turkish coffees and pastries to go with them. Thank God there’s also a gym in this place. 

This morning had been a particular joy for her, as she reveled in the lovely décor of the cafe and its European vibe, with an espresso drink and a pair of the truffle candies that had recently started shipping in from some European chocolatier. Sheer culinary ecstasy.

Until Crazy Jane arrived.

When she heard the giggle and looked up to see Jane entering the room, Underworld’s belly did a weird flip-and-toss. Nervous flutters. She sighed heavily, and ducked her head into the book she was reading.

Please sit at the other end of the cafe, she had thought at the time with desperate intensity. Please sit at the other end of the cafe. Please sit…

“Watcha doin’ Underworld?” Crazy Jane said in a voice dripping with metaphorical honey—almost manically exuberant, which would make sense given the psychotic stew Janus had set to simmering inside her head. The woman sat down across the small table from Underworld, the chin of her tattoo-covered face propped up on the heels of both hands as her elbows pinned down the paperwork that Underworld had brought along with her. Her eyes were wide and eager, glistening with expectation, as if Underworld were doing the most exciting thing in the world.

“Just waking up, reading and getting ready to look over some files—the ones your elbows are holding down,” Underworld said, feeling impatient to get rid of the woman but speaking as casually as possible. “Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Crazy Jane proved her wrong by peppering her with questions for some 10 minutes. Every one of them answerable by a simple, short response—and every one of Underworld’s quick answers rewarded with some new question that probed for more detail on what was already banal. Underworld realized she hadn’t had to deal with a questioning like this since the time she had watched her five-year-old niece for several days.

I think the interrogations I’ve suffered at the hands of police, the FBI and military authorities would be preferable, Underworld mourned in her head, hoping without success that each answer she gave would be the one to get Crazy Jane to stop talking and move on. She wasn’t even sure why she was putting herself through this. Soon, if she doesn’t leave, she thought, I’m going to just have to snatch everything up and head back to my office instead to get some space from this crazy bitch.

And yet, despite the fact it hadn’t worked so far, she kept trying to close things off with a response that she figured was so final and iron-clad that Jane couldn’t possibly have a follow-up. She proved to be wrong three more times then, finally, Crazy Jane said, “Well, it’s been great, Undie. See ya later.”

“Don’t ever call me that…” Underworld began after a few moments of stunned silence, but Jane had already skipped out the door of the cafe to enter the main commissary area. For a brief, exasperating moment, Underworld desperately wished the woman had stuck around for a few choice words. Undie indeed. Bitch.

She almost went to chase Crazy Jane down, then mentally kicked herself, put her ass back onto the bistro chair and downed the rest of her drink, then motioned for the barista to come over with another.

Two more times during that same day, Underworld ran into Crazy Jane accidentally and got caught up in a circular, pointless conversation in which she didn’t want to be engaged. Every time the nervous fluttering in her belly when she saw the woman and the fruitless attempts to disengage from her once they enged up locked in conversation.

At least the other two times were blessedly brief compared to the cafe encounter, Underworld thought when she finally headed to her apartment for the night, almost sprinting there to avoid another unintended run-in with Crazy Jane. I may have to leave this organization just for my piece of mind if this keeps happening. I know too much about her now to want to be anywhere near for long—or so frequently.

Then she rediscovered her resolve by the time she got into bed, realizing that she’d never let anyone get in the way of her success before, psychotic or otherwise, and she wasn’t going to start now. They had to work in the same building together; there was no way around seeing her. At least Crazy Jane wasn’t going to show up in her bedroom, Underworld consoled herself silently.

And then after she finally dozed off, Underworld spent half her dreaming hours with Jane popping up in some way, and wondered in her REM haze if there were any place Crazy Jane wouldn’t invade her privacy.

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Cole hadn’t heard a voice overflow with such seething rage in his life, and never witnessed a mood change so quickly in any one person. Zero to near-murderous in 0.5 seconds.

“What the fuck!” Desperado bellowed, pointing a finger toward Cole, who had entered the primary Guardian Corps headquarters moments before with Epitaph and Wardawg. “Who the FUCK let him in here? Goddammit, Wardawg, I’m gonna fucking feed you your own mothershitting balls for bringing him here!”

The pale and bloody body of a barely conscious Slyde slung over Epitaph’s shoulder was nothing to Desperado. Even Cole himself seemed barely in the man’s perceptions except insofar as his presence was the catalyst for this enraged outburst. Desperado seemed even larger somehow in his overblown anger, a bronze and brown giant in cowboy boots and hat and with a pair of pistols at his waist launching himself at Wardawg, who was furiously ducking and weaving.

Cole was certain that Desperado would notice Slyde’s plight before long. But probably not before beating Wardawg bloody and then probably doing the same to Cole himself. No one was making the slightest attempt to hold the enraged man back. Cole braced himself internally, and wondered whether fighting back or taking it would be the more socially acceptable option within the Guardian Corps.

“It’s not my fault!” Wardawg shouted quickly as he tried to keep distance between himself and Desperado and avoid anyone else in the headquarters who might grab him or push him toward his antagonist. “Epitaph! Wouldn’t budge. Would’ve brought him here himself. Not my…”

Desperado grabbed hold of him then, and cocked one sepia-gloved fist to smash in his face. The fist never got to where it was going, though. Epitaph had snatched hold of Desperado’s wrist. Desperado’s head turned quickly to see who would dare challenge him, and as he did, all the rage drained out of those topaz-colored eyes. It was replaced neither by fear nor joy at the sight of Epitaph; rather, a blank confusion now filled them.

At once, Desperado released Wardawg and Epitaph released Desperado.

“You touched me,” he said quietly to Epitaph in a voice overflowing with bewilderment. There was no affront, but his tone hinted at a multitude of questions that Desperado seemed eager to ask but for which he had no words.

Or so it seemed to Cole. Disregarding his instinct to stay out of Desperado’s sphere of attention right now, he said, “Slyde’s hurt. Do we have anyone who can help him? Or get him to a hospital?”

Some of the anger returned to Desperado’s gaze as he took in Cole’s words and remembered his unauthorized presence here. But his voice was all business as he said over one shoulder: “Antonio, call Asclepius—he should still be pretty nearby. Have someone debrief Wardawg. Get someone to sit on Puppy here while I decide whether to kill him or just beat him until he’s brain damaged.”

Then his attention returned to Epitaph, who had set Slyde down gently on a battered old sofa while Desperado barked orders. Cole noticed, once again, how the gravestone-wearing man’s feet hovered just a bit off the ground. He seemed to bob and rock ever so gently, as if it was a slight but constant effort to keep his balance.

“Did you really make the decision to bring Puppy here? Did you do that knowing he was on probation? Did Wardawg tell you he wasn’t supposed to know about this place yet?” The words Desperado spoke carried clear recrimination, but not anger toward Epitaph. Cole wasn’t certain if it was respect or fear that kept Epitaph safe from the same wrath that Desperado had been all too ready to visit on Wardawg and perhaps, still, on Cole himself.

Epitaph gave a short, solemn nod at the end of those questions, admitting to all of the accusations and showing not the slightest remorse.

“You stupid fuck,” Desperado hissed. “We have those rules for a…”

“The sweet remembrance of the just shall flourish when he sleeps in dust,” Epitaph responded sagely.

Desperado paused a moment to try to process the meaning, and answered, simply, “I don’t have a soft spot, Ep. You don’t get to break the rules. You could be one of the leaders of the Corps if you wanted; you know that. I’d step back and pull Blaze back and let you have most of the authority. But not until you can speak plainly. You keep talking crazy with the Bartlett’s familiar motherfucking quotations thing, you don’t get to make policy.”

“Most men remember obligations, but are not often likely to be grateful; the proud are made sour by the remembrance and the vain silent,” Epitaph stated.

Cole wasn’t certain what Epitaph meant, but clearly Desperado had focused on the word obligations as he answered: “I don’t owe you anything but basic respect, Ep, and I sure as hell don’t owe Puppy over there a good goddamned thing.”

“A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory,” Epitaph responded.

“Stop with the fucking word games, Epitaph,” Desperado sneered. “Stop. You speak plainly just once to me and I’ll let Puppy into the circle without question. I’ll end his probation now and welcome him with open arms.”

Epitaph seemed to consider that for a moment, and shook his head ruefully. To Cole, it seemed to convey the sentiment not that he was regretful at his own lack of willingness to comply but rather that he was disappointed Desperado would make such a demand and essentially hold Cole hostage for it. Instead of heeding the wishes of the earth-toned, Wild West-garbed man in front of him, Epitaph turned to Cole, pointed one finger toward him—inches from his heart, and then said to Desperado: “One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure its worth watching.”

Cole saw Desperado shake a little bit, and watched as anger began to seethe once more in those brown eyes.

“I’m going to assume you ain’t suggesting Puppy’s a better man than I am based on whatever the hell happened out there with you, him, Slyde and Wardawg. Because even you aren’t crazy enough to make a declaration like that based on one encounter. But I won’t even buy the argument he’s so much as earned the right to be here based on anything he did tonight.”

“Lay off,” cut in a woman’s voice. “Just lay off, Desperado. You want to talk about authorization, I have as much say in leadership decisions around here as you or Blaze, and so I say Cole can be here because I trust Epitaph’s judgment. How’s that?”

Cole turned toward the voice: Sweet Talker.

“That’s worth about as much as a contract written in shit smears on a roll of toilet paper,” Desperado said, his words bobbing about in a sea of condescension. “Tell anyone anything you want, girl. Your position is in name only. No one’s going to listen to you and no one’s going to take your side over mine except for most of your bitches and a few pussies like Puppy who think you’re too cute for words. Most of us don’t give a shit what you have to say unless it’s to give advice on how to properly suck a guy’s dick.”

“Stop being a dick,” Cole snapped. “For God’s sake. You want to call me Puppy, fine. Insult the newbie—great. But stop being so disrespectful to people who already proved themselves.”

“Well, Puppy’s got some puppy love and wants to stick up for his girlfriend. I don’t think she’s gonna be impressed,” Desperado said. “Fine, you two like each other so much, you’re under Sweet Talker’s wing. When she’s around, she can find work for you. When she’s not, maybe you can be the punching bag in training drills, Puppy. Because you’re off patrols permanently. And if someone comes to raid our headquarters, I’m going to know who to fucking kill for giving up the location: You.”

Desperado turned on one heel and stomped away and, as quickly as that, most everyone else lost interest.

Cole saw Antonio approaching, accompanied by Ripper, one of the rougher members of the Guardian Corps—presumably the guy he had picked to babysit him per Desperado’s orders—but Desperado said something to him, and then Ripper and Antonio wandered off.

“He’s an ass, but he’s right about one thing, Cole,” Sweet Talker said as she stepped near him. “I don’t need defending and you did something stupid right now because of a crush.”

“I don’t have a crush on you,” Cole protested. “I just don’t think it’s…”

“Cole, I’m at least a few years older than you and even if you don’t see it, you’re so transparent you’re see-through. I’m sympathetic to you, Cole. But don’t get other notions.”

Cole could feel the embarrassment burning on his face and wanted desperately to change the subject. “Will Slyde be okay?”

“Asclepius should be in soon, so yeah.”

“Who’s Asclepius?”

“Healer. He’s a Regenerator. He’s worked on damn near every heroic type in the New Judah and New York area at some point and a few in Marksburgh, too. He’ll fix Slyde up. Nothing he can do to fix you and Desperado, though. Cole, you were already on thin ice in Desperado’s eyes just being a college boy. You’re done in the Corps as far as learning any crimefighting crap. If you hadn’t done the stupid chivalry thing you might have been all right.”

“A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it,” Epitaph said softly from behind Cole.

“Huh?” Cole said.

“I think he means that just because Desperado is done with you doesn’t mean you’re done for in the Corps,” Sweet Talker said. “But Epitaph is wrong, and Epitaph made things worse for you by going nose to nose with Desperado over you. This is a boy’s club, Cole, in case you haven’t noticed, and you pissed off the top dog.”

“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily,” Epitaph noted, having come around to face Cole, and standing near Sweet Talker now.

“Napoleon,” Cole commented, recognizing the quote, and figuring that Epitaph was encouraging him to stand up for himself and continue with the Corps. Then again, maybe he’s telling me to just go out on my own and be done with Desperado and gang.

“Look, I think going out and beating on crooks is stupid, dangerous, testosterone-charged foolishness anyway,” Sweet Talker said. “So, whatever. But it was Cole’s dream, and now it’s wake-up time.”

Epitaph shrugged, looking Cole up and down.

“What’s the shrug for, Epitaph? You gonna train Cole on your own, you flighty bastard?” Sweet Talker asked good-naturedly but with just a hint of rebuff.

Epitaph inclined his head to the side, seemed to consider her words for several moments, then shrugged again and walked away.

For a little while, they both just watched him leave in silence, and then Cole turned to Sweet Talker. “Okay. Seriously. What’s up with him not touching the ground and Desperado being so damned surprised he grabbed his wrist? Not to mention the whole invulnerability thing.”

“Bullet-proof, more or less, but he can be hurt,” Sweet Talker said. “He generates a constant telekinetic field around his body. Really strong one. Pushes stuff away from him unless he was already wearing it or touching it when his field goes up. The larger an object or the more dense it is or something, the less able it is to get through. So he can breathe because air mostly gets through. He could also drown, because given enough time, water would seep through his field. Try to hit him though, and you’ll probably break your wrist. To bullets, his TK field like an all-over flak jacket. An auto-crusher at a junkyard would do him in, though. Or a bomb. Or nerve gas. Lots of things. He can deactivate the field if he concentrates, so he can shower, dress, eat or pick something up—or someone, like Slyde—but it takes a lot of effort, it wears him out, and I think it probably hurts like hell.”

“I don’t have a thing for you, Sweet Talker,” Cole said.

“Mmmm hmmm,” she responded dubiously.

“Really. But…what should I do? You’re apparently in charge of me now.”

“I don’t have a clue, Cole. I guess you’ll be helping me with interrogations and screenings and stuff, until you realize there’s no future for you here and you give up,” she said, popping two big pieces of bubble gun into her mouth and running her fingers through the bright pink wig she was wearing today—at least Cole assumed it was a wig. He got a whiff of her overly sweet perfume, hinting at the scent of a candy shop, and felt his belly flutter. “Some of my crew is in the room back there with the flowers on the door. Go tell PrinSass I sent you and hang out with them until I can figure something out. Maybe you can find someone else to crush on by the time I have a plan.”

* * *

Janus killed my cousin.

Fortunato seethed and fretted. He had other family members. Friends. Business associates.

Janus killed my cousin, dammit.

It wasn’t entirely true, of course. More accurately, Janus had employed someone to kill Ignacio and make it look like suicide. The video snippets, along with the phone call a couple days ago from one of Janus’ agents, had been enough to prove that to Fortunato. But there was no recording of the call and the video snippets were too short, too few and too unclear on the perpetrator’s identity and purpose to have any hope of convincing the police that it had been anything other than a suicide, much less put them on Janus’ trail. As such, Fortunato had decided to keep them out of it.

He attacked my family and wants me to know about it.

This confused and unnerved Fortunato in a manner for which neither his brutal former crimefighting career nor metaphorically bloody business career had prepared him. He had dealt with all kinds of sociopaths before, but not with one who would strike him seemingly randomly, with no clear message or purpose. He had thought perhaps Janus’ attack against Query a few weeks before had possessed some logical basis—that Query had crossed paths with the villain unknowingly. But the business with Ignacio indicated something else: Janus might be willing to strike any highly placed transhuman, crimefighter or not, just to entertain himself.

His fingers tapped at the top of the pile of files Jeremiah had brought him a few hours before, and then he pressed a button on his office intercom—a old-school relic from his father that he kept around as much out of stubbornness as nostalgia.

I recognize and enjoy the benefits of higher technology, but some things should be kept simple.

“Rachel,” Fortunato said into the intercom, “send her in.”

“Vanessa,” Fortunato greeted the woman warmly as she stepped into his office and closed the door behind her. “I have an opportunity for you.”

“Promotion, I hope,” the woman said. Her voice had never quite lost its South Florida Latina lilt even after spending all her high school, college and career years in New Judah, but Fortunato wasn’t sure many people besides him really noticed that.

“Pay raise,” he responded, “though I’m not sure it’s a promotion, exactly. But you’ll need serious hazard pay.”

“Is my professional reputation at stake if I do the work you have in mind?”

“No, literally. Actual hazard pay. I’ll also be increasing your health benefits to be much broader and cost you less—nothing, in fact. Your new uniform is in the…”

“Uniform? But this is an office…”

“Your uniform is in the box there on the conference table,” Fortunato interrupted her. “You won’t be wearing it full-time, as I’ll need you around the office to do some of your current duties, at least for a while. Go on, take a look.”

Dazed and confused, Vanessa walked over to the table, opened the box and felt her breath catch in some mix of dread and shock. It was similar to the outfit that Alice wore in most of the live-action, animated, video game and storybook treatments of Lewis Carroll’s “Wonderland” tales or those that were inspired by them. As she pulled it out and examined it, she could tell the material was tougher, stretchier and more luminous than cotton or polyester. Also in the box was a long, straight blonde wig and a blue-and-white half-head mask to match the colors of the dress, leggings and gloves.

“What the hell?” she said quietly. “What are you proposing?”

AllisonWonderland-1“Nothing kinky, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Fortunato said. “The material is a lot like latex, but this isn’t fetish-wear. The boots, for example, have very low heels, and there is light chest-armor built in, so no one will be seeing any hint of your nipples. It’s designed for durability, protection for you and also to work in certain ways to enhance the use of your powers.”

“My…powers?” Vanessa asked, too dumbfounded to organize her thoughts yet into words. She wanted to yell or scream, but she wasn’t even sure what was going on.

“Yes,” Fortunato said, ignoring her discomfort with the situation entirely. “Until now, I’ve been happy to pay you a bit extra for those days or nights when I’ve needed you to put in extra hours for testing and such in my transhuman R&D programs, but now I’ll need you to use your powers more directly. Not too often at first, but eventually it will come to occupy most of your time, and less and less of your PR skills will be required here at the company.”

“You want me to become a superhero? But I don’t want…”

“It isn’t a suggestion. It’s what you’ll be doing,” Fortunato said flatly. “Your codename will be Allison Wonderland. It’s fitting given the psychedelic tricks you can do with your Luminar and Interfacer abilities. And, of course, it fits the costume I had designed for you.”

“You can’t just tell me to go and risk my life as a…”

“I’m your boss, you owe me a great deal, and it’s your new job,” he said. “You’ll do it.”

“Are you threatening me?” she asked incredulously.

“Don’t be absurd,” Fortunato answered. “It’s business. Not a threat. You can make significantly more money by saying ‘yes’ or you can make no money by saying ‘no.’ It’s your choice. Take the job or clear out your desk.”

“This economy isn’t exactly just going gangbusters, Fortunato.”

“How about you go back to calling me ‘sir’ until I get a ‘yes’ from you, Ms. Santos.”

Vanessa’s eyes widened with affront. “There’s no way I’ll get a job right away…sir,” she said, almost spitting out the last word, “and you know I have a lot of debts.”

“Your debts aren’t my concern, Ms. Santos, and the offer won’t stay on the table much longer.”

“This is blackmail, sir,” she responded.

“This is a work-for-hire state,” Fortunato said, “and I can ensure that you won’t qualify for unemployment benefits, too, once I fire you, Ms. Santos. It’s not blackmail. It’s incentive. Even though you’re making me angry right now, I’m still willing to give you the 125% raise I had in mind and the full health benefits at no cost to you.”

“This…this…” she sputtered, and then sat down hard in one of the chairs. “Why?”

“My reasons will be made clear soon enough. It may even be that you will be lucky enough not to have to enter a career as a crimefighter, in which case you will become a very overpaid associate director of public relations.”

“Would these expanded health benefits cover my bro…”

“No.”

“But…”

“It’s better for both of us if you have to continue to pay that out-of-pocket,” Fortunato said. “Otherwise, my financial incentives will no longer be as incentivizing.”

“You’re a bastard,” Vanessa hissed. “Sir.”

“Yes or no, Ms. Santos?” he asked. “I need an answer within five minutes or the raise goes down by 10 percentage points each minute thereafter.”

She stared out the massive windows of his office at the early-morning skyline of the city for three minutes, as if an answer or savior might emerge from around some high-rise building. Then she stared at the open box on the table for a minute, one legging hanging over the side. Then she stared at Fortunato for a full 30 seconds.

“Yes,” she said, her voice an admixture of defeat and disgust.

“Excellent, Vanessa,” Fortunato said, abandoning the artificial formalities with the speaking of her first name again. “I’ll send a training schedule and other details to you this afternoon along with the official offer and paperwork. Non-compete contracts. Confidentiality papers. All that fun stuff.”

“I hate you, Fortunato,” she said quietly.

“That’s all right,” he said. “You won’t be the first or the last. Maybe you’ll even change your mind one day.”

* * *

As the waitress delivered their coffees—along with a large white milk, medium chocolate milk and small strawberry milk—and then went off to check on other customers, Mad Dash continued his unfinished point.

“I’m just saying, Ladyki—I mean, Honey Badger…sweetie pie…neti pot…snookums…”

“Dash, how about you just stick with ‘Honey’ since it’s an affectionate nickname already and a shortened form of the Honey Badger thing I’m doing on the side,” Ladykiller suggested in a whisper. “You could do fine with ‘Hon’ too.”

“Ah. Wonderific! So, Honey, what I was saying was I’m not sure that this ayyyy-emmm was a time to whip out the claws in the pursuance of public safety-tude,” Mad Dash said.

“Dash, I’m logging extra costume hours and suppressing my usual violent left claw of womanly vengeance thing to spend a little time with you,” Ladykiller noted. “Normally, after a late night of slashing rapists and such, I’d just now be thinking about getting up. Instead, I slashed a rapist last night, changed costumes, I’ve patrolled with you this morning and now we’re having a late breakfast. Is that a problem for you?”

“Nada nunca nyet,” Mad Dash said. “It’s nice to have company sometimes. But, I mean, this morning…you slashed all four of his tires for running a red light.”

“He was drunk. I could’ve smelled the booze on his breath from a dozen paces even if I didn’t have super-smell. School’s still in session for another week or two and he’s drunk when kids are still walking to school. I think I showed incredible restraint.”

“But the leather interior, too?”

“A little over the top, maybe,” Ladykiller admitted, “but at least we know he won’t be driving any…”

“Morning, Dash,” came a voice from off to Ladykiller’s side, and reflexively, one of her clawed hands slid out from under the table.

“Chillax to the max, Molasses…I mean, Honey,” Mad Dash said. “Friend, not foe. Hey, Veeg. How’s it drooping? Honey, this is Vegan Manhunter. We go way back.”

“Cow’s milk, Dash,” said the man in a costume of green and brown, with various accents that made it look leafy in some places, bark-like in others and petal-like in others still. “You know that stuff isn’t naturally for human consumption. I hope your new girlfriend has better eating habits.”

“You can use ‘Honey Badger’ instead of ‘new girlfriend.’ As for my diet, I alternate between omnivorous and ovo-lacto-vegetarian depending on whether I’m PMS-ing or whatever,” Ladykiller replied acidly. “Today, I’m having bacon. Is that a problem? Are you going to duel me over food philosophy?”

“Honey, sweetie, syrup, buttery-dear,” Mad Dash said. “Friend. Not foe. He teases me mercilessly because I chow-town-down more than most trans folks, so I’m an easy target. After all, No one knows what evil lurks in the colons of men—but the Vegan Manhunter knows!”

Vegan Manhunter chuckled behind his mask. “That never gets old the way you say it.”

“Well, sorry, Vegan Manhunter. I get kind of sensitive when I’m hungry and tired and people are needling my boyfriend, okay?” Ladykiller said. “By the way, as long as Dash is plagiarizing and altering a line from ‘The Shadow,’ aren’t you a little worried DC Comics might sue you over your blatant theft of the Martian Manhunter meme? Hell, your costume is almost in the same style except you’re not showing off your legs and you don’t show off quite as much torso.”

“If DC and Marvel together couldn’t make a winning case against that husband-and-wife Wonderman/Wonderwoman duo, I think I’m safe,” Vegan Manhunter said. “If it was Venusian Manhunter, I might be in trouble. Seriously, Dash, you need to lay off the meat at least. For eco-friendly reasons, at least, if not your body’s sake.”

“Oh, congratulatories on getting that PETA sponsorship a few weeks ago by the bye-bye,” Mad Dash said. “You’ll be a great spokesperson. Just advise them to lay off trying to do that thing with trying to rename ‘fish’ as ‘sea kittens.’ That was really a stupid campaign. But hey, I need the meat, su-su-dude-io. You know how I burn through fat, proteins and all that while running.”

“C’mon, Dash, for protein alone there’s quinoa, rice and beans, tofu, seitan…”

“Easier to find meat, I’d think, the way he goes through food,” Ladykiller said, sipping at her coffee. “And as for the beans, well, you don’t have to sit next to him or lie with him for long periods of time.”

“Flesh o’ the beasties tastes better, too. Sorry, Veeg, but bacon is gooood. Pork chops are goooood,” Mad Dash said.

“Sewer rat could taste like pumpkin pie and I still wouldn’t eat it,” Vegan Manhunter replied.

“Okay, boys—enough homoerotic bonding over ‘Pulp Fiction’ lines,” Ladykiller said. “Nice to meet you…uh, Veeg. Can I have my time back with my guy before I go home to collapse into a coma?”

“As the attractive and thankfully fake fur-attired lady desires,” Vegan Manhunter quipped, bowing deeply at the waist. “The honey badger’s an amazing animal, by the way,” he noted as he rose back up. “I keep telling a friend of mine he needs to do some kind of funny ‘crazy-ass honey badger don’t give a shit’ video for YouTube or UrbVid.”

After Vegan Manhunter had wandered off to the counter to order something, Ladykiller leaned across the table. “Seriously, Dash: Real friend or just polite acquaintance?”

“He’s a good guy, LadyHoney,” Mad Dash offered. “I mean, HoneyKiller. Oh, carp. I’m not used to this. Anyway, he’s only a douche-canoe paddler sometimes. I only get the soy-and-bean lecture maybe every third or fourth time I run into him. His sense of humor can take getting used to. Just don’t eat lamb or veal around him. That really pisses him off.”

“Oh, really?” Ladykiller said with a smile, looking around for their waitress. “Wonder if it’s too late to change my order to something more lunch-oriented.”

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“Andrea, was it?” the detective sergeant asked, and the woman he was addressing nodded. “Okay. Andrea, how long you been an assistant DA in this city? I’ve only seen you in around a couple times. First time I’ve talked to you. I’m guessing not long.”

“Sergeant, I don’t understand why I’m getting the attitude here. Speed Demon is a criminal. I’m asking your precinct to investigate and arrest him if possible. That’s your part of the job, and then I try to get him convicted.”

“How long you been with the DA’s office here, Andrea?” the sergeant persisted.

She sighed, and answered, “A couple weeks.”

“Guessing you come from a city with not very much trans white hat/black hat shit happening, right?”

“Hey, I didn’t come from some backwater Podunk, Sergeant,” Andrea protested. “Cleveland has its fair share of transhumans.”

“Yeah, yeah…okay, Andrea,” the sergeant said. “In Cleveland you got plenty of shitty sports teams and a crap economy even before the current recession. I bet you got more crappy teams than you do transhumans worth mentioning.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t handle transhuman convictions, Joe Lindemann, or are you saying you’re afraid to go after the one I, Assistant District Attorney Yates, just told you I need arrested?”

The sergeant furrowed his brow, then coughed. “What I’m suggesting, ADA Yates—sorry for trying to make nice-nice with the ‘Andrea’ stuff—is that the folks in your office who been doing this a lot longer are running you through a little initiation, making you think, ‘Oh, they like me and are going to include me on a case against a big-time villain.’ Because I won’t be sending out any uniforms to go rattling the bushes for Speed Demon, and they know it. They just didn’t tell you that.”

“And why, sergeant, won’t you be doing that?”

Sergeant Lindemann waved the file folder she had handed him in the air a few times and said, “This. You want me to arrest Speed Demon based on this.”

“Three people saw him jack the Rolls Royce and drive off with it. Another few people saw him take a Volvo, Lexus and Porsche later the same day. All in less than a 5-mile radius. Yeah, I know the cars are probably long gone—sold or chopped—but we have at least eight eyewitnesses on record right now.”

“Eight people who saw a guy in a mask and costume. You got high-res video that ain’t mentioned in this file? Fingerprints? Did anyone even see him use super-speed?”

“No, no one mentioned him using his powers, and of course there are no fingerprints. He had on gloves.”

“And a mask,” Sergeant Lindemann pointed out.

“A lot of the transhuman bad guys and heroes do that—wear gloves and masks. Are you saying you don’t arrest them? We rounded up trans folks based on ID’s when they were masked.”

“You don’t have as many black hats, and their lives of crime ain’t as lucrative.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the assistant DA protested.

“Speed Demon’s got paid guys—maybe just a couple, maybe a half dozen, maybe 20 for all I know, who are just his height and build and walk around New Judah in costumes just like his. Some of them don’t do shit but help make it impossible to know when Speed Demon really is out and around, and some of them help him do crime by stealing cars and shit. Then you’ve probably got another 30 or 40 fanboys out there who dress up like Speed Demon several times a year, sometimes weekly.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she responded.

“No, I’m not. I hear he pays $20 an hour just to walk around in costume where he tells you to,” the sergeant replied. “That’s a nice little sideline gig for a person even if it’s only a couple hours a day on the whole. We go arresting everyone in a Speed Demon suit, we’re going to be sued to within an inch of our lives. Even if we nab the guy himself, what are we gonna do? You had some high-def video, we might have been able to match it to verified video of him for body recognition—body contours at least; kind of hard to figure out the face and head with a mask like that. We’re 90% sure we have his prints from one job where he got sloppy, so if you had fingerprints, great. If someone had even seen this guy use powers, I’d at least send someone out to ask questions. As it stands, you’ve brought me shit. Nothing personal, but it’s shit. And if you plan on lasting here, ADA Yates, you need a thicker skin and need to learn what battles to pick when a transhuman is involved.”

“So we do nothing. Is that it, Sergeant Lindemann?”

“Transhumans make law enforcement a real bitch sometimes, Andrea,” the officer said. “That’s one of the reasons we don’t crack down as hard here in New Judah on white hats who want to help clean up the streets as some other folks do.  Philly does crack the whip hard, and their crime rates are creeping up because they’re doing a better job rounding up vigilantes than crooks.”

“Fine, Joe,” she answered, taking a deep breath. Then she started again, without the acid in her tone. “What do you suggest I do?”

He handed her back the file. “Well, you promise not to come to me with weak cases on transhumans again, and I give you some advice. How’s that?”

She nodded. “Okay, Joe, what’s your advice?”

“You go have yourself a nice, long lunch, Andrea. Go out the side door down the hall to the right. Probably no one from your office has seen you here yet, and they won’t if you go out that way probably. You have a nice lunch, maybe a couple martinis so your colleagues can get just enough of a whiff to know you had a nice time, and you tell them, ‘Nice try, assholes. Thanks for giving me a reason to step out of the office for a while. Because there’s no way I was gonna bring weak shit like that to the precinct and waste the time of our men in blue.’ Can you do that, Andrea?”

She thought for a moment, and took a deep breath. “Did a little community theater in college, before I passed the bar and lost all my free time, Joe. I think I can handle that.”

He smiled, and spread his hands wide in front of him. “Who says the police aren’t any help to regular people, huh?”

* * *

Huddled behind a car, with the staccato accompaniment of gunshots as the theme song for his evening’s adventures, Cole couldn’t help but think of how far removed this was from the afternoon. When the sun had still been up, the worst he had to worry about was Desperado ridiculing him for supposed “flirting” with Sweet Talker, who had dropped into the area to help question another Guardian Corps candidate, and was using the shit apartment in which Cole stayed between his patrols.

There had been seven people total crammed in there with him as he got dressed and wrapped an Ace bandage around one sprained wrist. Cole only knew three of them, and Sweet Talker was the only one of the three he liked.

Cole hardly thought that saying “Hi” and asking how she’d been since he’d last seen her a few days before counted as flirting, but Desperado seemed to think that Cole needed as much ribbing and humiliation as possible in front of as many people at a time as possible. It had made combat training sessions sheer hell half the time.

Several folks had taken enough of a shine to Cole to give him some commiseration and support when Desperado wasn’t around, but they smiled or laughed at the man’s jibes as much as anyone else did when he was in earshot. Most everyone respected Desperado, even if several, like Cole, didn’t like him much.

Cole wasn’t sure if he could even manage respect. He admired Desperado’s convictions when it came to crime-fighting, and dedication to the Corps, but he found the guy repugnant otherwise—a loudmouthed, douche-baggy sack of shit.

But he’d kept his opinions to himself and would continue to do so. He counted himself fortunate that Desperado  had given the okay to start him on training and shadowing some patrols, given the fact the man clearly saw Cole as a failure waiting to happen—some overeducated, prissy hero-wannabe who didn’t have the balls probably to follow through.

However, that tension was pretty much old history in Cole’s mind now, even if had flared up only a few hours earlier. Now he was more concerned about whether he would live to see the morning. Cole was scared shitless but also hyped up. Adrenaline and his fight-or-flight instincts were warring and making him confused as to whether he should whoop or cower; charge the enemy or run.

Truth was, he knew the truth lay in the middle somewhere—blindly fleeing or attacking were both bad options. These were bullets, and the three of them in this Guardian Corps patrol unit were armed with mostly hand-to-hand weapons, plus a pair of tasers. This was supposed to be a quiet patrol and a relatively conflict-free evening. This neighborhood was usually manageable, and most new recruits like Cole got their patrol experience here first.

Lucky me. I get the excitement that almost never happens on my fifth patrol, Cole thought. And even if I live, I won’t be able to tell a single friend or family member about it.

“They’ll run out of bullets eventually, I suppose,” Cole muttered to the guy next to him, who went by the codename Wardawg and was in charge of this patrol. He’d emphasized three times since last night that it was an “aw” not an “o” kind of “dawg.” Cole might have found that annoying—rather than feeling a twinge of envy—if he wasn’t still irritated that his own codename for a while would be “Puppy” by decree of Desperado. Truth be told, even a guy with an annoyingly overblown sense of pride about his name was making him feel jealous. With the name Puppy clinging to him with all the intimidation factor of a pink, frilly dress on a soldier, Cole was certain that Desperado was pairing him with Wardawg just to keep his temporary codename firmly in the forefront of his mind. Dog, meet Puppy.

How about: Desperado, meet Cole’s fist? Cole daydreamed for a moment, knowing it would never happen.

“Doubt it,” Wardawg responded to Cole’s comment about their enemies’ ammunition. “I think they have some kind of hideout nearby or plan to do some deal, and they want us out of here. I figure in another minute or so they’re gonna pull out some automatic weapons and then we’re toast. They’ll take the car apart and if we can’t run, we’ll get taken apart a piece at a time.”

“God damn, you’re cheery, ‘Dawg,” Cole said, as he looked over at the prone body of Slyde just a little ways off, who had been on patrol with them. The young man was bleeding from a shoulder wound, but he was close enough for Cole to tell he was breathing regularly—possibly unconscious or perhaps playing dead to avoid getting shot again. He turned back and looked Wardawg right in the eyes. “You have the field experience; got a plan for me to follow?”

“Not the strategy type,” Wardawg answered.

Cole took a deep breath. The Guardian Corps hadn’t had much success yet figuring out how to help him focus his Ecto powers, but they’d given him some tips for using his Warpsmith powers. Still, warping space around people that far away and that spread out wouldn’t work. He might get the shooters on one end but then the ones on the other side of the street would pick him off. He had too little control to do it any other way than by line of sight; he’d have to stand. But it didn’t seem like a good idea for survival.

“Cops?” Cole asked hopefully.

“Not in this neighborhood. People keep to themselves and hunker down when shit happens,” Wardawg said. “And if anyone does call the cops, they’ll take their sweet time getting here. The reasonably honest ones know the Guardian Corps is almost always in the area and they want to stay in one piece so they wait for us to soften folks up. The crooked ones will wait until someone calls them to say all the illegal stuff is hidden away and all the folks with warrants on them have run off.”

“How about you call Desperado or someone at the headquarters on your cell phone?”

“Only one Speedster in the Guardian Corps right now, and wouldn’t drag him into a fight like this. He’d get wasted. No one’ll get to us in time to help and besides, I forgot to charge my phone,” Wardawg answered. “Don’t fucking tell that to Desperado, though; just say there was no signal. Even if I thought it was a good idea to call them, I can’t give you the number to the HQ yet without getting my ass kicked, and I’m not dragging the cops into this so if you dial 911 on your phone, I’ll hit you. Hard.”

“Shit.”

Cole figured he could at least give Wardawg—whose Morph powers were useless in a fight like this—a chance to get clear, and maybe he’d get lucky and they wouldn’t hit him while he was giving Wardawg cover. Maybe he could get to a clear and safe zone himself if they missed and if the guys he disoriented with the warping didn’t recover too fast.

He raised himself up, and then was stopped cold. He almost shit himself as he realized there was a large hand on his shoulder. No, not on his shoulder but hovering just above it. Yet he felt a distinct pressure pushing downward on him. He looked over to see the tall and muscled man who belonged to that hand, and who looked at Cole without any malice while crouched near him.

Over the man’s chest and back were two blocks of glossy dark stone, connected by chains over his shoulders and on either side of his torso, forming a sort of rocky vest. Cole suddenly realized as he saw gold lettering that the two heavy accoutrements were two halves of a fairly large gravestone. The rest of the man’s costume was gray with off-white accents—a bland, short-sleeve head-to-toe bodysuit that emphasized the dark and sinister elegance of the tombstone vest. Even the man’s beard was a dull brown with bits of gray, and his eyes were a pale hazel. He might have been anywhere from his early-30s to mid-40s.

“Epitaph! Thank God,” Wardawg exclaimed. “I thought you had left town; glad to see you around still.”

Epitaph put a finger to his lips to calm the younger man’s exuberance and, Cole suspected, to leave their assailants unaware of his arrival. Then Epitaph removed his hand from above Cole’s shoulder, the pressure vanishing. He motioned for Cole to stay put, and gave him a wry smile with just a hint of grimness in his face.

“Better a live dog than a dead lion,” he told Cole, then stood and rushed at the gunmen himself.

Cole quickly glanced around the front of the car behind which he was hiding and saw Epitaph’s body deform in spots briefly as bullets presumably struck his costume but did not penetrate it. He rose up a bit to peer over the car’s hood and saw one of Epitaph’s mostly bared arms suddenly  develop an angry red welt from a bullet. The many gunshots that struck him made Epitaph hesitate, and made his stride falter. His face registered pain, but there was not blood, and he advanced somewhat erratically but mostly undaunted.

If that wasn’t odd enough, Cole suddenly realized that Epitaph’s feet weren’t quite making contact with the ground.

Suddenly, Cole stood up and faced the trio of assailants farthest from Epitaph. As the gravestone-garbed hero advanced more slowly on the pair he had targeted, alternately wincing and bellowing as those bullets hit home, Cole focused on the other set of gunmen and began to warp space around them. The process was difficult from this distance, but he poured everything he had into the spatial disruption.

He could scarcely pay attention to details, but he could imagine the sickly looks on the faces of the criminals. Two of the three dropped their guns, and one of those wavered, shuddered, and rolled into a fetal position. The other one squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands to the side of his head in the hopes that might lessen the nauseating feelings of disorientation, but all it did was keep him from falling over. The third man, against all of Cole’s expectations, was still firing at Epitaph, though his aim was wildly erratic. Finally, after several shots, he slumped back against a wall, moaning and wailing.

Cole wasn’t accustomed to keeping up a warp field for so long, much less from such a distance, and he could feel his heartbeat pick up and his blood vessels pound in his neck and head. He suddenly realized he was totally exposed if those men had friends he hadn’t seen yet. He was a sitting duck. A part of him wanted to shit or piss his pants—or at the very least take off running, but he thought about Epitaph and realized there was no reason to assume the man was invulnerable. He’d never heard of someone being totally bulletproof, and clearly the shots were causing the man agony.

He was terrified, but he was damned if he was going to let someone walk right into gunfire, transhuman resistance to harm or not, and fail to back that person up, even if he had cautioned Cole to lay low.

Epitaph showed his first hints of blood—a red smear across his upper arm and another on one cheek—though he still didn’t seem to have been penetrated by a bullet yet, and suddenly he surged forward in a full-tilt charge, screaming bloody murder as the latest set of ammunition ran out. The gunmen hesitated a moment and then grabbed up new guns. But Epitaph was on them by then, pummeling one with a meaty fist as he lifted the second up by his collar and slammed him against a brick wall three times, face-first, before dropping him in a limp heap. The man he had been hitting was likewise down.

Given Epitaph’s size and musculature, plus the burden of the cracked-in-two gravestone he wore, Cole was amazed at the speed of his assaults. He’d rarely seen a Brute with that much raw strength before who wasn’t somewhat slow as well.

Still maintaining the warp field, Cole began to swoon and almost tripped over his own feet as Epitaph headed for the other three men. As he neared them, Cole dropped the spatial disruption so that Epitaph could enter the area unfazed, and then Cole finally stumbled, fell, bounced off the hood of the car and slid to the ground. He felt some kind of breeze on his face, and assumed Wardawg must be fanning him or something. Then a few light, sharp slaps to his face, and the vague recognition of words.

“Cole, are you okay?”

Cole shook his head, his eyes closed, and ran a hand under his nose, suddenly realizing there was something warm and sticky there—blood. He mumbled something about checking on Slyde, heard Wardawg let out a soft “Oh shit” and sensed him rush off.

Grateful for a bit of time to himself, Cole decided it was as good a place as any to lay down and rest. If I’m dying from an aneurism or something, might as well be comfy doing it, he thought, finding the asphalt and dirt almost refreshing after the experience of warping space for an extended period.

Wardawg returned with a breathless “He’s okay” and lifted Cole up to prop his back against the car they had used as a barricade. “Slyde was playing possum but he’s lost a bit of blood so he’ll need help getting back to headquarters. Epitaph? You look pretty good. Can you carry him?”

Cole looked up groggily at the man who clearly had taken out all their assailants and now returned to them. Cole had to admit he looked better than he should, but he didn’t look good in the literal sense, no matter what Wardawg had just said. Epitaph was now adorned with numerous bruises and angry welts on his exposed skin, plus a couple broad scratches that were oozing blood. There were no bullet holes a far as Cole could see, though he figured the man must be sporting dozens of bruises and welts beneath the costume.

Epitaph looked down at Cole curiously. “Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought,” the man said in a deep, buttery basso voice.

“Huh?” Cole said.

“I think he’s kind of saying you didn’t listen to him before and maybe didn’t think shit through before you stood up like an idiot,” Wardawg answered.

“Then why didn’t he say that?” Cole said groggily, then realized his rudeness and addressed Epitaph. “Why didn’t you say that, then?”

Epitaph simply smiled and Wardawg said, “He only speaks in quotes from books, movies and songs and shit, and only stuff that has to do with death or remembering. We don’t know if he’s mental and can’t help himself or if he does it on purpose just because he’s totally into the whole role-play of being a living epitaph.”

“Well, thanks for taking those guys out and you’re welcome for the help, Epitaph, even if you didn’t want it,” Cole said. “I don’t know of any good movie quotes or literary quotations for that.”

“A moment lasts all of a second, but the memory lives on forever,” Epitaph answered.

Cole considered for a moment, and then asked, “Are you saying this is a learning opportunity?”

Epitaph nodded.

“For you or me?”

Epitaph smiled and then shrugged, as if to say Not sure, then pointed vaguely toward Cole as if to add, But mostly you.

“Well, I’m not too keen on letting someone take all the risk for me when I can do something to help. But I may need an underwear change when I get back to my shithole of a room that Desperado gave me to hole up in. So maybe the real lesson here is ‘No good deed goes unpunished’ and ‘Doing the right thing isn’t always safe or easy’.”

Epitaph nodded noncommittally. “We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.”

“Hey, I know that one,” Cole said. “Che Guevara said that.”

“Look, I don’t want to interrupt or anything, but how about we leave before Slyde bleeds too much more or someone else decides to shoot at us.”

Epitaph nodded, and hefted Slyde over one shoulder with ease, though a slight grimace of pain flashed across his face. Cole imagined that being hit by that many bullets was hardly a pleasant experience, no matter what the means of his protection from them.

“Cole, you can find your way back to your hidey-hole, right? I’ll tell Desperado to have someone check back with you there,” Wardawg said. As the man began to walk, Epitaph put a hand in front of him, palm toward Wardawg’s chest. He came to a sudden halt more than an inch from Epitaph’s hand, as if he had hit an invisible wall. He looked at Epitaph’s slowly shaking head, and stepped back a pace. “He’s still on probation period, Ep,” Wardawg said. “I can’t take him to any of our satellites, much less the core HQ.”

Epitaph turned to look at Cole. “Once you accept your own death, all of a sudden you’re free to live. You no longer care about your reputation. You no longer care except so far as your life can be used tactically to promote a cause you believe in,” he said. Then he turned back to Wardawg. His voice became harsher, and Cole sensed that the words about to issue forth were not a continuation of the previous quote but a wholly new one. “When the game is over, the king and the pawn go into the same box.”

Frowning, Wardawg said, “I get what you’re getting at—I think. But Desperado and the others may not agree he’s earned it yet.”

Epitaph stepped a hair closer to Wardawg, and glared down at him.

“Look, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Cole interjected. Epitaph pinned him with a slightly less scolding look, but one that told him to hold his tongue, and then went back to glaring at Wardawg. The smaller man looked away from Epitaph’s eyes only to stare at the upper half of the gravestone that was the larger man’s chest piece. Cole looked at it as well. Reynold Merryweather. Soldier. Father. Husband. 1942-1999. Cole wondered if the man whose grave the stone had once adorned was a friend, family member, enemy or stranger to Epitaph. Perhaps Epitaph had a collection of many different gravestone flak vests.

“Okay, fuck!” Wardawg finally responded to Epitaph and then looked over at Cole and added, “We all go together then.” As he began to walk in the direction of the Guardian Corps headquarters, he called out over his shoulder: “But this is your call, Ep, and it’s on your head if Desperado freaks out. I ain’t taking shit credit for this.”

As Cole trailed a bit behind them, and Epitaph looked back at him with a cat-ate-the-canary grin, Cole could only assume that Epitaph didn’t give a good god-damn what Desperado or anyone else might say.

He wished he could say the same.

* * *

Mad Dash sat at one of the two-person booths at the Caped Cuisiner restaurant and tapped his foot nervously at a speed sufficient to make a sound like a frantic tap dancer who performed only to the accompaniment of one-note songs. He slurped his jumbo cherry cola quickly, already having half-consumed it even though he’d only gotten it a few minutes earlier.

Pretty common for us Speedsters to do the nervous supersonic toe tap, but what’s with me? he wondered silently. Why am I nervous? I face down psychotic and violent hooty-hoos all the live long day. This is just a…a…a date? Am I on dates now? How long have these been dates? Good lumpy salty gravy, this place has even become our regular hangout.

Mad Dash caught a glimpse of someone he recognized in his peripheral vision, and turned his head sharply. “Hey! Python! Oh, Pyyyyython. You still owe me fifty singles. Or five tens. Or a thousand nickels…”

The chiseled and nearly bare-chested hero simply smiled and waved. “Si, si. Soon, soon. Don’t worry, my rapido loco amigo.”

Mad Dash frowned, and returned to his drink.

“You still haven’t gotten your money from that muscle-bound pretty boy?” said a female voice. “I could claw his six-pack abs a bit until he opens his wallet.”

Mad Dash looked up, frowned again, started to say, “Who are…” then stopped and whispered: “Ladykiller?”

The woman standing at the edge of the booth certainly had the right voice, but Mad Dash had to admit the costume was throwing him off. She wore a full-body black unitard of a velour-like material with a wide white strip of faux fur running from just above her eyes over her head and down her neck. From the reflections in some of the windows and mirrors, he could see the white streak ran all the way to her buttocks, to where a very short faux tail hung. Instead of one clawed gauntlet on her disfigured left hand, both her hands were thus attired. The new gauntlets were larger than the original one, but with shorter, broader claws, and the glove to which the left-hand gauntlet was attached made her appear to have all five fingers on that hand. Her mask was slightly totemic, and put Mad Dash in mind of some kind of animal he’d seen before. A beaver? A bear?

“Just call me Honey Badger,” Ladykiller said as she slid into the booth. “And even though you are nuttier than a fruitcake, please wipe the crazy look off your face and act like you’re used to seeing me this way.”

“Uh…why are you doing the animal kingdom thing, Lady…uh, Honey Badger?”

“Hmmm. Lady Honey Badger? Nah. Too much,” Ladykiller said with a chuckle as she flagged down a waiter. “Haven’t you ever heard of them? Damn. Guiness Book of World Records or National Geographic or someone says the honey badger is the most fearless animal around. Besides, with Query already knowing more about me than I’d like and you being all heroic and shit, I figured it would be better if you appeared to be dating someone else other than Ladykiller.”

“You don’t think the claws will be a deceased fire-sale?” Mad Dash asked.

“I’m guessing that was supposed to be ‘dead giveaway’,” Ladykiller noted. “If anyone asks why your newest lady friend has fingers as dangerous as your last one, say you have a claw fetish or something.”

“I don’t know if I have any fetish except for shift-running.”

“Yeah, the interdimensional space…the other woman in our relationship,” Ladykiller said. “But she doesn’t take too much of your time and doesn’t carry any STDs.”

“So, we are in a relationship?” Mad Dash asked.

Ladykiller arched one eyebrow, though there was no way Mad Dash could know that with a mask that covered three-quarters of her head. “Do you think I hold hands with everyone under a table or during a moonlit patrol? I’d think you’d’ve figured out by now I’m a survivor of kidnapping, serial rape, imprisonment and enslavement. Warm and fuzzies don’t come easy for me.”

The words were said without malice, but Mad Dash blushed fiercely. “I don’t know what…I don’t  know how…I’m not a veteran of being a boyo toyo.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly made a toy of you yet…hey, is that it?” Ladykiller asked, frowning now—Mad Dash couldn’t miss that facial expression, as the mask didn’t cover her mouth and chin. “Is it because we haven’t had sex? I…I…thought better of you than…”

“Stopitty stop stop. Cease. Desist. Pull over. Keep your hands on the wheel. Red alert. Slippery when wet. Don’t tread on me,” Mad Dash said in a frantic verbal stream just barely decipherable. Then he took a breath, and slowed down. “I don’t have a problem with that. I just. I’ve never. I’m not…” His words sped up again, as he blurted, “I don’t know what to do with a gal pal or ready steady or whatever they call double-X chromosome emotional companions these days.”

“They call us girlfriends,” Ladykiller said with just a trace of irritation. “Or partners. Or significant others. I like girlfriend. Dash, are you…oh, you are, aren’t you? Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Been running fast since 12 and fighting the forces of very dim light since 15 or 16. Never had time or exclamation.”

“Inclination.”

“Oh? Didn’t say that? Sorry,” Mad Dash responded. “Are you okay with that? My…uh…status.”

“We’ve fallen together as the oddest couple on record and even I don’t know how or why. But I’m not complaining. Being lonely sucks. If you’re cool with my extralegal hobbies of maiming rapists and abusers, I’m okay with you being disease-free and inexperienced. Whenever I get the ‘exclamation’ to have sex again I’ll be gentle with you.”

Mad Dash let out a whoosh of air, then chuckled. “But what if I decide I do have a claw fetish?”

“Gentle is a relative term,” Ladykiller replied, adding just the slightest twist to her accompanying smile.

[ – To view the next chapter, click here – ]

[ – To view a list of all current chapters, click here – ]

The confrontation had begun as a simple attempt to foil a crime. Then it had morphed into something more like a game of Keep Away as Mad Dash continued to prevent the criminal from grabbing the bag of cash and getting away, ever since the hero had come on the scene and knocked it out of the man’s possession to begin with.

The presence of that cash was the only thing keeping the would-be bank robber on the scene. Otherwise, the situation might have become an actual chase, and then the chances of catching him would be lessened.

Because while Mad Dash was almost certainly the faster of the two of them, this thief, the hero realized, was no slouch as a Speedster himself. And all it would take was one bit of distraction to lose him—or for the crook to put just one bystander in jeopardy to get Mad Dash off his ass and dart away.

Given this was a Speedster-vs.-Speedster tussle, the police were worse than useless right now—simple window dressing for the hero-on-villain show playing out. They couldn’t risk taking a shot with two hyperspeed transhumans flitting about, lest they miss and hit a civilian, and there was no way they were going to be able to physically tackle a super-fast villain.

Just gonna ride this out until you run out of gas and are ready for nappy-nap time, chummy-chum, Mad Dash thought. Too bad for you because I’m’a had myself a lunch heavy on carbs right before I heard about your little crime, dude. I’m all fueled up and you’re not going any

His thoughts scattered as the game of Keep Away became something a lot more serious and potentially deadly, with the still-anonymous villain Speedster suddenly producing a baton, changing direction, and then swinging right at Mad Dash’s windpipe as the hero rushed forward to intercept the latest attempt to retrieve the cash and flee.

Mad Dash managed to shift his vector just a bit, and caught the baton on the side of his face instead of in his throat, so he was still in the game. He was momentarily stunned, but mobile, and he just barely managed to head off the villain once more as he made a play for the bag of money on the street.

“Thank smiling fat happy Buddha that I’m a Brute and a Speedster,” Mad Dash said to himself in a rapid-fire mutter as he reoriented himself. It wasn’t exactly a secret to anyone in the public that he possessed some level of Brute power that gave him resistance to harm—too many people had seen him slam into walls and be pummeled and still get back up. Given how slight his frame was and the fact he didn’t wear much in the way of body armor, people could put two and two together. What almost no one realized, except for Query and maybe one or two other heroes, was that his resistance to harm increased the faster he was running.

If I hadn’t been doing a super-dupe-sprint when he hit me, I’d be pushing up Z’s and having marmalade dreams, Mad Dash considered. And an Excedrin 4 hangover with a cherry on top to go with them.

But while he wasn’t hurt much, the hero was starting to wear down, and was wondering if his opponent was, too. It might explain the shift to more violent methods all of a sudden, he considered. On the other hand, the guy wasn’t showing much sign of running out of steam, which made Mad Dash fear the villain might be hyped up on some heavy-duty stimulant or something right now—maybe Red Crush or Skeez—and might just be ornery because of that—not to mention able to push himself farther than he should.

Mad Dash took a quick glance at the clock above the bank entrance. He’d been at it with this guy for more than 10 minutes now.

And that’s way too long to dance the afternoon away with such a homely partner, Mad Dash thought.

He realized he could easily outrun his opponent if he used both his shift-running powers and more traditional Speedster abilities together. But those thousands of little microsecond shifts through interdimensional space would open up his mind and senses to all the wonders of the places most people couldn’t see or sense, and it would be distracting. Using his shift-running was good for getting someplace fast, but horrible in combat situations. So while he knew he could outrun his opponent, he probably wouldn’t outmatch him in the resulting fight

Makes for fun when traveling to use the shift-running—better than listening to tunes on my iShard—but it mellows me out worse than a Harold-and-Kumar pothead fest, Mad Dash considered. This is not a good time for that.

The hero berated himself briefly and silently. He had three tasers at home, a cattle prod, various truncheons and batons, a pair of concussion gloves and dozens of cans of pepper spray and mace. But he rarely remembered to bring them with him when he left his apartment. Sometimes, he considered, it didn’t pay to have madness-induced absent-mindedness and a somewhat pacifist streak.

Maybe I should become the world’s fastest pizza delivery guy, Mad Dash thought, instead of busting up crimes and the occasional criminal.

Just as quickly, though, the thought passed, and Mad Dash felt that little shift in his mind that so often came at these times—a sort of belated resolve that bubbled up from underneath the fluff that usually buried his harsher instincts.

Without hesitation, and hardly knowing himself he was doing it, Mad Dash had liberated a gun from the holster of a nearby police officer. By the time the officer knew what had happened, the bank robber had a bullet hole through one of his ankles and was tumbling head-first toward the sidewalk.

Mad Dash returned the discharged firearm to its holster and watched as the crook just barely managed to slow himself and prevent a face-plant impact into the ground, instead grazing the edge of the bank wall, spinning, tumbling, and then falling to the ground in a confused heap.

Before he could recover—and before anyone could find out whether he had any resistance to harm or quick-recovery powers—Mad Dash had the man’s arms behind his back and had slipped a nylon tie around the guy’s wrists, yanking it tight. Then another one around his ankles.

A few whoops and cheers erupted from the crowd along with some scattered claps, and the police began to descend upon the criminal as Mad Dash retreated slightly. Normally, New Judah police were pretty tolerant of hero activities as long as things stayed pretty close to the letter of the law, but he had just discharged a police firearm, so he wanted to remain wary lest they try to arrest him too.

He surveyed the scene one last time to make sure everything seemed in order and that the police—and not a bystander—were retrieving the money, and then he got ready to run and find someplace to eat so he could refuel his body.

Before he did though, he saw a woman wave to him from the edge of the crowd, and smile crookedly, as if she wasn’t sure how to smile anymore. It was the mouth—and that awkward smile—he recognized first, even before he noticed that her left hand was gloved while her right was not. He wondered which finger of that glove was empty, since he hadn’t seen Ladykiller’s left hand bared in any of the several long meals he and she had shared. He noticed the long but thin scar that ran almost perfectly along her hairline from scalp to neck, and the smaller, shorter one above her right eye. Her “original war wounds,” as she called them, which she had told him about but the source of which she hadn’t yet revealed.

Mad Dash smiled back in his own crooked—but earnest—manner, waved to her, and ran off.

As he did, though, he considered what it meant.

She must have heard I was taking someone down, and she came to see how I was doing, Mad Dash surmised. She cared enough to check in on me because she was close enough to do it.

He hadn’t expected to make enough of an impression on Ladykiller—or win enough of her friendship—that she would let him see her face without a mask. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but they had spent an awful lot of hours together and he had gotten the impression she hadn’t met anyone she could open up to in a long time. And open up she had, many times, sometimes happily and sometimes tearfully, even if she kept the worst stories secret for now. Mad Dash had been happy to be there for all her emotions; had fancied himself a friend even before she seemed to have realized that he was.

But do I have an actual girlfriend now? he wondered silently. And if I do, what then? I don’t have the cloudiest idea what the heckedy-hoo-hoo to do with one of those…

* * *

“It’s time, you know. Time to make the leap. Time to get off the edge and make a decision. Time to cut your ties. Time to move on, lover,” the woman cooed softly, stroking the face of the man whose head currently rested on her bosom as they sat together on his Italian leather sofa in a loft-style condo that was a vision of blond wood and glimmering steel.

She could feel the tensions and confusion in his mind. The turmoil stirred up by his neurochemicals and psychological issues were palpable to her. As well they should be, of course, since she was responsible for so many of them. Through her touch and through her mind, she fed those insecurities and confusions a little more, and spoke more words to him.

Encouraging him as she undermined his confidence.

When she slipped away some 20 minutes later, pocketing the little spy camera and pulling the hood of her coat over her head to hide her facial tattoos from the public, Crazy Jane smiled and knew her task for Janus here was done—and completed two days ahead of schedule.

By the time she was a block away from the building the man lived in, he had already slashed his wrists, making the slices vertically instead of horizontally across his wrists—and before he lost consciousness, he threw himself out the twelfth-story window for good measure, just to make sure he succeeded in pleasing her and ending his torment.

* * *

Underworld frowned grimly as she watched a condensed version of the videos—spanning a few weeks of Crazy Jane’s work for Janus—and then consulted the stolen copies of police forensic reports on the apparent suicide of Ignacio Vasquez.

“So, all that time with her, and he had no idea, even though she dropped a million hints she was driving him crazy; even though it was clear he was sleeping with Crazy Jane—or even if not, someone who emulated her,” Underworld muttered. “I don’t get it. Was he that dense, or is there something else at work?”

“Oh, he knew what was happening,” Janus said, brushing a bit of lint off the tuxedo he was wearing and then adjusting the Mardi Gras-style mask he was wearing today, made of dark, gleaming wood on one side and tarnished, pitted gray metal on the other—but both sides sporting gaily colored little feathers. “You can see it in his eyes starting after their third ‘date.’ The hopelessness. The realization of what she was doing but the knowledge he could do nothing to stop it. You should review the video again; you’ll see.”

“I’d rather not. It was disturbing enough to watch the first time. It had a certain ‘snuff porn’ feel to it.”

“As you like,” Janus said. “I plan to watch it a few more times tonight before bed. Hopefully Jane can join me and we can both find intense pleasure in enjoying her work.”

“Well, you were always more a sociopath than me,” Underworld responded. “I’m more selfish and narcissistic. You, on the other hand, are as narcissistic as you are sadistic.”

“Guilty as charged,” Janus admitted. “So, would you really like to know how she was able to keep getting access to him even after he knew what was happening? Why he didn’t go seek help or tell someone he was with Crazy Jane and he needed to be saved?”

“I’ll probably regret it later, but yeah, I do want to know. Since you’re being so talkative.”

“It’s all quite purposeful, my dear,” Janus said. “I’m not blabbering for the hell of it. I can’t let you in on every part of my plans yet, but now that you’ve gotten enough of a taste of criminal life again to…”

“I still plan on killing you for threatening my family,” Underworld noted mildly.

“Of course, but it’s not as pressing now, is it? Once we get into a rhythm with this operation, you’ll only want to break a few of my bones to send me a message. I might even allow you to do so. But getting back to my point, now that you’re in sync with me enough and at least in the same chapter—if not on the same page—I can let you know a few things.”

“Such as?”

“How much do you know about Crazy Jane’s powers?”

“Enough to make educated guesses. She’s an Interfacer or a Psionic to be driving people insane, I should think.”

“Both, actually. She is a Psi and does have very-short-range empathic and mildly telepathic abilities but is stronger as an Interfacer. She uses the latter ability to rewire synapses and such, and that affects various neurotransmitter levels and such. Well, you get the picture.”

“Quite a nasty picture. Having both capabilities is brutal for a victim,” Underworld said. There was mostly recrimination in her voice, but significant appreciation as well.

“Oh, but that isn’t all,” Janus said. “She’s also a Necro—though there, too, her abilities are mostly keyed to the central nervous system, and are via touch or near-touch, like the Interfacer powers.”

“Jesus!” Underworld sputtered. “So she can degrade synapses and shit long-term, too? Maybe permanently with frequent enough contact? Madness, dementia, memory loss. Things like that. Is that what you’re saying?”

Janus nodded and smiled. “She’s a Transmitter, too. Electrical impulses.”

Underworld shrugged and made a face that indicated she wasn’t following his train of thought.

“Mostly, it’s just very cool,” Janus said. “She can essentially taser a person by touch. Only a few times a day, mind you, but still…in any case, that’s the only power the public knows she has—the authorities might know more subsequent to my liberation of her—so you know about it of course. But my point is that low-level electrical impulses from her actually can enhance the effects of her other mental and neurological fiddlings. Helps her disrupt mental processes. Plus, imagine what a sensation of bugs crawling all over you can do on top of everything else she does when she’s messing with perceptions and sensations. I’ve done so many field tests with her. It’s really quite amazing. I’ve trained her to fine-tuned perfection over the years.”

“You must be so proud,” Underworld noted sarcastically. “So, she messes with their heads so much that they can’t…No, it still doesn’t make sense. Early on, if he suspected what she was doing to him, he would have run for help or called someone. There were usually daylong and sometimes several-day-long gaps between each rendezvous.”

“One last power my dear,” Janus said, drawing out his words as Underworld leaned toward him slightly with curiosity. “Or, rather, an additional twist with one of her powers—the Interfacer ability.”

Underworld made an irritated motion with one hand, urging him to get on with it.

“She’s addictive,” Janus said smugly. “She can make a connection with a person’s pleasure centers and addiction centers and make them want her. Need her. After their first time together, Ignacio knew he wanted her back. After a few times, he couldn’t imagine doing anything that would make it impossible for him to get access to her. Like, for example, getting her arrested and hauled back to the loony bin. The effect is quite long-lasting. Given enough exposure, it’s essentially permanent.”

“So he let her come back knowing what she was doing for the same reason an addict goes back to the needle or the pipe even when he knows it will destroy him.”

“Precisely. They can’t help themselves,” Janus said.

“Holy hell,” Underworld said, and then was silent for a bit. She frowned suddenly, then blurted: “You idiot! That’s why you keep her around. That’s why you took that big risk breaking her out of that high-security facility when you started up your ops here. She’s gotten to you. She’s got control of you. Bad enough that you’re as crazy as you are already; I can’t let you be manipulated by someone just as crazy. I’m not working under those kinds of conditions. The bitch dies right now.”

“Relax,” Janus said. “Seriously. Sit down and listen, or I will have to do something we’ll both regret.”

“You aren’t in control of your faculties, and I’m not afraid of you.”

“Shut up, Underworld,” he said mildly, without any rancor, pushing a file folder toward her. “You can look at my notes in here and those of some of my best researchers. Her powers are shit against other transhumans—something about most tranhuman gene sequences messes with her connection. She can cause vague mental unease and she can induce some low level of addiction, but that’s about it. Oh, and she can shock the hell out of you with electricity without any problem. But most of the people with transhuman genes are insulated from her mental and biochemical powers.”

Most,” Underworld emphasized. “Apparently not you, though.”

“I said ‘insulated,’ my dear,” Janus noted. “I never said I was immune—nor anyone else. Yes, I’ve had her around me several years, minus that unfortunate period of incarceration for her. She has, certainly, ‘gotten her hooks in me.’ But isn’t that what women always strive to do with their men? Of course she wants to be my favorite. I feel drawn to her and I feel a need to protect her and keep her near. But I was away from her long enough to know I don’t go through any kind of withdrawal.”

He paused, and his face took on a wistful and vaguely pleased look as he continued: “Oh, you should see what that looks like, when one of her addicted pets is denied her presence for a week or more. Such anguish. Worse than a heroin withdrawal, I think. I’m more loyal to her than to anyone else in my service—even you, who are almost a partner in my endeavors—but I am loyal to my own goals above all else. I took a risk to free her because I wanted her back, yes—but I also needed her talents.”

“And what if I don’t believe that? What if I think you’re making justifications to downplay her influence on you? What if I…”

“Kill her?” Janus finished. “I would punish you. Severely. Would I kill you in turn? Not likely. As I said, my own aims above all else. I feel more loyalty to her than I do to you, but I need your talents and powers more than hers, so killing you would be counterproductive. I would, however, torture you, I’m certain. Nothing personal, of course. Just business.”

Underworld sighed heavily. “Working with you is a tremendous pain in the ass, Janus. So, she addicted Fortunato’s cousin to her so that she could drive him insane for you, because she couldn’t just drive Ignacio insane right away.”

“Oh, she could have, if I wanted her to,” Janus noted. “It’s stressful, and painful for her, but she could have just pushed hard and had him jumping out a window on my behalf the first night. Better than average chance, anyway. She can really mess up a person’s head right away if she tries, but the effects don’t last long. More lasting results require her to take her time. If Ignacio had gone for the high-dive right away, though, it would have looked suspicious. The way she and I planned it, people got see him behaving more and more erratically over time. So the finding of a suicide was a shoo-in.”

“What’s your angle, though? Does Ignacio have some key connection to one of Fortunato’s businesses? Does his absence give you access to his cousin somehow?”

“Maybe a little, but not really,” Janus admitted. “No, the world will think Ignacio took his own life, so that it doesn’t come back to haunt me, since I have so many other outstanding charges already. No need to pile on them when I don’t need to. I do intend, however, to make sure Fortunato is informed subtly that I was responsible for his cousin’s death.”

Underworld whistled. “First, you try to have Query killed, and now you go after one of Fortunato’s family members and plan to wave that in the man’s face. Are you trying to piss off all the major transhuman players in New Judah, Janus?”

He smiled broadly, his mouth fully visible below the Mardi Gras mask, and his teeth looking very white in contrast to that mask and his dark tuxedo. “Why yes; yes I do, Underworld my dear. I plan on pissing them off quite a lot. And those two are just for starters.”

* * *

The late spring night embraced him with air that had the perfect balance of warm and cool, as he crossed the threshold of his home and entered into the wider suburban world around it. Forty minutes earlier, he had sent Clara home, and 15 minutes ago he had gotten his daughter down to sleep. Now, just a lonely and short journey to the garbage can with a full bag of refuse, and then he could enjoy a glass of something involving scotch or wine, and work his way slowly to his own bedtime.

His heart jumped in his chest at the sound of a flat voice from the darkness.

“So, who is she?”

Once William Bastion’s terror came down a notch a few seconds later and he recognized the voice, he ventured: “Teri?”

“Who was the woman, Will?”

“Theresa?” asked the physician, dumbfounded. “Is that you? Where have you been for the past…”

“Once more, Will,” she asked, a keen and deadly edge in her voice now. “Who is she?”

“Who? What are you…” he began, then stopped. “The woman I sent home, you mean? She was watching our daughter like she does three or four days every week. A daughter who would like to know where her mother has…”

“Ahhhh,” came the voice from the shadows. “A nanny. Well, you are a busy man, and your mother isn’t always well—and you wouldn’t trust her with my mom, thank God—so it makes sense. I had thought maybe your taste in women had gone down since I’ve been gone.”

The woman stepped out of the darkness and into the light of a nearby streetlamp, and Will suddenly drew back, dropping the bag of garbage. “Who are you?” he asked, his confusion renewed and amplified now.

“You don’t recognize me? Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder?”

Will sputtered the beginnings of a response, and then fell silent, trying to reconcile the notion of his wife’s voice coming from the body of Tooth Fairy. He took in the costume that mixed elements of the whimsical with absolutely grotesque ones like bones and teeth—and was fascinated with the wings that almost seemed to be real ones, fluttering and flapping negligently behind her. He was ready to protest that she wasn’t his wife—he was ready to ask why this notorious villain was mimicking his wife’s voice—and then he saw in the shape of the cheeks and the turn of the chin, as well as the eyes behind the mask that covered the upper part of her head, that this was Theresa Bastion before him.

His wife.

The mother of his child.

Not missing after all—not exactly. Not a simple abandonment. His wife had left them when their girl was a toddler not for any traditional reasons but to take up a life of crime and cruelty.  It took him a moment to absorb that, and then for the next implication to settle in.

Tooth Fairy had powers. She was transhuman. But Theresa…

“You can’t be,” Will gasped. “You…oh God, you took the compound yourself when you were pregnant, didn’t you? Directly. Instead of just letting me introduce it into the womb. You…Oh my God.”

“I had to make sure our daughter would be transhuman. Or as sure as one can be,” Tooth Fairy said flatly. “Your way was too cautious. Too tentative. I had to be strong, Will, for her sake. It was hard at first to hide how I was still changing after she was born—how I had changed even before then. By the time it would have been impossible to hide, I frankly didn’t want to. But then again, by that time, I also wasn’t feeling very domestic. I’m still a mother, though, and we’re still married, so I’m glad that was a nanny and not a woman I’d be obliged to kill before hurting you very badly. Also disappointed, because she looked tender and succulent.”

“Listen to yourself, Teri. You’re not stupid. You must realize that taking on powers as an adult…”

“No, I’m not stupid, and I embrace who I am. The butterfly that came out of her cocoon,” she replied, then smiled wistfully. “Well, fairy that came out of her cocoon, I guess.”

“But you’re…”

“Terrorizing people. Stealing. Harming. Oh, let’s not go on about that. I’m fulfilling my place in the human animal kingdom. Predators need exist, so that prey won’t go unappreciated. Besides, I’ve been building up the college fund for the little girl. And I’ve even thrown in a retirement fund for daddy.”

“I don’t want…that’s blood money. Theresa, you’ve done notorious…”

“See, you do still feel fondly toward me. Notorious. Such a flattering term. So much better than vile or wicked. I know, I’m good at what I do,” she said, her chest swelling as she took in a deep breath, and Will feeling a stirring of desire as he watched her breasts and remembered that she was once his wife and lover. “What can I say? But believe me, the way the economy has been going, you’ll want to take the retirement funds eventually. Besides, it’s the least I can do for you watching over Haley for a while longer.”

“Watching over? A while longer? She can’t go with…not into your life.”

“Oh, not now of course,” Tooth Fairy said sweetly. “Of course not. Stable family life and all. For now. But once she comes into her powers, I’ll have to take over. You couldn’t possibly understand. You couldn’t possibly give her what she needs. At that point, I’ll reunite with her. Although I suppose I should start laying the groundwork soon and perhaps get to know her a little without the costume on.”

“Teri, no.”

Tooth Fairy stepped forward and hunched down her shoulders, crouching slightly, exhibiting a kind of grace that seemed inherently sinister. The move was tremendously predatory and the implications froze the man with fear.

“That’s a dangerous word to use with me these days, William,” she said. “You’re a physician; I’m sure you can imagine the damage I can do. She’s our daughter, but she’ll eventually be my responsibility. You won’t get in the way of that. Or she will cease to have a father figure of the vanilla human variety.”

“But Teri, please, listen.”

“No. I’ve got to go,” she said, sweetness in her voice again. “Important people to get ready to meet soon. Places to go. Really carving out my place in the world—quite literally in some cases,” Tooth Fairy said. “Put an extra couple marshmallows in her cocoa tomorrow and let he know they’re courtesy of mommy. Toodles.”

With that, she darted off into the night, wings flapping so realistically behind her, and William Bastion stumbled back into the house, the trash on the ground forgotten, and the renewed wreckage of his life all too evident and all too enhanced.

Before he decided to go for that scotch—and make it a double—he checked in on his slumbering daughter, four years of innocence and probably simmering with transhuman potential.

He wondered how long before Theresa might come for her…No, not Theresa anymore, but maybe she can become that person again; maybe there’s a way…and then considered options like calling the police. Or running. Considered them, and thought of what the probably response would be from Tooth Fairy. Very few outcomes in his mind involved him coming out unscathed at the end, or even alive.

Besides, it’s her mother in that costume, Will thought. Somewhere.

There was comfort enough in that thought to allow him sleep that night.

Though the scotch probably helped that process more than did the sentiment.

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Ladykiller started nervously tapping her fingertips against the tabletop until she realized, moments later, that she was doing so with her left hand. She slid the condiment caddy over the several pits and scratches her clawed gauntlet had made, and said, “This is a really bad idea. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Mad Dash frowned. “What wrong with this place?” he asked, looking around at the large diner-style restaurant, which was busy even at this hour. Nearly half of the patrons were clad in costumes—from the garish to the cheesy to the chic. Almost all of those people wore masks of some sort, whether partial or whole-head. “This is the perfect place to eat. They’ve got great waffle-cut seasoned fries—I like the three-layer ones with chili, cheese and sour cream—and the cheeseburgers are great. Oh! Or are you vegetarian? They have a whole page here of stuff like that—even some things for the hardcore Vegans. And they serve breakfast 24 hours a day. What could be better?”

“How about a place that attracts less attention? The police must have a field day staking this place out. I’m wanted, you know,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning forward. “Doesn’t matter that anyone and everyone I’ve assaulted or killed was a rapist or some other woman-abusing piece of shit—I’m still wanted!” she hissed. “The food looks great, but it’s not going to be so great if my next meal is bologna on white bread in the lock-up.”

Behind the big yellow-lensed goggles that sat over his half-head mask, Mad Dash blinked. Blinked again. Then shook his head and chuckled. “You need to relax. For one thing, there aren’t any public images of you, so who knows what Ladykiller really looks like? I don’t think anyone’s even eye-witnessed you actually offing anyone. People wouldn’t even know it was Ladykiller doing the work if you didn’t always leave a calling card on your victims—is it a literal calling card, by the way? I’ve always wanted to know, and the police never say publicly.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s an actual business card. It says some scary, threatening stuff about what happens to men who abuse women. I figure enough of the cards will be grabbed by other criminals or get in the hands of the media that the word would get out, but…”

“…does it have a phone number on it to call you or an e-mail address?”

“No. That would be stupid…”

“…any cool graphics?”

“If a blood splatter behind the circle-and-arrow symbol for men is cool, then ‘yeah’…look, that doesn’t matter one…Wait! You’re right about me being under the radar so far. I don’t think there are any pictures at all of me in my costume—not even good composite sketches in the hands of police or the media. And most of the women I rescue from these guys never get a look at me and the times they have I sometimes don’t leave a card. How the hell did you know who I was in the alley?”

“We’re gonna need a few more moments,” Mad Dash said to the waitress as she approached. “Query,” he answered as he turned back to Ladykiller. “He circulated a description of you to a bunch of us in the costumed community. He’s a real apricot of a guy.”

Query knows what I look like in costume?”

“Might know what you look like out of costume, too,” he answered, then stopped and put a couple fingers to his lips briefly, blushing. “Oh, crap, I didn’t mean like whoopee-whoopie out of costume. He probably doesn’t know you that well.”

“How does he know at all?”

“20/20 Rule,” Mad Dash said. “You know, the mikshakes here are splendiferous. You should try the oreo-mint-toffee one. I know. Sounds crazy. But it works.”

Ladykiller sighed, and began to tap one foot nervously. Suddenly, the idea that Query had intelligence on her was driving out worries of the police busting in here. “20/20 Rule? I’m guessing that has nothing to do with good eyesight…except maybe metaphorically?”

“It’s actually Mad Dash’s 20/20 Rule of Transhuman Familiarity Regarding Query, but that was too long and people didn’t seem to like the acronym MD2020RoTFRQ either. You see, I figure it like this: If you’re an active transhuman in New Judah and the news or police don’t have photos or good descriptions of you, there’s a 20% chance Query has an image of you in his files, either a sketch or a photo. And if Query knows what you looks like on the job, I figure a 20% chance he knows who you are under the mask, or at least knows what neighborhood you live in.”

“This is very disturbing, Mad Dash. You billed this as a relaxing meal, and now I’m having an anxiety attack.”

“You should take Yoga-nidra. Calm you right down. Mediation works.”

“Meditation,” she corrected him.

“That too,” he said. “Look, unless you start killing off pickpockets or maiming innocent bystanders, Query isn’t going to bother with you. You’re punching the tickets on total scum-sacks. Too much on his plate to go after people just to be all moralizing with them, and it would be the gravy boat calling the coffee cup ceramic anyway if he did.”

The waitress returned, asking, “Can I get you two something to drink while you look at the menus? Oh, my, that clawed glove is striking, Miss. You have such a sleek, clean look to your outfit.”

“A jumbo Coke, jumbo pink lemonade and large chocolate milk for me,” Mad Dash said.

“Um…medium Diet Coke?” Ladykiller asked.

“Sure thing, you two. Just take your time with the menus.”

As the woman walked away to get the drinks, Mad Dash smirked. “See? You clearly don’t get out enough. I’m a little crazy but I’m not dumbedy-dumb-dumb.”

“So no one here seriously thinks we’re transhumans? All the people in costume but us are all just posers and wanna-bes?”

“No, actually, I think that might really be Python in the corner over there—copying or faking abs like that is pretty hard. Dude owes me $50. But yeah, there are like two other locations for this place, and some other places that get similar clientele. Speed Demon and Feral could be sitting on two stools next to each other at the counter and they wouldn’t fight because they couldn’t be sure the other guy was for real. Some people rock their own look, and some people copy their idols in the hero or villain world and a lot of them just like the idea knowing real white hats or black hats might be here. I mean, look at that Devil-May-Care over there. That costume is right on the mark. Probably one of the guys the real villain pays and gives costumes to and has run around town and eat at places like this.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he likes to eat out, silly-butt, and he wants to know he won’t get hassled if he gets a hankering for a prime rib or an apple pie and coffee when he’s in costume. A buncha years ago, the police would round up ‘villains’ from these places from time to time just to be safe and to question them, and then after a few big lawsuits and shouting about unreasonable cause—because they never actually grabbed a real villain or dangerous vigilante; except for once, and he was C-list all the way—they just gave up watching these kinds of places.”

Ladykiller visibly relaxed. “So, we’re cool here?” Mad Dash nodded vigorously and smiled as the drinks were set down and the waitress promised to come back in a couple minutes. “Foie gras?” Ladykiller blurted out from behind the menu. “Escargot? Steak tartare? Shitake and swordfish risotto?”

“You got to the gourmet page, huh?” Mad Dash said. “You wouldn’t think a place like this could handle that kind of food, but they do. They make money hand over mouth around here and like I said, there are some heavy hitters with fancy tummies who drop in here.”

* * *

Shortly after he had started walking with the costumed guy from the Guardian Corps, Cole had said, pleasantly, “Hi, I’m…”

“No,” the man said, cutting him off. “I’ll just call you Noob, if I have to call you anything at all, and you can call me Blockbuster if some crap happens that I need to know about.”

Cole sensed the undercurrent of “shut up and just follow me” and walked in silence for the next half-hour, until a van came by, stopped for them, and drove for 20 minutes. Blockbuster got out, motioned for Cole to follow him, and led him into a small tenement-style apartment where another costumed figure awaited them.

“Welcome to the Guardian Corps,” the new man said.

“Uh, thanks,” Cole said, doing a quick visual scan of the sparsely and coarsely furnished place. “I kind of thought you guys would have a bigger headquarters.”

“This isn’t our headquarters; this is where you will hang out until we’re sure of you,” he answered. “Gangs don’t like us. Organized crime franchises don’t like us. Supervillains don’t like us because we help bring up new crops of superheroes. Common criminals don’t like us. A lot of left-wing groups and several politicians don’t like us. So you have to work your way to seeing one of our actual headquarters. Because you could be working for any of them. And if you were working for a villain to get inside our operation, you could kill a lot of people. So I don’t want you near any of our people.”

“Oh,” he said, some disappointment in his voice. “I guess I understand that. So how are you going to be sure of me?”

“We’re going to watch you for a bit. We’re going to talk. We have some people doing some poking around right now. A little later, we’ll interrogate you—intensely.”

“I guess you probably want to know what I can do…”

“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t. I don’t know you, so I don’t trust you—which means I wouldn’t believe anything you tell me yet anyway about your powers—if you even have any. And if you try to show us any powers or I even think you’re using powers subtly, it’s going to get ugly for you very fast because I will assume you are attacking me and Blockbuster. Do you understand?”

Cole nodded.

“Now, we’re going to go over some basics, and I’m going to ask you some questions before our expert comes in here to really grill you. You cool with that?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes.”

“This ain’t exactly what you expected, was it?”

“No.”

“In a lot of ways, Cole, we’re like a street gang,” the man said. “We look out for each other, and a lot of us put the Guardian Corps before our personal life; sometimes even before family. When the Corps were formed, the Guardian Angels that Curtis Sliwa founded were our model. He took the notion behind gangs and tried to make something positive out of it, bringing young people together under one banner to try to help instead of commit crimes. He had them trained in basic hand-to-hand skills, and put them out to patrol the streets at night. This isn’t going to be some party or day camp.”

“I don’t expect it to be,” Cole answered.

“No, you probably don’t, but you also don’t know what you’re getting into, exactly,” the man said. “Do you know that we’ll eventually beat you up?”

“You mean if you thought I was a traitor or a spy, right?”

“No, I mean that if you get far enough in our training, a bunch of us will be in a circle around you, kicking and hitting you while you just take it, because you need to know what it feels like to get your ass kicked before some bad-ass on the street does it to you.”

“I get it,” Cole said, but there was hesitancy in his voice.

“You can back out, Cole. No harm. No shame. No foul. This kind of life ain’t pretty. You can do a lot of good, and it can be meaningful, but it won’t be fun very often. Maybe in between work there’s fun, but being a hero isn’t a game.”

“I want to learn. I want to try. I want to see how far I can go,” Cole said. “I mean, if you’re looking for promises, I…”

“Promises don’t matter,” the man said. “Actions matter. Intentions matter. You heart matters. Is doing this important enough to you to get your hands dirty and to get hurt?”

Cole paused for a moment, and tried to imagine a life at a desk or a lab table applying engineering techniques to life sciences. He couldn’t. The kind of work he had trained for in college seemed like something more suited to being a hobby. It didn’t feel like his life. He looked at the man and said, “Yeah, it is. I don’t know if I’ll do good enough for you or anyone else. I only know that I have to try.”

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