The Gathering Storm, Part 29

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

It was an alien feeling for Solstice alone in the skeez lab. It wasn’t her first time in such an environment, but usually when she was in a place like this, it was to kick ass, leave soon thereafter and call the cops.

Instead, she was alone and surrounded by all the equipment, chemicals and other accoutrements of a drug lab. All arrayed around her as if they were her own. In a sense, they were now. She’d claimed this place and Query’s hired hands had removed the people who had been here previously. They’d picked this lab out precisely because it wasn’t affiliated with organized crime or any gangs in the area. Just a boutique operation that hadn’t been gobbled up yet partly because it wasn’t really squarely in the middle of anyone’s territory.

Her drug lab.

What a weird damn feeling. And I’ve been here a night and most of a day so it just feels weirder and weirder, Solstice mused. I know the slow tink-tink-tink of the dripping pipe over that metal plate on the floor. I know the squeak of that one ancient ceiling fan. My drug lab. Even though I have zero interest in or intention of slinging skeez.

On the other hand, being the owner and operator of this skeez lab was precisely what Marty the Hun was supposed to think of her. That was the fiction that Query had slipped into ears of a few select people on the street—that Solstice had gone rogue and went over the dark side. That perhaps her crime-fighting before had been nothing more than a sham for winnowing out the competition.

It would be an easy thing for Marty to envision; it would resonate with his black heart, Solstice thought. His bigoted, sexist self would expect just that kind of thing from her, especially being a Goth, Wiccan, Asian transhuman who’d humiliated him and gotten him arrested.

If only he knew I was bi, he’d really think me the scum of the earth, probably.

Creating the notion this was her lab was precisely why she’d been camping out here for more than 20 hours.

By now, Marty the Hun knew where she was and no doubt he still wanted blood. Except now he thought he was doing more than getting revenge. He’d also be taking out someone whose own drugs and money could be added to his own—if, of course, Query’s team hadn’t removed most of the finished drugs and taken the money, too.

I won’t begrudge him the money, even though under other circumstances I would have helped myself to plenty of it after a bust; I’ve certainly gotten major assistance from Query on this little operation, so if he has his own plans for the cash, so be it, she thought. Now we’ll see if his help and this crazy plan Isabella and I hatched gets me killed or if I get clear of Marty’s wrath for good.

The screen of the smart phone Query’s team had left behind for her lit up suddenly, revealing a floor plan of the building and two flashing red circles that indicated someone had slipped in through the front and the back almost simultaneously, tripping a couple of the sensors Query’s people had installed inside the building’s perimeter.

Marty won’t be in the front of the crowd, but he will almost certainly be here with his goons, Solstice reminded herself. He likes hands-on, and given what he’s heard on the streets and from whom, this wouldn’t smell like a trap. After all, he’s been thinking all this time since he got off that I’ve been running and hiding from him, when I didn’t even know he’d been hunting me until Query told me.

Marty the Hun would also be here, she realized, because the lab was too valuable a target to let his crew be running loose here without him.

The intruders didn’t expect her to know they were here, so she moved swiftly toward the rear of the building to keep that edge. Marty wasn’t the type to slip in through the back of anyplace, and she wanted to deal with him last of all. She spotted three men slinking in, wary and guns drawn. Her Attractor powers yanked the weapons from their hands and as they all gave out confused cries of irritation, she tossed a flashbang grenade into their midst and slipped back around the corner, closing her eyes and covering her ears as the grenade made the room a frenzy of light and noise.

She had been a little too close to the action, she realized, as her ears rang and she felt herself sway a bit as she rose to her feet—not even realizing she had dropped to her knees in the first place. She mostly regained her bearings in time to see the butt of a shotgun stock rushing toward her face, and clumsily blocked it with her left arm. Her arm vibrated and throbbed from the impact as she heard the man shout, “Got her for ya Marty!” and swung the shotgun in a tight, hard arc as he added, “Softenin’ her up.”

Oh, Marty wants me intact so he can do me himself—how romantic of him, she thought, and ducked under the attack, dropping to the floor. She lifted her legs, wrapped her ankles around one of the attacker’s thighs and poured an intense burst of thermal energy through them, then ran her ankles down toward his feet, burning his leg all the way down. His pants smoldered and the stench of burning flesh assaulted her nostrils. As he screamed in agony, she used her feet to pull him off balance, and relieved him of the shotgun. Taking a cue from his attack on her, she slammed the stock of the gun into his head half a dozen times in quick succession.

Another man came into view in front of her, bringing his pistol around. She lowered the temperature around him abruptly to startle him and slow him down just a hair, and aimed hastily at his legs with the shotgun. Her  aim was sloppy, but good enough to take out one of his kneecaps, and she hurried over to his prone body to take his gun before he could recover his wits.

“G’night, bitch-whore,” came Marty’s voice from behind just as she touched the pistol, and the shock and humiliation of him getting the drop on her was enough to throw her off. Instead of reacting, she froze for just a moment. Just a moment too long.

I’ll never swing around in time and he’s going to put a bullet into my head and oh fuck and…

Marty grunted, and then his towering body fell onto her, a heavy dead weight. There was stickiness between their bodies and Solstice wanted to retch with the knowledge it was her blood, or his, or both. That she was finished.

But why did he fall? she suddenly considered, and frantically shoved at his body to prepare for another attack. I didn’t hear a gunshot why would either of us be bleeding? She couldn’t dislodge Marty’s body from her own and she began to thrash, keening with fear and rage.

“Calm down,” said a firm and quiet voice, and Solstice saw Query above them, a large Bowie knife in one gloved hand. “Hold still and I’ll cut you free. I shot him with a rubber slug and then hit him with a tangler. You got caught up with the tangler threads.”

There were a few quick slashes, and Solstice rolled free of Marty.

“I took the liberty of trussing up the guys in the back,” Query said, grabbing Marty’s half-stunned body by one arm and dragging him to another room. “Kindly take care of the guy you roasted, please, and the one you shot, while I see to Marty.”

Solstice got the burn victim’s hands behind his back and cinched a plastic tie around his wrists, did the same for the hobbled thug, and then followed Query to the office where he’d dragged Marty.

“What brings you to the party?” she asked. “I thought this was my mess to clean up.”

“I came because I’m not half the asshole I let you think I was,” Query answered. “I don’t like dead peers, not even the young, headstrong, sometimes idiotic ones.”

“Goddamn you’re a charmer, Query. The girl heroes must be throwing themselves at you.”

“Only when we’re sparring or one of them confuses me with one of the bad guys,” Query said, then jabbed Marty in the ribcage. “Evenin’, Hun. How’s it hanging?”

“You’re both dead,” Marty the Hun slurred as he regained his senses. Then, with more gusto: “I’m gonna see you fucked up in every possible way I can think of; both of ya!”

Solstice slipped up close, and got in his face, almost nose-to-nose. “Gonna be hard to do from behind bars, Marty. Especially given how long you’ll be going away, seeing as how I’m going to leave you here for the police with lots of nice, strong evidence that makes it look like you run this place. Judges like to put skeez-cookers away for long, long time. They send lots of cops to skeez busts, Marty. Not a chance that you’ll only have your pet cops on the scene. You get to go down, down, down—for years before you see any shot at parole.”

“Don’t matter, because I hold grudges forever. Same to you, Query. And I got ways to touch people from prison.”

“You’re a pretty decent-sized fish, Marty, but not that big,” Query said. “There isn’t anyone who’s going to have anywhere near the tenacity in going after us on your behalf as you would, even if you can lay hold of money to pay them. And I’m not sure you’ll have much in the way of support from your friends on the outside when the child porn comes to light after your arrest. In fact, you won’t do too well with the guys on the inside when that gets around.”

“I’m not into kiddie porn any more than this is my lab!” Marty growled.

“You may believe in the motto ‘old enough to bleed, old enough to breed,’ Marty, but fucking 14- and 15-year-olds is plenty sick enough for me—it’s kid-fucking—and Query says that shit’s confirmed. Not to mention all those women you tortured and killed thinking they might have been me. So I don’t feel bad at all planting downloads with little kids on your computer—well, the computer that’s going to seem to be yours, especially when we finishing putting your fingerprints all over it. When you do get out someday, Marty—you know, if you don’t get killed behind bars first by a convict who thinks you might fuck his little kid when you’re released—you’ll want to be rethinking this whole concept of ‘If you want something right, do it yourself’ and stick to letting lackeys do the work.”

“Dead! That’s all I got to say to you, bitch.”

“Congratulations, Solstice,” Query said. “You have your first arch-enemy. You know, if he gets out of prison. As my own little gift to honor that occasion, here’s a little of the lab’s cash,” he added, tossing a bulging fanny pack to her. “Also, I’m going to let you take credit for all this. I wasn’t here. You’re the hero who took this place down solo.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Marty hissed. “You’re gonna boost her street rep like that? Oh, no. I’m not only gonna tell everyone I know that she needed your help, but I’m gonna tell them she didn’t take down a single guy tonight and you’re covering for her. Let’s see how long she lasts in the streets when people think she’s a pussy can’t protect herself.”

“You might want to rethink that, Marty,” Query said. “Not one of your guys out there had any wits about him to see me here. And everyone knows I leave dirty, street-level shit like busting drug labs to the younger and more impetuous generation of heroes. Start trying to convince people the big, bad Query was here, and they’ll be thinking you’re the pussy who not only got his ass handed to him by a girl but that he’s not even man enough to suck up that fact.”

“Gosh, Marty, that would go together real well with your new kiddie porn rep,” Solstice taunted. “You’ll be such a bigger hit with the other cons then.”

“Dead,” Marty repeated. “One way, one day. Dead.”

* * *

On her third day in Fortunato’s high-rise, Zoe found herself in what she considered an obnoxiously gargantuan office, finally meeting her benefactor.

“I hope your stay has been pleasant so far,” Fortunato almost purred.

“Can’t complain,” Zoe answered disinterestedly. “Query said if you took me in you’d treat me right. I appreciate that you’ve given me up to four months to stay. Not sure if I’ll put you out for that long, but it’s nice not to have two transhuman psychos breathing down my neck for a while.”

Bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement, Fortunato said, “You could stay longer. Room and board for as long as you like, free of charge.”

“Oh. Really? Sir, I’m not in the market to become a kept woman. Ain’t going for the mistress look, no thank you. No matter how rich you are.”

Chuckling and waving one hand dismissively, Fortunato reached into a humidor on his desk and extracted a cigar. “Do you mind if I partake?”

“Only if I get to flaunt the city’s no-smoking-in-the-workplace laws, too,” Zoe said.

“Fine with me. Cuban or domestic?” he offered.

“Cigar? No. I’ll stick with good old Virginia Slims, thanks,” she said, retrieving and lighting up a cigarette from her purse as Fortunato toasted and lit his Havana with a wooden match.

As he puffed silently, Zoe regarded their slowly growing and mingling smoke for a minute or so before saying, “I’m still not interested in living here as some sort of sex-toy, by the way. Especially now. I’m not attracted to men who smoke.”

“Ironic. And hypocritical,” he said, eliciting only a shrug and a haughty exhalation of smoke from her. “But that’s not what I had in mind. I wish to employ you for your transhuman abilities. Query provided only a very meager file on you. No doubt to pique my interest so that I’d be more inclined to give you shelter in case I decided his payment for hiding you wasn’t good enough.”

“He paid you? Didn’t know his pockets were that deep. I bet your help is expensive.”

“It is. That’s why Query paid me in a currency more valuable than cash. But back to you and me, shall we?” Fortunato said. “I am in need of talented transhumans. You somehow got the very intense interest of Janus, which means you must be something special, perhaps even beyond just the powers Query mentions in the file. I’d like to hire you at a very generous salary and benefits, plus the free room and board I offered. A much bigger suite, of course, than you occupy now.”

Zoe took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “I’m not really the costume-wearing and crime-fighting type, sir,” she said through her exhale.

“Please, call me Fortunato. And I think it’s a career you should very much consider, since I’d be financing it. Not many transhumans who put on tights are able to find any kind of benefactor, much less one as flush as I am.”

“I rejected Janus and Underworld and hired Query to get them off my back,” Zoe responded. “They offered a lot to me as well.”

“True, but I think you like to fight—mostly in a verbal or metaphorical fashion but still, you’re a fighter. And I suspect that despite your recent and harrowing little adventure that a big part of you would like to find an excuse to put your powers into action again,” Fortunato said, pointing the smoldering tip of his cigar at her. “And the main reason you turned down Janus and his crew was because you’re not criminally minded. You have too many moral compunctions. Well, about robbing, killing and that sort of thing. You certainly didn’t mind hiding from the NCAA and your college that you’re transhuman. Now that’s something that could come back to haunt you.”

“Let me guess: If I don’t take your generous offer now, my college and the NCAA will conveniently find out about my fraud, and you’ll swoop in with a less generous offer of employment that I’ll have to accept so that you’ll bail me out of the lawsuit they’d threaten me with.”

“That’s a cynical line of thought,” Fortunato said.

“True, too, isn’t it, Fortunato?”

“I know Vanessa approached you. I didn’t know that she put such slanderous thoughts in your head.”

“The fact that you know she talked to me for less than a minute tells me that I should invite Query to my room soon to find the hidden cameras and mics,” Zoe said. “Also, it’s nice of you to confirm that you must have extorted her in some way because she really didn’t give me quite that much detail when she warned me about you.”

“Oh, I’m sure she dropped big enough hints to get your imagination going, Zoe. Allison…I mean, Vanessa…has some issues with me, but I assure you…”

“She dropped the name Allison, too. What the hell?”

“Sorry, it’s her codename for costumed work. Allison Wonderland,” Fortunato clarified. “I sometimes get it…”

“Anyways,” Zoe said, cutting him off, “it was Query who warned me you’d probably make a pitch and I should be on the lookout for possible snares and blackmailing.”

“Query? He has more issues with me than Vanessa…”

“Plus he gave me a file on you, just like he gave you one on me,” Zoe continued. Reaching into her large shoulder bag, she pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it onto Fortunato’s desk. “As you can see, it’s way bigger than the one you have on me. You have an interesting history for someone who’s on the side of the good guys. I think Query left out a lot. You’re probably even a way bigger ass than he’s letting on to me.”

Fortunato set his cigar aside even as Zoe reached over to the same ashtray to stub out her half-smoked cigarette, and he said, “None of that changes anything about my offer or about your circumstances.”

“No, but it changes the nature of our negotiations, Fortunato. I’ve had a few days to think, knowing this meeting was likely to happen after you did the due diligence and digging around about me, and I’ve decided that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to work more or less on the right side of the law since it’s clear I’m being dragged into this costumed world whether I like it or not. I’d probably have to leave the country to have a normal life in the short run, and I don’t want to do that. I’d also like to make some good money, because I’ve got grad school in my plans and a desire to get through life debt-free and without two bankruptcies like my parents did.”

“What, pray tell, is going to change about our negotiations simply because you expect duplicity from me?”

“First, you’re going to make sure that neither UConn nor the NCAA drags me into the courts, and that means you don’t tell them that I withheld information to get my free ride. It also means that if they come to that conclusion on their own, you’ll do whatever you need to in order to make sure I don’t get sued by the college. Like buy them a new library or whatever,” Zoe said. “You’ll also make sure that no one ties my civilian identity to my costumed one. If I’m exposed, or sued or any of those things I want you to protect me against, you will pay me the equivalent of ten years of my most recent annual salary with you in one lump sum, immediately. A penalty. Or severance. Or whatever you wanna call it.”

“You mean I’ll pay if I’m somehow responsible for any of those things happening.”

“No, you’ll pay regardless,” Zoe said. “Consider it incentive to be very protective of me.”

“That means that you could, theoretically, expose yourself at some point in the future on purpose, at any time in your life, and collect on ten times the last salary I paid you before you left my employ,” Fortunato said.

“Yeah. Well, you need to take risks for big payoffs. I’m pretty sure I’m a five-power transhuman, Fortunato. That’s about as rare as we come. So I’m worth it.”

“You’re more ruthless a negotiator than I expected, Zoe. I think I like you.”

“I don’t know if I can say the feeling’s mutual, but thanks. We can talk about the other details now, but I won’t be signing anything until I have a lawyer look things over. Query’s going to lend me his attorney friend.”

“Oh, how she twists the knife,” Fortunato said with a smile, retrieving his cigar. “Zoe, I might have to watch out or I could fall in love with you.”

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 28

Quick Recap (since it’s been a while since I’ve posted a new chapter in this series):
Thus far in the series, a supervillain named Janus has moved his operations from the West Coast to the East Coast, with designs on the Connecticut city of New Judah primarily, it seems. One of his first acts was to target one of the city’s primary heroes, Query, as well as to recruit a semi-retired supervillain named Underworld. In addition to gathering various villains, Janus and Underworld aggressively and threateningly courted a young transhuman named Zoe, who then sought out Query for protection. Meanwhile, billionaire and former hero Fortunato has been drawn into Janus’ machinations, as well as scheming something himself. Query has fended off Janus’ attempts to abduct Zoe, as well as trying to nudge along a young hero named Solstice in growing up, and he has taken down a small part of Janus’ operation in the process. Zoe ended up unleashing her full powers in the last kidnapping attempt by Janus, and wrestles with the deaths that led to. In the midst of all this, a friend and fellow hero of Query’s, Mad Dash, has found himself in an unlikely romance with a violent vigilante named Ladykiller, who now also dresses up as someone named Honey Badger so that she can occasionally patrol with Mad Dash and not smear his reputation.
______________________________________________________

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

Two men in black faced each other across a desk. One in a tuxedo, after readying himself for a charity event; the other in body armor almost from head to toe, eager to be back on the streets.

One seated; one standing. One who no longer wore a mask; one who did. One who was lifting a tumbler of scotch to his lips; one who made almost a show of avoiding the drink that had been placed before him.

“So, tell me, why I would take this young lady in and provide her with protection against Janus and his machinations?” Fortunato asked Query, raising one eyebrow. “No matter how interesting she sounds from this…clearly very abridged…file you’ve given me on her.”

“Because you’ve been trying to reach me so damned hard for days now—well, weeks, really,” Query said, rocking back on his heels a bit with his gloved hands clasped behind his back.

“I fail to see the connection,” Fortunato said in a tone mixing a growl and a purr.

“Perhaps you’re not as smart as everyone thinks you are, then,” Query responded dryly. “Perhaps you’re not even as smart as I thought you were.” He paused for several moments, savoring the growing irritation in Fortunato’s gaze, then smiled, despite the fact the other man wouldn’t be able to see that grin beneath the full-head mask.

“What I am saying,” Query continued, “is that because you are so eager to speak with me about something—a topic that I would successfully dodge for years, until it became irrelevant, given that I find you so odious—and because I want safe harbor for Zoe…well, I will actually begin returning your phone calls and you can tell me whatever it is you want to tell me. Or pitch to me. Or plead for my help on. You’re a man with something in mind; guard her true and I’ll spare you my time.”

“I hate it when you lapse into rhyme, Query. Even near-rhyme. It suggests to me that your mind is getting ready to spin out plans that will confound my own.”

“Plotting and planning by someone theoretically on the side of the angels. Yes, it’s a trait I find pretty irritating in you as well,” Query retorted. “So, do we have a deal? You keep watch over her while I assess things, and I stop putting you off?”

“Doesn’t sound like an equitable trade,” Fortunato drawled, his accent lapsing into something more befitting his upbringing in a Latino neighborhood  than the Wall Street-style tonality he had perfected over the years. “Why could I possibly want that much for you to listen to me? I think you have misread the level of my interest in speaking with you.”

“Well, then, I’m sure I can throw a few shekels someone’s way for some babysitting or some recommendations of someone who can watch over Zoe. Cheshire always knows people…”

“Fine, fine,” Fortunato said quickly and irritably. “Negotiating with you is so irritating, since even my best poker face is useless. She can stay in a suite here in my building for a few weeks if necessary—or maybe a couple months. If you actually listen to what I have to say. Play me off or tune me out and she can hit the streets.”

“Excellent,” Query said. “Although I seriously doubt you could bring yourself to kick her out. Well, I’m all ears right now, even if you can’t see them. Talk.”

“Now I want you to wait for a while,” Fortunato said. “I have an event I’m already late in attending and some things to take care of first before we talk. New business, as it were. Until I settle that, talking to you would be premature.”

“Yes,” Query said. “And I’m sure that ‘new business’ has cafe-au-lait-colored skin and multicolored locs upon her head. And a very interesting—if abridged—file.”

* * *

Solstice couldn’t fault Isabella’s background work about the skeez lab; her stepsister’s research had been impeccable, and the floorplans she had unearthed for the building were nearly spot-on accurate. But apparently, a small bathroom—suited only for a toilet and sink—had been installed in the past year or two. That was the one thing not on the blueprints.

Also on the “unpredictable list” would be the annoying fact that one of the guys working in the drug house was using that crummy little bathroom because, presumably, someone else was occupying the better two toilets elsewhere in the building.

Which also wouldn’t be so bad, Solstice thought, if he weren’t armed and coming out of that bathroom just when she was halfway through a back window trying to slip in unnoticed. Normally, she was quicker on the draw with her chilling powers than people were with guns—especially people who’d just finished taking a piss and still had damp hands from washing them—but a bit of panic set in at her sensation of utter exposure and she thrust herself through the window in an ungainly lunge.

As she tumbled awkwardly to the floor, the man had his gun pointed at her. Her Attractor power took a few moments to focus, so there was no way she could relieve him of his gun in time. Instead, she began to lower the temperature around his body sharply as she kicked over a nearby trash and dodged. The sound of the can wasn’t precisely in sync with the gunshot as he squeezed the trigger, but it was close enough, she hoped, that no one would realize a gun had been fired.

She heard the bullet whiz past her, far too close for comfort, and she pounced—counting on the sudden chill in his muscles to give her an edge—and pinned his cheeks between both her palms as she set her thermal powers to work and burned him severely. It was more brutal than she would have liked, but felt better than killing him outright. The only thing keeping him from bringing attention to their struggle by screaming in agony was her bosom smashed up against his face as she mounted his torso—legs squeezing his ribs hard—and forced him against a wall hard while searing his face.

The awkward and blunt-force assault stunned him just enough to ensure his silence for a moment as she grabbed a mop from a bucket near the tiny bathroom and struck him in the skull several times. For long moments, she stayed quiet and crouched, awaiting an attack but hoping her panicked plan had worked and the whole brief fight had sounded like nothing more than the guy clumsily knocking stuff over.

When no attack came, she gagged him with a dirty cleaning rag and bound his wrists with one of the many plastic ties in a pouch on her belt.

She worked through the lab efficiently—trying to do so slowly even as her pounding heart and throbbing temples urged her to rush—and took out her opponents by ones and twos—five in all—somehow without getting shot in the process. By the time she actually got to the working part of the lab where the skeez was cooked, there were only four people left, all of them unarmed cookers, and they surrendered without hesitation.

Pulling out her cell phone after the last of them was restrained, she dialed up Query. The voice on the other end made a curt greeting, and she couldn’t quite place it. “Hello? Is this the Dark Jerk or is this his faithful sidekick, Portly Lawyer?”

Might as well get a little passive-aggressive dig in somewhere,  she thought.

“I don’t pay Portly Lawyer to answer my phone, and please don’t call him that again. Only I have authority to tease him. Would this happen to be Careless Impetuous Goth by any chance?”

“Yes. Operation Hun is a done deal. Part one, anyway. Can you come pick up the trash and drop off the merchandise?”

“Oh, darn, we’re going to get all professional and official now and cut the witty banter short?” Query said dryly. “In all honesty, I’m glad you pulled it off. Team will be there in less than 10. Good luck on surviving part two.”

“There’s still time for you to join up with me and help out so that I do,” Solstice said.

“Some lessons need to be learned the hard way, my dear,” Query said, and hung up.

* * *

Sitting with her legs drawn up to her chest at one end of her sofa, while Mad Dash wolfed down spoonful after spoonful of Raisin Bran that was filling half of a mixing bowl, Ladykiller blinked several times. “Um…did I hear you right? You want to take me to…a bank? In costume. As Ladykiller.”

Swallowing a mouthful of milk, soggy flakes and raisins, Mad Dash smiled. “Sure! Or as Honey Badger. Or we can do two trips and make it both!”

“Why? Weird date even by your standards.”

“Well, they always give out an iTunes or Starbucks gift card when you open your first new account,” he said happily, a little dribble of milk running from one corner of his mouth back into the bowl. “Way better than a toaster or a hair dryer or whatever they gave out back in the olden days. Well, at least Bank of America gives out gift cards. Not sure about Citibank and Wells Fargo. I’m not a big fanboy of B&A but they have the most market square.”

“Ummm…OK. I have a bank account already. Also, since when does B-of-A give out gifts for opening accounts? Also, don’t you think going to a bank as Ladykiller is a good way to make the guards think the place is about to get robbed? A lot of people assume the worst about me.”

“Well, of course B-to-the-A-izzle gives out inventives,” Mad Dash mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. “Fierce composition for the transhuman customers, ya know. Important market but not the biggest one. Only the national chains have the resources to do that kind of business.”

“I already have an account. At a nice little community bank in my neighborhood here. I’d think you’d be the sort of guy who’d support the little guys, Petey.”

Mad Dash smiled, frowned and smiled again, setting down the bowl. “I’ll finish the rest later when it’s ooper-dooper nice and mushy,” he said by way of preamble, then sat down near her on the sofa, setting his right hand on her clenched knees. “You’ve got an accounting at a bank, sure, but as Sarah. But you should have one for your dress-up self—whichever one. Or both, though I’m not sure what banking rules are about that.”

“Accounts for costumed weirdos like us? What are you talking about?”

“Wow! I know you were a…um…prisoner…um…here for a while, but you’ve been in costume for more than a year now and don’t know about things like Cape Checking and Super-Savings accounts? Masked Moneymarkets? Any of this ring-ding-a-linging any horns?”

“Dash, I’m spending the money of the dead man who kept me here as his sex-slave and have been for the past couple years,” Ladykiller answered. “The only reason I even have a bank account as Sarah is because I had it before I ended up in this crazy life. I don’t think it has more than a hundred bucks in it anymore. I’m an e-payment and cash economy kinda girl these days.”

“Honey-runny, you really, really didn’t care about costumed folks before you jumped into becoming one, did you? Or how they live.”

“Dash…Peter…I still don’t really care about them. I just dress and act like some of them,” Ladykiller said. “And now I date one. Anyway. The bank thing. What the fuck already.”

“Well, my cinnamon sticky bun…the big three banks will open accounts for your hero identity, with checks, debit cards and all that. You can even get credit cards—even loans sometimes—if you’re established enough. It kinda helps when you need to pay for things when you’re in costume, but don’t want to muck with a bunch of cash. I once had to rent a car to get to a meet-up when my boots were on their last treads. Sure, the Hertz folks blocked off an extra thousand bucks on my debit card to cover themselves while I was using the car and didn’t remove the block until a week afterward, but still, I wouldn’t have been able to doo-doo that if I was on a cash ecology.”

“I don’t want to tell them my identity and show my civilian ID and shit, Peter!”

“You don’t need to. Banking privacy for exotic customers law—or whatever it’s called. Don’t you know about that either? The big three pushed that legislation through to get the trans business years ago,” Dash said. “You confirm your identity with a thumbprint scan. Police aren’t allowed to demand print records from the bank to match to their own fingerprint files unless the transhuman is being charged with bank fraud or bank robbery.”

“I can’t believe that all of you would be that trusting. What if the laws change?”

“Do what I do—thanks to paranoia coaching from my buddy-pal Query: Do palm print instead, since police don’t do those. Or you can even do retina scan if you choose Citibank. It’s sort of their point of distinction. Wells Fargo has a voiceprint option. But Citi and Wells don’t have as many flexible account options as body odor of America. Main downside usually is that if your card gets stolen, you’re usually on the hoof for half of the charges to your account, unlike the civilian crowd. That’s the way the banks  help make it less risky for themselves. Also, the monthly fees for us can be a sung of a twitch.”

Ladykiller sighed. “Why would they even do that? How much money can that be worth to them? I mean, the villains wouldn’t dare open accounts there and heroes make lousy money usually—no offense.”

“Sure they would. Well, sorta,” Mad Dash said. “Most of the successful bad guys hire minor transhumans to do low-level hero work part-time for show and then launder their money through them. Use their debit cards. Stuff like that. As long as the money isn’t used for obviously illegal things, the banks don’t care.”

“I dunno. I have lots of money still left from Mister Master’s civilian accounts.”

“Sarah-baby-pecan-pie…you need to get out of here someday. Set up a life away from this. I mean, you were held prisoner here. Raped. Staying here in his old condo and spending his old money—it’s kind of dork and twizzler.”

Ladykiller paused for several moment to process that. She’d gotten better at figuring out his nonsense words here and there, but she was confused. Frowning, she finally ventured, “Dark and twisted, you mean?”

“That too,” Mad Dash said. “Besides,” he added, standing up and holding out his hand, “there’s a Bank of America branch just down the street, I want you to get an iTunes card for opening an account so you can buy me the latest Adele album and a Fruit Ninja app for my iPad, and by the time we get back the rest of the cereal should be really sludgy goodness.”

* * *

Zoe finished her latest chapter of The Girl Who Played With Fire, deciding that while hiding out in Fortunato’s building was as boring as it was safe, at least it offered a chance to catch up on her reading list. The free ride she had been given for the building’s commissaries and the small account set up for her at the gift shops didn’t hurt either. Not even two days into this hiding out thing yet, and she was feeling almost comfortable.

As she slipped the bookmark into the novel and set it down to return her attention to her mocha, she noticed a presumably twenty-something Latina looking directly at her from a nearby table. Before she could decide what to do or say about the unexpected stare-down, the woman got up, walked over to Zoe’s table, and sat down.

“Hi, I’m Vanessa,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

“Zoe.”

“Yeah, I know, and I don’t know if I’m too late yet, but when I heard about a transhuman in the building, I wanted to warn you.”

“I thought I was supposed to be under the radar here—and warn me about what?”

“Only a few of us know about you, and not much about you, at that—I think Fortunato told me as some kind of test. I’m probably about to fail it and get in a lot of trouble,” Vanessa said, then paused to take a breath before a rapid-fire delivery of: “Whatever he offers you, don’t take it. Don’t trust him.”

“He hasn’t offered anything yet, and I wasn’t planning to trust him.”

Vanessa stared hard at Zoe like a frustrated parent dealing with a stubborn child. She shook her head, gritted her teeth and leaned forward.

“I mean it, Zoe!” she hissed. “No matter how smart you think you are, don’t even start up with him. I’m telling you, I know from experience. I’m in a pile of crap so deep I feel like I’m drowning. And he’ll never let me out of it probably. I’ll be Allison Wonderland for him probably until the day I die. He’ll stoop lower than you think to snag you. Believe me.”

Zoe sighed heavily. “Vanessa, was it? Or…Allison now? I’m confused. But anyway, Vanessa, I appreciate your concern. Really. But you need to understand. I’ve been dealing with devils for weeks already, and I wasn’t exactly an easy mark before then. I don’t know how you got in your mess, but just because you stepped in shit doesn’t mean I will.”

Vanessa’s gaze darkened, and she frowned, and Zoe realized she’d just carelessly hit a nerve; the blunt tone of her voice probably hadn’t helped. But with the blood of two men already on her hands and Janus and Underworld sniffing after her, she didn’t have it in her to worry about someone else’s hurt feelings just yet. Still, the awkward silence wasn’t helping her mood, so she stood, turned, and left both her drink and Vanessa behind her as she sought a new place to continue her reading.

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 23

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

Darkness is a comforting shroud. A sturdy cloak.

Those thoughts passed through the mind of Query, sitting in the semi-darkness of the club as Milo Phillips, while various pairs of rappers took their turns on stage to do a bit of freestyle vocal battling with one another. But not Milo tonight; he had to make sure he was on-call.

In so many aspects of his life, he preferred darkness. And many times, a mask as well to further obscure him and wall himself off from the world. He lacked the escape of dreams from reality, and sometimes, putting layers in between himself and others was all he had.

He reviewed his iPhone Sextet as a new message came in, disregarded it for now, and slipped it back into his belt holster. Then he pulled out his “real” smartphone—or at least the one he relied on as Query and when he was simply Alan Millos—his Android Hyyper. It was much easier to modify the Droid smartphone for his critical needs, but the iPhone was part of Milo’s identity and image.

Really need to make some time to buy the new Droid Nexusz soon, get it up to speed for my needs and transfer my data over, he considered. So hard to find time to do everything sometimes, even being awake 24 hours a day.

When he saw no messages there for Alan or Query, he slipped that phone back into its secret pocket and pulled his iPad Quinto out of his satchel to review some notes and files, as well as some pilfered video feeds from the police and FBI.

At least all my identities agree on the iPad as far as tablet computers go, he thought with mild amusement.

Reviewing his files did nothing but dim his flash of good humor, though. It had been nearly two weeks now since Janus had attempted to abduct Zoe, and there had been no sign of him, his lackeys or any freelance hired help since then.

Local and federal cops had questioned the mercenary team that Query had brought down after Zoe’s graduation ceremony, but nothing had come of it. A couple members of the team had been willing to give evidence and testimony for lighter sentences, but had precious little to offer. They couldn’t even say for certain who had hired them. That was a sharp divergence from the team that had tried to kill Query three months earlier. The two mercs that Query had spirited away then to question personally, as well as the survivors the police had questioned, were clear and consistent as to who they had been paid by—Janus—even if they were far less willing to give much information about him.

Not that they knew much anyway, but Janus has never been known for his forgiving streak, so most of those he hires tend to be discreet when captured, to the point of often not even sharing information that seems innocuous, Query considered.

Still, there was plenty of evidence to point to the fact that this team had been hired from the same source as the mercenaries that tried to kill Query. That supplier of talent was pricey indeed, and for two teams from that source to show up in New Judah over a three-month period was unlikely to be coincidence.

Not that the police have put that together, Query noted mentally. The FBI has made note of the oddity, but they don’t seem to get the connection is to Janus yet. I do, though. So, the question is, since Janus could have hired talent from a different source for the Zoe job, is he becoming lazy and sloppy? Or did he hope I’d figure it out and know he was still fucking with my city—even though it’s unlikely he would have expected me to be protecting Zoe and find out from first-hand contact?

It also didn’t help his mood to be reminded he was using Zoe as bait even as he was protecting her, and that might come back to bite her in some unexpected ways. Because Janus’ hired kidnapping team had struck in such a public place and focused on one woman, some people were looking at Zoe now and wondering, “Why her?”

The mercs hadn’t admitted to trying to nab her—or anyone, really. They didn’t want to be implicated in any more crimes than necessary, and so far, the hard evidence that they planned to kidnap anyone or even kill anyone was slim. They’d clearly face any number of assault and weapons possession charges—maybe even some domestic terrorism charges—but they weren’t going to want to face charges of attempted murder or kidnapping as well.

At least one person at UConn’s New Judah campus was speculating quietly in the upper-level administrative offices that Zoe was the sole target, and perhaps it had something to do with her athletic prowess. So, now rumors were circulating that she might be transhuman and that might have made her a target. The admin who’d had that epiphany was even suggesting to the dean that they might need to sue Zoe to make her pay back the scholarship money since she hadn’t disclosed she was transhuman.

It likely won’t happen, he realized, if only because they don’t want the scandal of having an athlete in violation of NCAA anti-transhuman rules. It would be a black eye they’d want to avoid unless they needed to be pre-emptive—and so far, the NCAA didn’t even seem to be taking any notice of the attempted abduction, much less have any reason to be suspicious about Zoe’s abilities.

Still, he had played a part in bringing about just the kind of attention that Zoe had so assiduously tried to avoid, and it was messing with his conscience more than a little.

A voice and a bit of verse from the stage pulled him out of his Query mindset and back to the Milo Phillips role in which he currently was dressed.

“…Parlez-vous Français? Cuz all the Froggies say you’re gay. Comprende? Capiche? Cuz I’m deep old money, but you be nouveau riche.”

Milo groaned at that—both the rhymes and the awkward delivery. He hadn’t heard what verses had led up to that portion, but knowing the rapper who was delivering them, Milo knew all too well the prelude had probably sucked just as much and perhaps more. Killah-Be tended to get pretty far in these rap battles even though he was so terrible at hip-hop—Milo suspected the young man had some transhuman powers, though he might not be aware of them. People who went up against him on stage often got flustered, lost their concentration, and became nervous and hesitant—as a result, their flubbed verbal attacks ended up being worse that Killah-Be’s delivery.

He’s probably a Primal pumping out pheromones of some sort, or maybe an Interfacer who disrupts neural processing slightly, he considered. Might even be a Psionic projecting thoughts of inadequacy or worry.

Killah-Be’s opponent on stage, a 23-year-old indie rapper who went by the nom de rap of EZStreet, seemed utterly unfazed, however. Although Milo was certain Killah-Be was transhuman, he was uncertain if the young man’s powers were erratic or some people just resisted it better than others. In any case, with no muddling of his mind or confidence, EZStreet volleyed back verbally within seconds.

“That’s all you got, polyglot? I know what I am; know what you’re not. Not worth a second or a third thought. Be here long after your verses rot,” EZStreet snarled, then continued with: “You’re hip-hop-i-vomitous; I know that sounds ominous. But all it really means is you make me feel nauseous. My rhyme are plenteous; I’m rap-i-venomous. Toxic to fools like you who are the pettiest.”

Milo snickered to himself, happy to know that Killah-Be would be knocked out of the rap battle early for once, as he deserved. Then, once again, his brief bit of joy was snatched away as his Droid smartphone buzzed in its hidden pocket and as he realized it was a call from the private detective he had keeping an eye on Zoe tonight.

But whatever grim and dark thoughts that brought, as he wondered what mess was likely unfolding, it was quickly replaced by the hunger for the hunt.

I think Janus has finally made his second attempt, Query thought. I just hope there’s still time to keep Zoe from harm in all this.

* * *

Michele Cho opened the freezer door, pulled out the pack, shook it experimentally, frowned and then strode into the living room where her stepsister and roommate, Isabella Fuentes, lounged watching a DVD.

“Any idea where my cigarettes are?” Michele questioned Isabella with a snide edge.

“Oh, yeah, I’d hoped you’d see the empty pack and buy some more,” Isabella responded mildly, not even looking at Michele as she did. “You know, it’s really hard to enjoy smoking when you buy them so infrequently.”

“Buy your own, you cheap bitch,” Michele grumbled. “Or get a boyfriend to buy them.”

“Like you said, I’m cheap, and I don’t have a boyfriend just at this moment in time,” Isabella said, finally meeting Michele’s gaze and rolling her eyes as she said it.

“I’m going out to Club Darque, and now I gotta stop by a convenience store to buy something that I thought I already had because my stepsister has been bumming them all week. Really, Izzie, could you at least have told me you were stealing them?”

“You woulda just hid ’em, Michele,” she answered. “Hard enough to just sneak a couple a day so you wouldn’t notice for a while. You hardly even smoke, so why stress yourself out by keeping a pack in the house that I’m just going to steal from anyway?”

“I like to smoke when I go out clubbing and drinking and dancing and maybe hooking up with someone, you twat. You know that, Izzie. Fuck! Fine, I’ll buy a pack for you, too, when I’m out. Find a boyfriend soon so you don’t dig into the one I put in the freezer for myself.”

“I’ll do my best,” Isabella said sweetly, if with an obvious and humorously disingenuous note.

“When you were stealing my cigarettes like you did from my dad and your mom when you were 13, did you remember to get that intel on the skeez lab?”

“Of-fuckin-course,” she answered. “It’s all on the dining table. Not like I want you getting killed during a drug lab raid, Sis.”

“Yeah, because who would buy your smokes then?” Michele asked.

They both broke out laughing.

“God, I hate you,” Isabella said.

“Love you, too, Izzie.”

“Seriously, though, why do you even buy cigarettes? I don’t get the social, once- or twice-a-week smoker thing. I started my off-and-on love affair with cancer sticks at 13; you didn’t start until 17, which as I recall is when you started piercing and tattooing and dressing in black a lot. Is smoking a required part of the official Goth uniform?”

Michele chuckled. “Kinda. Dunno. Gets me in the right mood when I’m out clubbing—feel more bad-ass and rebellious. Also, nice to have a cheap high that doesn’t inhibit my judgment, my ability to drive, or break the law. All right, so I’ll look over the stuff when I get back so I can start our little ‘catch Marty the Hun plan’ on Monday.”

“Yeah, because heaven forbid you should do the take-down and set-up this weekend and fuck up your chances of nailing some Goth chick or Emo dude that you hook up with tonight or tomorrow,” Isabella sneered good-naturedly.

“Girl’s gotta put herself first sometimes for the sake of mental health,” Michele said, then her equally good-natured tone suddenly turned serious. “Besides, Izzie, I’m more than a little nervous about this plan, and I’d like to have a good time before I possibly check out.”

* * *

Taking a life was a thrilling thing, Breathtaker thought, and something he didn’t get to do near enough of. Sadly, he wouldn’t be doing it tonight, either. However, making someone feel like they were dying and leaving them with their last conscious thoughts that they likely would end up a corpse was pretty satisfying, too.

The dreadlocked bitch that Underworld had set him to nab as his graduation test to join her and Janus’ operation had been easy pickings. She seemed largely withdrawn from the party she was in, which was attended mostly by current and recently graduated college students. She just stood there holding up a wall, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other—either a cola or a mixed drink.

Stuck-up, much, Zoe? he had thought. Too good for everyone else? Shy? Psycho loner? Or do you just not feel like you fit in with all these fuckin’ norms?

He’d gone up to her, introduced himself and made small talk like he was trying to hit on her. After a minute or two she was clearly a bit short of breath and said she needed to get some air.

“Maybe you smoke too much,” Breathtaker had said. “Maybe that’s all it is. Then again, I make a lot of women breathless.”

The tone of his voice at that point—having taken on a more aggressively taunting tone then—had tipped her off that something might be wrong, and he had seen it in her eyes. But that had been what he’d wanted. Fear was good. Made things more fun.

He had grabbed one of her arms and then, with physical contact, could put his Interfacer powers fully to work, completely shutting down her ability to breathe. Her eyes had taken on a panicked look, and he noticed her appearance begin to change slightly. He had stepped back, knowing that he could keep her respiratory system in his mental grip for bit longer from a distance now that he’d made direct contact with her nervous system. She had swung haphazardly and slowly, her fear and inability to breathe throwing her off. Still, her nails grazed him, tearing open his leather jacket and shirt and one of them leaving a red line of blood. Janus had said she was a Morph, and he hadn’t been wrong about how sharp her fucking nails could be.

But then she was stumbling and beginning to lose her balance, and Breathtaker had rushed in to catch her. He had embraced her like they were making out, keeping her lungs from working until she passed out against him.

She had smelled good, he recalled. Really nice perfume or scented oil or something. He had taken a few moments to suck at the light brown skin of her neck, and cop a cheap feel for a couple minutes as he let her body begin to breathe again just enough to keep her from dying on him. She wasn’t his usual type—she was like some Rasta chick with those dreadlocks and about half of them colored red or bleached blonde. For Breathtaker, he liked his sisters to have long hair, but preferred it straight as hell and black as night.

Finally, he had spoken into the transmitter on his shirt collar, saying to the rest of the team, “One of y’all get the fuck in here and help me with this bitch.”

Now, she was in the car ahead of him, pumped full of sedatives, and on her way to Janus.

Hello, opportunity, Breathtaker thought, smiling. I’m in the Big League now.

* * *

“Talk to me,” Query said into his phone as he exited the club and left the world of hip-hop behind him, striding with purpose toward his van. The private detective wouldn’t be calling for some routine check-in—something was almost certainly happening.

“You said this Zoe isn’t the getting-piss-drunk type, right? Or the recreational drug type, either, right?”

“Correct on both counts,” Query told the man. “Why?”

“She’s been at this party thing at a college friend’s house for a while. Two guys were just carrying her out like she was drunk and needed help walking. She looked pretty much totally passed out to me. Got her into a car and drove away. One of the guys carrying her got into another car that followed the one she’s in.”

“You are tailing them, right?” Query said with an edge in his voice.

“Of course. Discreetly as hell. But I think they’re headed toward Grace Memorial Highway. Think they’re headed for the woods. Fifty-fifty chance, anyway. If I’m right, I gotta break off soon. No offense, Query, but if you’re involved, at least one of those mo-fo’s is a transhuman and I don’t fuck with transhumans directly. I follow them too far on Grace and they’re gonna spot me and make me out for a tail.”

“I don’t want you getting spotted either,” Query said, “and it has nothing to do with you keeping your out-of-shape ass bruise-free and bullet-free. Give me an exact report on your position and their direction and give me updates every minute until I tell you otherwise or you have to break off the pursuit.”

* * *

The Guardian Corps headquarters had an odd vibe, Cole noted. It was hard to put his finger on what it was, but he felt out of place somehow. It almost seemed like a whole other organization tonight to which he was a complete alien.

He tried not to let it bother him as he hung out and waiting for some marching orders. Desperado or one of his lieutenants would assign Cole to a team—

…a team, Cole considered. Why don’t I see many of the usual…

“Fuck! Shitfirefuckgoddam!” someone shouted, and Cole’s wasn’t the only set of eyes to turn toward the voice, which belonged to Blockbuster, the one person in the Corps who seemed to dislike him more than even Desperado did. “Another fucking patrol just got hit! Desperado! We’ve been fucking hit again on the streets! Total ambush! The raid on the red crush lab! Two injuries but no one dead this time.”

Desperado burst from his office, eyes blazing with anger and seeming to Cole as if they were seeking something in particular. They landed on him within seconds, and there was a dark satisfaction in them as they did.

“Talk to me, Blockbuster,” Desperado said, dragging his eyes from Cole and toward his right-hand man. “Who the fuck is doing this? Was anyone on that team who didn’t fucking get hurt connected to any of the other teams that got hit? I want a fucking suspect already.”

While Blockbuster started pulling up files on the six-year-old PC, another voice rang out.

“I don’t think we need to look very far,” said Puma, one of Desperado’s chief lieutenants. He walked toward Cole, one finger pointed at him like a gun. “That motherfucker over there has been around your office a lot when we’ve been talking lately. Including when we were talking about tonight’s major motherfucking operation. And guess who was conveniently fucking off the night we fucking had a bloodbath in here?”

“Yeah, you’re on to something there, Puma,” Desperado said, and Cole felt his chest constrict and his vision began to swirl darkly at the edges.

Wait! What? Oh shit what the fuck’s going on what the hell am I gonna do, Cole thought, panicky and confused.

“You know I am, Desperado. That shit-fuck joined us just to give us up to the fucking enemy!” Puma shouted. “Let’s take this motherfucker…”

“…Let’s take him out for a motherfucking drink why don’t we, Puma,” Desperado snarled, and now it was Puma’s turn to join Cole in confusion.

“Huh? What the…”

“Let’s talk about who else was at every meeting about a patrol that got hit,” Desperado said. “Only one goddamned person besides me knew about all those missions that got ambushed. I should know. I set up half of them just to fucking flush out the traitor and if the leader of each team hadn’t known they were fucking bait from the get-go I’d’ve probably lost a hell of a lot more people. And I made motherfucking sure Cole was fucking around so you’d aim for any patrol he might have been around to hear about and then make him the scapegoat. Right on schedule, you traitor shithead! Actually, ahead of schedule. What are you gonna do now?”

Suddenly, Cole realized what was weird about the headquarters tonight. He was one of only a handful of relative newbies here. He doubted there were more than a few people among the couple dozen or so in attendance tonight who hadn’t been in the Corps for over a year.

It’s a fucking trap for Puma and shit is going to go…

“Cover me! Hit the fucking exits all y’all!” Puma shouted.

In a panicked rush, Cole’s head swiveled and jerked in a haphazard attempt to take stock of the whole area, and it seemed that at least three people were reacting to Puma’s words.

He’s got friends in here who are traitors, too, Cole realized, and they’ll be fighting their way out.

One of those men, standing several yards from Cole—who went by the codename Kobra—made a lunge for one of the Corps members from behind, his hands growing to the size of spades and the fingers becoming deadly claws. From seemingly out of nowhere, PrinSass barreled into him before he could strike. She wasn’t a Speedster—just a Tank—but still Cole was amazed she could move so fast given the size of her body. Her big fists were pounding at Kobra with blunt, determined blows that sent blood and teeth flying from the man’s nose and mouth. The blows made sounds like wet thumps and Cole was certain he heard them punctuated by the cracking of a cheekbone despite his distance from the fight. PrinSass made up for lack of finesse and agility with hits that were harder and faster than anything he’d ever seen, and Kobra was down without having been able to so much as scratch anyone.

A shot rang out, entering the back of the computer monitor where Blockbuster had been working, coming out through the screen and nearly clipping the man as he ducked for cover. Cole whipped around and saw the gunman, a guy who went by the name Breakout—clearly another of Puma’s friends and now taking aim at Desperado from behind. Marshalling his will, Cole began to twist space near Breakout but even as he did, someone shouted a warning and Desperado spun, both revolvers drawn with breathtaking speed and aimed with unwavering accuracy. Desperado only pulled the trigger of one gun, and took Breakout down with a single shot between his legs, shouting out gleefully, “Hah! Gelding!”

The gun in Desperado’s other hand moved in an arc to reacquire the target he had wanted to take down before Breakout had become a threat. But that intended target, Puma, was already on the move and Cole got an inkling of at least one reason for his name when he realized the man was a Speedster.

Desperado’s chances of hitting Puma as he headed for an exit were slim, as he couldn’t track the man quickly enough with the gun in his left hand…

…until Cole realized Desperado’s other gun hand was moving inward, and Puma was headed right for that arc. A pair of cracking sounds and two small explosions of blood and torn fabric from his shoulder and hip, and Puma tumbled to the ground, rolling and crashing against a wall. Several Corps members rushed him.

There had been noises all around him during those hectic moments, and now Cole tried to figure out where the other conflicts might be—there had to be at least one or two other threats…

…but there was suddenly silence.

Relative silence, anyway, and Cole realized that five men and one woman were down, and only one of those people seemed to be getting field care at the moment. So, Puma and four accomplices—and only one casualty among the loyal Guardian Corps members.

Cole was close enough to Blockbuster’s desk to overhear as Desperado approached him, and said quietly, “Yo, ‘buster. Isolate Nightstrike from those other motherfuckers. Puma brought him on a few weeks ago; he might not know about Sweet Talker. Lock him up and get her in here to pump him for information. If that doesn’t work, torture his ass. I wanna know if anyone else not here tonight is on Puma’s payroll.”

Blockbuster hurried off to carry out Desperado’s order, and the bronze- and brown-clad man holstered his guns, cocked his Western hat and stepped toward Cole.

“Exciting night, huh?” Desperado said blandly. “You get hit or anything?”

“No,” Cole said. “I don’t think…um, no.”

“You almost messed up my shot with that Warpsmith shit, Cole. Don’t mess with my fucking shots. That said, sorry for the rude surprise of all this. You were the perfect fall guy to make this plan work but obviously I couldn’t tell you what was happening. The fact you weren’t here the night they attacked us directly here was fucking gold—made things move quicker when Puma knew he could finger you perfectly. Probably why he had several guys here tonight, to make sure you didn’t live through the night to defend your case. You being off that night was spectacular for my plan.”

“I doubt the people who got killed or hurt that night feel spectacular about it,” Cole said darkly.

“What? Fuck you, Cole. Or fuck you, Quantum. Whichever you prefer. Don’t get high and fucking mighty with the moral high ground. I didn’t know they were gonna fucking attack us that night. You not being here was luck, man. I appreciate divine providence when it comes knocking. I wouldn’t put that many people at our HQ at risk to flush out a traitor.”

“You put patrols at risk to flush him out. You said so,” Cole noted.

“Every damn time I send out patrols I put them at risk, motherfucker,” Desperado retorted.

“So, all this time you didn’t really hate me,” Cole said. “Ever since I came on, you’ve been eyeing me as the guy to use to figure out who the leak was.”

“No, I hated you from the start, Cole. Made it a whole lot easier to play you, in fact. I don’t hate you any more. I just really strongly dislike your smarter-than-thou ass,” Desperado said. “I’m still hoping you quit soon or wash out of here, because I don’t think you have the shit to make it on the streets.”

Desperado turned and strode away without another word.

I just helped save the Guardian Corps without even knowing it, Cole thought, and I’m still just as much a pariah as I was before.

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 17

[ – 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.

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 16

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

Janus gave Underworld a lingering eye-to-eye look over the edge of the files he was perusing and through the eyeholes of his half-comedy/half-tragedy mask. He sighed heavily, and Underworld raised one eyebrow.

“What?” she prodded.

“Shrill?”

“Why not?”

“You think we should bring Shrill into the organization?” Janus asked.

“Why not?” Underworld repeated.

“A flamboyant, cross-dressing, bisexual guy who can shriek loud enough to make people’s ear bleed?”

“Are you concerned his presence will threaten your long-held heterosexual beliefs and make you long for his tight-ab body?”

“I’m concerned,” Janus said with sagely intonations, “that he will embarrass us. I am actively trying to recruit Tooth Fairy because she is frightening as hell—sometimes even to me. I have you working on Zoe—which, by the way, needs to come to some sort of conclusion in the next two weeks. I’ll let her have her graduation if you insist, but whether by choice or by abduction, she’s in our hands in 14 days. And that is because I think she has a combination of powers that will make her quite formidable in a fight. Between the two of us—you and me—we are also trying to secure Gunslinger, Mindfuck, Breathtaker, Rancor, Steampunk and Laugh Riot. Shrill has a very unthreatening name and an annoying and unfocused power, and will look ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than that fat fool Hellfire?” she challenged him.

“You know full well I only want to string him and some of the other loser-level villains along for the sake of cannon fodder,” Janus said. “Or misdirection. In any case, you know they aren’t in for any real cut.”

“Won’t make them look any less foolish—or potentially us by association. Look, do you know how long I’ve had my people working with Shrill?”

“No, I don’t. I never would have guessed you would even have had an interest,” Janus said with exaggerated boredom.

“Well, guess this: Do I look like the kind of person who’d groom a transhuman whose best was to make ears bleed and deafen people—including perhaps any comrades nearby?”

“I suppose not. What have you accomplished?”

“With a nifty little high-tech collar device, which also doubles as a gorgeous choker for my wonderful cross-dresser; work with some neurologists of questionable ethics who have enabled us to understand better how Shrill’s power works and more importantly how it affects others; and several voice coaches, Shrill is very versatile now,” Underworld said. “He can focus his shrieks more precisely now. He can hit pitches that make people not just cower in discomfort but also make them nauseated, disoriented, sleepy and even, under very controlled circumstances, highly suggestible. The name Shrill will keep people focused on what they think he can do, and not wonder at the wide range of things I’ve trained him to do.”

Janus paused. “Is he still going to dress like a girl?”

“Like a woman. And, yes. It’s who he is. He’s even trying to see if he can find a Regenerator or Primal who can make his breasts grow larger so he can lose the padded bra. Get used to it and lose the sexual bigotry.”

Janus paused again, sighed, and shook his head. “Get him to dress like a threatening woman, then. If he’s going to wear dresses, nothing pink or white or yellow. Blacks and deep purples. Dark makeup. Dark hair or white hair. Go Goth. Bonus points for some scary-colored contact lenses. Agreed?”

“Compromise is a beautiful thing, Janus; glad to see you learning the skill—at least with me. Agreed. But if he wants to be frilly or sophisticated or whatever around the HQ on his own time, he gets to. Period. I think he looks great in pink.”

“One more thing. He changes his name to Shriek or Caterwaul.”

“No promises on that one; I’ll discuss it with him. If he agrees, I get to increase his salary by 10% compared to my original plans.”

“I should have recruited Madamnation instead of you as my right hand,” Janus said. “She’s utterly ruthless and deviant but even she wouldn’t stoop to MBA-ing and lawyer-ing me to death.”

* * *

Three hours of planning and negotiating with Janus about the direction of the organization—and arguing over even more annoying things than whether Shrill was worth bringing in—was enough to give Underworld a migraine on the best of days. Today called for a serious does of meds and then killing off an entire bottle of red wine while getting her feet—and maybe something else—rubbed by two particularly submissive members of her personal staff.

Rounding a corner in the level of the office building that Janus had claimed as pretty much his own, Underworld was startled by the sudden presence of another person, moving in the opposite direction and apparently as oblivious to their surroundings at the moment as she was. They crashed together and the pile of files Underworld was carrying tumbled to the floor. The only thing that kept her from swearing was the knowledge that most of them were in stretch-band-sealed portfolio-style folders, so few of them would spill open, if any.

The thudding impact sent Underworld tumbling to her ass on the carpeted floor, and she found herself suddenly grateful for Janus’ ostentatious insistence on putting plush carpeting on his floor of the building.

A hand was on her arm helping her up, as she regained her wits. The files were scattered everywhere. One had opened and spilled out some of its papers.

And the face before her was a woman’s face, heavily tattooed. There was a sweet grin on those lips that utterly belied the many colorful designs of death, blood and mayhem—even as it agreed with the slightly lesser number of happy, sunny-dispositioned images permanently marking that skin. Underworld stepped back just slightly, a sense of unease washing over her. She’d been leery of Crazy Jane—even uncomfortable around her—since learning the full scope of her powers from Janus and the full measure of her psychiatric issues. Truth be told, she’d been avoiding the woman as much as possible and being as disdainful as she could just to keep her away as often as possible.

She made me uncomfortable from the first day Janus brought her into the building, silent and inside a cage, Underworld thought. But I preferred her then, before she could roam the halls.

“Here, let me help you,” Crazy Jane said.

“No, I’m fine,” Underworld said quickly. She injected as much imperious contempt as she could to mask her unease, and hurriedly began collecting files. “I have places to be, and quickly.”

“Sorry I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Crazy Jane said, gathering up the loose papers despite Underworld’s protests. “I was just thinking of all the delicious things I’ve been doing to Dr. Mark’s mind today. I’m so glad Janus let me keep him. Did you know his last name is ‘Blood?’—it’s so appropriate now with some of the things I’m egging him on to do. He’s soooooo fucked up and so eager for me to do more inside that gray matter.”

“Yeah. OK,” Underworld said. “File please?”

“Oh,” Crazy Jane said, and Underworld swore the woman was blushing between the colors of all those tattoos. “I just get so excited about my hobbies. Here you go.”

She handed over the file, their skin briefly touching once more, and Underworld barely suppressing the shudder of revulsion as she wondered if Janus and Jane had plans to decorate her body beyond just her face. Crazy Jane clearly could be useful, but Janus had fashioned her into something so disturbing, visually and in terms of her actions.

“Thanks. I guess,” Underworld said.

“Okey-dokey buh-bye now,” Crazy Jane said, skipping away and humming.

As she left, Underworld continued to feel unease, but there was a new character to it. The headache from her meeting with Janus seemed to have subsided at least, and dwelling on things was likely only to make it flare up again. She continued to her own floor of the building, the image of a severely disturbed and dangerous woman happily skipping stuck in her head like a bit of annoying elevator music for at least a half-hour thereafter.

* * *

The professor for Zoe’s Transhuman Psychology class was apparently at a loss for her own ideas today—instead choosing to play a video recording of a segment of Matt Lauer speaking with noted psychologist and researcher Dr. Joel Manning on an episode of the “Today” show from several months earlier. She’d already seen it, and read all of Manning’s books, so she did her best to tune out and catch some rest in the mostly darkened classroom. She’d slept poorly since Underworld had begun courting her, and she wasn’t even sure Query was doing anything to help. The hero, if he had decided to take up her cause, was known for stealth; she’d probably never see him in action until it was all over.

Or too late.

“So, Dr. Manning,” droned Lauer’s voice from the speakers in the class, “you have some very intriguing thoughts about the mindset and psychology of transhumans. This may be abrupt to start, but I was wondering where you came down on the recent debates about screening all potential mothers and fetuses for known transhuman genes as a matter of not just public safety but public mental health.”

Silence at first, as a frown creased Manning’s brow—Zoe didn’t need her eyes open to recall just how deep that crease had been and how intense Manning’s gaze had become. “Pardon me? I don’t see how transhumans as a whole could be considered a public mental health threat. Not to mention that isn’t the point of any of my research, teaching or writings.”

As Zoe listened to the words she had last heard when the program was airing live, this time with her eyes closed, she could sense something in his tone, and wondered if Lauer and the “Today” show producers had decided to suddenly change the tack of the interview right before going on the air. Had Dr. Manning been suckered into a sort of ambush interview? If would make sense, she considered; she had borne a sneaking suspicion that either Lauer himself or the producers of the show harbored some kind of beef against transhumans. It seemed that slightly negative coverage of them was the norm—very subtle, but still very noticeable to her. Zoe was not shy to admit that she could be thin-skinned and jump to conclusions. Having dark skin in America and being transhuman besides could do that to you. But hypervigilance was better than being caught by bigotry unawares. It helped her see the wrongs that others missed—taking their “normal” privilege for granted.

“Well, Doctor,” Lauer continued, “you note in most of your books, especially in your current one on the bestseller list—Psyches in Flux: Transhuman Minds and the Evolution of Mankind—that transhumans are particularly prone to mental illness.”

“Actually, I said nothing of the sort,” Manning noted, and Zoe recalled how proud she had been of the man’s poise when she had first watched the episode. The strength of conviction in his voice as he adjusted to the unexpected direction of the interview was nothing short of stunning to her, and with her eyes shut now, she respected it even more now without the distraction of visuals.

“Not to put words in your mouth, Doctor, but if I could quote from page 23 of your current book: ‘As is well-known, transhumans exhibit behaviors and personality traits that differ from the accepted norm, and this is more pronounced the older the person is when powers reach full emergence and when multiple groups of powers manifest—and often this is more marked when powers are initiated unnaturally in a human who is otherwise baseline. This is a well-known scientific fact, and one that requires us to consider strongly the direction of humanity and the personality traits that future humans will possess.’ Now, that’s a bit of a mouthful, Dr. Manning, but aren’t you saying that humanity is, at least in the transhuman population, more prone to, and moving more strongly toward, mental illness?”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s well-known that transhuman villains are more likely to be sociopathic than normal human criminals. Even those who label themselves heroes are often reckless. You note that transhumans tend toward very specific kinds of narcissism, self-centeredness, disdain for authority, snap decisions…need I go on?”

“No, you don’t, because there is no research comparing the cruelty or evil of transhuman villains in the media spotlight vs. the huge number of evil baseline people who outnumber them by far. Also, the words ‘sociopathic’ and ‘psychopathic’ have never cropped up in my books with regard to transhumans in general—only with a subset of them,” Manning noted. “I talk of personality shifts in evolution, not so much about mental illness per se.”

“You don’t see a bunch of narcissistic people who are self-centered and possess powers the rest of us don’t as at least a potential public health threat?” Lauer prodded.

“You know, Matt, as a clinical psychologist who also possesses an advanced degree in philosophy and a bachelor’s in anthropology, I can tell you that the personalities of early humans are likely not much like the personalities we lift up and honor now,” Manning said. “Nor are several personality traits that were respected in the 1300s or even 1700s much in vogue today—like attitudes toward woman and resolving disputes through public violence. It is true that the more powers a transhuman has and the later they appear in life, the more likely for intense personality traits that are outside the norm. Hence all the costumes and grand gestures sometimes on the part of villains and heroes. That’s the desire for attention and sense of self-importance. At the same time, you also see almost obsessive or compulsive behaviors—sometimes overly so—that manifest as an overwhelming sense of duty to protect or an overwhelming desire to have a theme for their crimes, or seek an adversary or some-such.”

“I’m not trying to say transhumans are by their nature dangerous or a threat to healthy evolution, Doctor, but there are people who do say that, and what you’re saying doesn’t seem to contradict—“

“Bullcrap,” Manning said with utter calm. His face was serene, and his voice even. “Utter bullcrap. Alcohol abuse became a whole lot bigger issue when guns came along and then when cars did. It’s easier to pull a trigger in anger than to draw a sword and lop off someone’s head. You aren’t as likely to kill someone drunk horse-riding as drunk-driving. But do we outlaw alcohol as an answer? Or eliminate guns and cars? Maybe, in the world you speak of, potentially screening for transhumans, we should forbid people with a family history of alcoholism from breeding. Getting violently drunk is a form of socially unacceptable behavior. So is being a selfish and mentally abusive lover. Or an obnoxious boss. Or a Type A personality if taken far enough. And yet many people succeed and productively contribute to society even with less-than-stellar personality traits. Even with destructive traits.”

“Then what is your point, Doctor, in your books? I’m simply playing Devil’s advocate here.”

“Are you, Mr. Lauer? Or are you subject to the very fears you are giving legitimacy to here by tacitly defending them?”

“I think you’re reading too much into my words.”

“As you did into out-of-context passages from my book?”

“Touché, Doctor. But what is the point, then? You tell us that psychologically, transhumans may fit a wholly different set of molds than normal—“

“Baseline humans—transhumans are normal too. They are simply another part of humanity. A person with a disability getting around in a wheelchair is not an ‘abnormal’ example of humanity Matt, nor an aboriginal Australian in the middle of the whitest neighborhood in New York City. They simply stand out more. Everyone is ‘abnormal’ in some way, usually many ways.”

“Baseline humans, then,” Lauer conceded. “What is your takeaway lesson, then? If we’re two groups of humans diverging psychologically as well as physically, what do we do?”

“These are tweaks, Mr. Lauer. Evolutionary tweaks. Not wholesale changes that make transhumans utterly alien to baseline humans,” Manning said. “They are still, at heart, far more like baseline humans than not. As with all things in evolution, we adapt. Or we become obsolete if we don’t. Turning transhumans into witches and going on a hunt with torches and pitchforks isn’t the answer.”

“That’s all we have time for, today, Dr. Manning. Many thanks for your time,” Lauer concluded. Zoe was certain she heard a trace of relief in his tone.

“No, thank you, Matt,” Manning said. As Zoe recalled, he stood up immediately upon saying that, and walked off the set before the camera could cut away.

The program clicked off, and the lights went up in the room. Zoe opened her eyes slowly.

“Well, class,” the professor said. “I hope you paid attention to the program. You will have 40 minutes to write an essay in the bluebooks Keith is passing out defending either Dr. Manning’s side or Mr. Lauer’s, making sure to use elements of at least three of the following transhuman psych theories in your work: either Thomason’s, Kluwer’s, Bacon’s, Muteesa’s, Ho’s, Garrison’s or Podeski’s. You may not use or refer to Manning’s theories in your work.”

Zoe’s lips formed a rueful smile. No problem. I’ve been writing this essay in my head since I first saw that damn segment anyway, professor. I’ve probably been mentally writing it since I found out I wasn’t baseline anymore.

* * *

At the sound of the voice, which had only said “So” in a deep and solemn tone from the nearby shadows, Solstice jerked to attention, her thermal and cryokinetic powers at the ready.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Solstice,” the voice said, and from the shadows she saw Query approach, then stop about 15 feet away from her. “Good evening. How are you doing?”

“Was doing fine until you got my adrenaline pumping like that,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor of a personal visit from Query?”

“Have you heard about a string of disappearances lately? Eight women so far?”

Solstice pursed her lips for a moment, then shrugged. “I haven’t heard of a string of disappearances—I might have heard of a couple here and there lately. I don’t really do missing persons, Query. Seems more your speed.”

His head bobbed in a short, quick nod. “Yes, sometimes it is. Did you know that Marty the Hun got out of jail?”

“No way,” Solstice said. “How the fuck did he manage that?”

“It’s what he’s good at, among other things,” Query noted. “You might have kept tabs on him after taking him down.”

“Not my speed.”

“Sometimes, speed kills. Carelessness destroys,” Query said gravely.

“I’m guessing you have a point here, but what is it? I took him down. The cops or D.A. let him out. Maybe I’ll get a chance to nail him again.”

“Maybe next time you should hit the nail harder. The women started going missing within days of Marty’s release. They’re all Asian. Female. Your rough height and build.”

“What the hell does that…oh, shit,” Solstice said. “He’s just randomly grabbing women hoping one of them turns out to be me?”

“Marty isn’t known for forgiveness,” Query responded. “Or subtlety. Or patience.”

“Why are you riding me about this? I feel like shit for the women, then, but I don’t know the first thing about tracking someone down, Marty or otherwise. I get info, I act on it. I see a crime, I act. I’m no investigator.”

Query set something down on the ground at his feet. “Here’s a start,” he said. “A thumb drive with some leads. Start learning to investigate, so you can clean up your messes in the future.”

“Look, asshole,” Solstice said. “I bust my ass out like you or anyone else in the hero gig. Don’t get on a high horse. I can’t be accountable for every crook I rough up or get arrested. What are you suggesting—that I kill them all in the future to head this shit off?”

“Far from it,” Query said. “I try to avoid killing if I can help it, or there would be hundreds of dead bodies in my wake. But next time, especially if you’re going to humiliate a vicious, sadistic, amoral man with resources to get revenge before you call the cops on him, you should make sure you don’t leave so many loopholes for him to use. You might want to make sure when the police arrive there is a clear chain of evidence for them to nail the asshole.”

Query snorted, turned on his heel, and walked away.

“Because if you did,” he concluded as he walked away slowly. “There might be a few more live women tonight. They’ve started finding the bodies now. Those poor girls aren’t missing. They’re dead. Probably tortured first. Marty the Hun doesn’t leave loose ends. Your problem now, though. I have my own young lady to try to keep safe.”

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 10

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

After a long day of meting out justice—or perhaps just venting her frustrations over life’s problems on the few kinds of people on whom it was more or less socially acceptable to do so—Solstice really just wanted to relax, grab a quick bite, and get acquainted with her bed.

Instead, she was met by the words, “Hey, Michele, welcome back!” and an upraised arm with a half-empty glass of soda being shaken back and forth as the woman added the words, “Drink’s a little warm.”

Shaking her head in half-amused irritation, Michele Cho stepped over to the couch, touched the glass of her stepsister and roommate for a few seconds, and used her cryokinetic powers to cool the beverage down to something near refrigerator temperature. She could smell just a hint of rum wafting up from the Coca-Cola.

“Thanks,” Isabella said. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around aside from that half-the-rent and half-the-bills thing.”

“That and my sunny disposition and the sheer joy of my company,” Michele responded dryly. “Why I keep your demanding and bitchy ass around, though, I’m not entirely sure.”

“I’m adorable and bitchy. You know you want me bad.”

“Oh God, that’s unseemly and depraved even for you, Izzie. We’re sisters.”

“Hardly. You the almost full-blooded Chink and me the almost full-blooded Spic. Sisters? Does not compute.”

Michele snorted a half-laugh. Isabella was right, of course—there wasn’t much sisterly in their relationship. Her Chinese father and the other woman’s Puerto Rican mother had married when Michele was 14 and Izzie was 12 and neither had ever viewed her respective stepparent as anything other than an annoyance.

“Still, it would be really awkward to explain you and me sleeping together at the family gatherings at holiday time,” Michele noted. “Not to mention the fact that you don’t go for girls, so why would I bother with keeping you around as a potential piece of tail? I don’t need to work on converting someone when I can get dates easy enough outside the apartment.”

“Not to mention the fact you don’t like brunettes,” Isabella said, flipping a bit of her hair for effect.

“Not true at all. I’m not generally attracted to brunette women—blondes and redheads all the way there,” Michele said. “Men, though—I love me some tall, dark and handsome there. Brown and black hair for the XY chromosome recreational nookie.”

“Fickle bitch,” Isabella muttered. “Hey, don’t go to bed too soon. I might need my drink chilled again.”

“Then get some ice you lazy twat,” Michele said with good-natured affront.

“So, how did the whole superwoman thing go tonight?” Isabella called out as Michele stepped into the kitchen and pulled out her Solstice cowl from her shoulder bag to give it a quick wash in the sink. “No trouble, I hope. No one got a good hit in on you, did they?”

“Nah,” Michele said. “Strictly losers tonight. I was busy and I’m tired, but it wasn’t even a challenge. Lots ’o bad guys, but zero skill.”

“Just don’t get cocky,” Isabella said. “I may find you to be a gloomy, pretentious Goth freak, but you’re still technically family as well as my roomie, so you’re my gloomy pretentious Goth freak. I don’t want to be dropping some roses on a casket for you until you’re at least in your 60s.”

“I’ll do my best to stay safe and alive, you self-absorbed, overly entitled slut,” Solstice said, blowing a kiss.

Isabella snatched the phantom kiss from the air and made as if she was popping into her mouth, then pantomimed chewing and swallowing. “Love you, too, Michele.”

* * *

Only a few days old now, the month of May did not look to be shaping up as a sunny time, Zoe considered as she nursed a soft drink and picked at the appetizer before her. This was the fourth time now that Underworld had treated her to a recruitment meal and each time, Zoe could feel her time running out more and more. She should be looking forward to graduation in about six weeks, but instead she could only envision doom. Underworld had made it clear that Janus wanted her to recruit Zoe soon and that college plans should be discarded—whether Zoe complied with Janus’ desires or decided to flee.

Zoe wanted a cap and gown and diploma, a little down time, a little time in the work world, and then start applying to grad school.

Instead, a madman was mentally fitting her for a costume and a criminal career, using Underworld as his proxy.

Underworld had gotten very good at reading Zoe’s expressions and discerning the track of her thoughts, and smiled. “Tick, tock; tick, tock,” the villainess said. She was wearing an auburn wig today and clothes that made her look a little like a soccer mom. “Are you feeling Janus’ breath on the back of your neck?”

“You’re an evil bitch,” Zoe said mildly.

“Hardly. You want to know about evil bitches, you should meet Madamnation.”

“Madame Nation? Who’s that? Some jingoistic villainess with a patriotic theme?”

“You really don’t like to follow the transhuman crowd in the news or on the web, do you?” Underworld noted. “Not Madame Nation. Madamnation. Madame plus Damnation. And believe me, she takes the demonic and hellishness thing all the way. The only fellow female for whom I’d reserve the use of the word cunt.”

“Guess you and her have some history,” Zoe noted, trying to keep the discussion away from Janus. The closer the talk came to him, the more her anxiety deepened.

“History? Yeah. She runs a website, too, for all the fanboys and girls, just like I do,” Underworld said. “Except where I do merchandise, book sales and soft porn or artistic sexy images, she’s riding high on the kinky stuff. Fetish, full nudity, a whole stable of girls with cam shows and everything. Tacky, slutty stuff all the way.”

“And more popular because of that, of course,” Zoe added, relishing the chance to get even a small dig into the woman relentlessly recruiting her.

“True. The web was always ripe for the most base desires and for our darkest fantasies to be made readily accessible, wasn’t it? But we’ve also crossed paths in criminal endeavors and she’s done me wrong there, too. Still, as much as I hate her and as unbalanced as she is, she’s less psychotic than Janus, so that’s one plus in her column. Maybe you should see if she’ll take you in and shield you from us.”

Zoe groaned as the conversation again steered where she didn’t want it.

“Really, Zoe,” Underworld continued. “You need to make a decision soon. Janus is a terror, to be true, but he can be managed and I can help you learn how to avoid the dangers. To be honest, I think it might be nice to make you my protégé. You’d find a lot to like on our side of the line, my dear. Crime really does pay when you’re smart enough to do it right. While I don’t like his approach much, Janus and I both know the business, we complement each other, and you’ll do a lot better financially with us than you will with corporate America.”

“I have this nagging moral streak, you see.”

“Oh, yes, the moral streak that allows you to lie to the NCAA that you’re not transhuman, so that you can get scholarship money to pay for college. What does Jesus think of that, Zoe?”

“Don’t go there. Don’t,” Zoe said with unvarnished threat in her tone.

“You see? Zoe, I’m a hardened criminal. I publicly crippled Glory Boy. I’ve escaped prison twice. I’m not a sociopath, but I’m dangerous all the same. And right now, you show that spark again that you aren’t cowed by me. That’s the kind of spirit I want to work with. Yes, I’m worried about you being close to Janus but I think he’s got the right idea about your potential, and I’m really warming to the idea of mentoring you.”

“Not interested.”

“How long can you put it off before you realize you don’t have any choice?”

“There are always choices. And they don’t have to be limited to running away or bending my knee to Janus—or you,” Zoe noted.

Underworld looked around slowly, assessed her surroundings, and then smiled. “I don’t think you’ve brought in the authorities yet, but I admit I was wondering for a moment there. I am curious why you haven’t yet done so.”

“Because if I do, you or Janus might be mad enough to kill me—or worse.”

“Now, now, Zoe. You know we aren’t going to throw away such potential as you have over something like that. You’d only get hurt…a little. And don’t try to play as if you’re afraid of me. What’s the real reason you don’t call in the cops and tell them about me and my efforts to recruit you?”

“Easy. For one thing, I don’t ever know where we’re meeting until the last minute.”

“Oh, I’m sure the FBI would love to stake you out and be ready at a moment’s notice to follow you and try to nab me,” Underworld pointed out.

“Oh, yes, and won’t it be so nice to have to tell them I’m transhuman and possibly trash the college education that I’m still hoping I can finish before I have to figure out how to get Janus and you to fuck off.”

“Well, there are always the so-called ‘white hats’ that you could call in,” Underworld noted with an air of disdain.

“Oh, yes, because it’s so easy to just call up a superhero to come on over and help—or to be my bodyguard for a while,” Zoe said. “And a transhuman battle on campus between you and some super-dude would be so fucking great for my college career. And yeah, I have tried to see if there are any who I could get to help, just in case. But they don’t have receptionists.”

“Well, some of them…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Zoe said dismissively. “Super groups. Teams. Sure. I’ve done my research. Most of them are more like clubs. A bunch of transhumans who sort of get along but none of whom think the others know shit. They’ll have an office and a phone number for a few months and then they can’t keep up with the bills any more and the number they had in the phone book is disconnected, their website hasn’t been updated in months, and their e-mail inbox is overloaded and kicking back your messages. The only transhumans who always keep their phones operational are mercenaries, and I can’t afford one of them.”

“I see someone has been doing some homework other than prepping for final exams,” Underworld noted.

“As if I’m going to sit on my ass while you and Janus map out my life without my consent?” Zoe said. “There are only what—three legitimate transhuman hero teams?—and one of them is in California, the other one’s in Texas, and the third is in New York and its has such a low opinion of New Judah that they wouldn’t come across the Long Island Sound to do anything here if you paid them. And the fucking Guardian Corps are all about street crime and training new heroes. So, yeah, I’ve got lots of backup, don’t I?” Zoe finished with a sarcastic note.

“That’s what I like about you, Zoe. Proactive. Thorough. Practical. Logical. Fearless. You’ve been working the angles and you’re not afraid to make sure I know it. Join us, Zoe. I’ll keep Janus off you. He has Crazy Jane back in his hands and that makes him happier, and I’ll find new playthings for him, too. You don’t have to worry.”

“Put myself in your loving hands. Lesser of two evils, huh?”

“I’m not so evil, Zoe. I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”

“Go ahead, steal lines from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? but that doesn’t change the fact I don’t trust you to have my best interests at heart,” Zoe said. “I’m still weighing options. I figure it’s going to take you at least two or three more lunches to convince me.”

“I doubt Janus will let me do this more than four or five more times before he steps in, Zoe, so I hope you’re right,” Underworld said. “And I hope you make the smart choice.”

Oh, I plan to, Zoe thought, as she idly fingered the smart phone in her pocket. And now that I finally have a number worth calling, I have more choices than you think. At least I hope I do; I don’t know what kind of response time I can count on with this option.

* * *

Carl wasn’t sure he liked Query’s new office all that much—this building was even older than the last one, and smaller, too. After the attack at the last one, he felt more exposed now. But he supposed he would also get used to it soon enough.

“I trust you passed on the chance to dance with, fondle, feel up or neck with any strange women, right?” Query asked. It was the first time they had met face-to-face for business purposes since the destruction of the previous office.

“Learned my lesson,” Carl said. “Mr. Beacham has turned over a whole new leaf in terms of fidelity thanks to almost getting killed before.”

“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person. You’re not famous or eccentric enough.”

“Agreed,” Carl said. “So, is there an escape route behind the bookcase, just in case?”

“If we need to escape, that’s the point at which you’ll find out where I’ve put it. But you also passed through several screeners on the way in here, and I think you’re clean. I clearly need to step up my paranoia level now that Janus is in the region,” Query said. “So, on to the business stuff, which I’m sure has backed up. What do you have for me?”

“Backed up is an understatement,” Carl noted. “I haven’t been able to screen or research all of the calls. Fortunato is trying to reach you…”

“He can go fuck himself,” Query interrupted. “At least until I have a personal reason to want to talk to him, then he can have his say. Go on.”

“The FBI and ATF both want to talk to you—I think they’ve guessed that the whole hit squad thing at your last office had something to do with you…”

“The ‘fuck off’ thing goes triple for them,” Query noted. “Next?”

“A senior at UConn New Judah says Janus is trying to press her into service, using Underworld as a recruiter. She wants help, she’s asking for discretion, and even though she tried to sound tough in her message, there’s a strong undertone of ‘scared shitless’,” Carl said. “She’s also left several e-mails.”

“Trap?”

“Too soon to tell. Could be. Good chance. Janus would want to make it look good, and this student is likely already in his pocket and ready to stab us in the back when we—rather, you—show up to help. On the other hand…”

“I don’t want to leave some girl twisting in the wind while Janus is stalking her—if she’s on the up-and-up.”

“Exactly,” Carl said.

“All right. Be discreet. Get in touch with her. Find out if she seems to be playing it straight. Let me know what you think. I’ll have to trust your judgment.”

“All in a day’s work, boss,” Carl said, batting his eyelashes and smiling in a purposefully insincere manner.

“Yeah, Carl, I know the check is late. I would say it’s in the mail, but I actually have it right here,” Query said, handing over an envelope. “Have I ever let you down?”

“No, and that’s why I try not to let you down either, Query.”

“Just stay away from loose women with transmitters to drop in your pocket, Carl, and you probably won’t let me down ever again—Patsy will be a lot happier too. All right, what else do you have for me?”

As Carl turned over the sheet of paper on his clipboard, and Query spied how many lay underneath it, he knew it was going to be a long night.

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

The Gathering Storm, Part 5

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

In the middle of a mid-March afternoon, with the sun out and hardly a cloud in the sky, the last thing Martin Osbourne—known to many associates and enemies as Marty the Hun for his take-no-prisoners, kill-or-be-killed attitude—expected to be doing was to be shivering.

Maybe the next guy I should have whacked is the meteorologist for Channel 7 New Judah NewsCenter, Marty fumed silently. The forecast was for low-70s today, and my coat’s 12 miles away at home. Fucking weathermen never get shit right.

“Get the fuckin’ boxes loaded up boys, because it’s getting’ chilly fast, and if my balls start turning blue, I’m gonna choke one’a you until you’re blue in the face,” Marty barked. “Besides, the big boss wants this shit moved, delivered and sold so he can buy himself a city councilman or a police detective. Don’t get in the way of business and civic progress, boys!”

His crew began to pick up the pace, but a few minutes later, Marty was shivering even harder. He pulled out his Droid phone, called up a weather app, and checked the local forecast.

It still called for a high of 72 degrees under mostly sunny skies.

Marty began to look around a bit, and his arm reached through the passenger-side window of his car to pull a pistol from the glove compartment.

“Boys, I think we have company,” he called out to his team, their breath leaving little puffs of white in the air as they worked, and then they dropped boxes at his warning and began to draw weapons. “Of the trans variety, and I don’t mean a chick with a dick or a tranny dude with tits.”

The ambient temperature dipped a bit more, and concerned about how much colder it might get, and how much that might affect their reflexes and concentration, Marty added, “Let’s all move away from the truck and figure out where this fucker is.”

A lithe form darted out into the open for just a moment, too quick to identify, and three pistols suddenly flew from the grips of most of Marty’s guys—and moments later, the gun from Marty’s own. Only one of the four men, Louie, still had a firearm.

Guns yanked away like magic, and temperature dropping. An Attractor and a Psi with cryokinetic powers, probably, Marty theorized—or maybe an Eco who was playing some sort of atmospheric trick. His mind tried to sort through the players he knew, but the cold made it hard to think, and worrying about being weaponless made thinking hard, too. Taking note of the fact Louie still had a gun, and figuring that the hero—or maybe mercenary’s—attractive power was geared toward metal, he pulled open one of the rear doors of his car, yanked out a good old-fashioned baseball bat, and said, “Louie, you got a resin gun, dontcha? Good man. Everyone else grab something not made of metal that you can bash a head in with, right now. Louie, you keep an eye out for our troublemaker and shoot him in his motherfuckin’ head when he pops out again.”

His? He? No, that wasn’t right, Marty realized. Metal Attractor and a Cryo-Psionic, if he was right—and a Thermal, too.

“Fuckin’ Solstice!” Marty cried out. “We got ourselves a feisty bitch, boys! You can all have a shot at her cooch after you take her down if she’s still alive. We’ll have ourselves a regular party. First one to get a hit on her gets first shot at her goods.”

One of Marty’s men, Paulie, reached for a two-by-four with a couple of rusty, bent nails sticking out of it, but before he could lay hold of it, a hand shot out and clamped on his wrist. He screamed in an agonized wail, and the woman was gone into the maze of debris and crates again. Paulie dropped to his knees, shivering all over from the cold, but also holding the heavily blistered and steaming flesh of his right wrist and hand, which was beginning to ooze in a few spots.

Oscar, who already had a weapon in hand—a police baton he kept handy, made a slow circuit of his surroundings. Solstice dropped from above, leaping down from a stack of crates, both of her hands grabbing the side of his head as she used gravity to her advantage to flip him violently as she landed, wrenching his neck painfully but, more importantly, delivering second- and third-degree burns to his face and throat before she let go.

Shit! Now I have two men screaming, Marty thought.

A shot rang out, and Marty held out hope, the bat shaking in his chilled hands, that Louie had nailed the woman. Instead, there was a peal of girlish laughter and then more screaming moments later as she grabbed Carter in a bear hug from behind, making a burning, blistered ruin of his armpits, biceps and chest, then vanishing again into the gloom around the loading dock.

Three men screaming, and one little bitch laughing at us, Marty fumed. “Kill the whore, Louie! Don’t you fuckin’ miss next time!”

“I won’t, chief,” Louie said. But as he turned slowly, waiting for the next sign of Solstice’s approach, a shot rang out and he stumbled back a half-step, red seeping through his shirt just above his left collarbone. He had managed to keep hold of his pistol, and tracked the apparent source of the shot, ready to pull the trigger and shoot into the gloom near the warehouse several times.

Solstice was faster, though, and a second bullet left a hole just above his belly. Louie dropped to the ground, his pistol spinning across the ground. Then she finally came into the open, wearing loose, flared khaki slacks, Doc Marten boots and a tight, dark green tank-top. Marty shivered and cursed her that the cold probably didn’t affect her at all. But he also noticed that it wasn’t as frigid as it had been, and realized she had probably expended a lot of energy to cool down such a large zone. She probably couldn’t keep it up any longer, he assumed, and she might not have any juice left for burning anyone, either.

She looked a little haggard, he thought, and he figured he could take her. He hefted the baseball bat, and looked her in the face defiantly. He saw the dark, kohl-lined Asian eyes beneath an almost buccaneer-like kerchief-style hood, trailing a braid of material down her back, with fake flowers, little pine cones and plastic snowflakes tied into it at intervals. From beneath the mask that covered her scalp, ears, eyes and nose flowed long, black straight hair shot through with a thin line of platinum blonde and a thicker streak of bright purple. Black lipstick adorning narrow lips, a stainless-steel ring piecing the flesh of a lower lip that held a sneer for Marty as she approached him slowly with a casual, dismissive pace.

“C’mon, you bitch-witch pagan trans-whore,” Marty taunted, choking up on the bat and giving it a lazy swing in an almost ‘come hither’ gesture. “Come get a piece of me if you’ve got anything left. See if you can burn my ass, you cunt!”

“Being Goth doesn’t make me automatically pagan, you shithead, or a witch,” Solstice said. “But that said, I don’t like people badmouthing witches because I’m a practicing Wiccan, you greaseball. You don’t hear me badmouthing Catholics just because of a goon like you. And just for the record, I’m not going to bother with trying to fry your greasy ass.”

She lifted one of the guns she had pulled from a member of Marty’s crew and shot the Hun in one kneecap, and then the other.

“I’m not going to go hand-to-hand with you,” she said as his own cries of pain mingled with the moans, sobs and screams of the other men. “Do I look stupid? Try that ego-busting, macho provoking crap with Feral or Nighthunter or someone else who likes the up-close, bone-crunching wet-work. Personally, I like living to fight another day and that’s why I’m a regular at the shooting range, you prick.”

She put a third bullet in Marty the Hun’s right shoulder, then a fourth in his left. She kicked him hard in the ribs with her steel-toed boots, twice, and then took the man’s own smart phone to call the police. Then she shot several holes in each of the truck’s tires.

As the temperature rapidly rose back to the 70s around five heavily wounded men, Solstice took a long ride back into the city in Marty’s own Cadillac, trying to find some decent music on a radio with nothing but presets for conservative talk radio, classical music and light rock.

* * *

“So, what have we got, here?” asked the sergeant as he walked into the convenience store.

“Clerk has some second-degree burns but mostly just a wounded ego,” one of the patrolmen answered. “Perp got away with $200 from the till and a bag full of junk food and 20-ounce sodas. Apparently, it was Hellfire again.”

“Really?” the sergeant said as he looked at the security video playback on a little monitor. “Geez! Five…well, six now…hold-ups and three different costumes. I wish the ass-hat would just pick one style.”

“Might help if he’d shell out for some decent material,” the other patrolman noted, handing over an evidence bag with a fragment of Hellfire’s red cape that had snagged on a display rack nearby. “Probably keeps ripping his cheap-ass suits to shreds. Looks like he bought this cape in the costume aisle at Wal-Mart. Cheap, thin polyester or whatever the hell those crap Halloween costumes are made of.”

“What an embarrassment,” the sergeant said, shaking his head. “Give me a plain old street punk or crackhead, or give me a real villain like Speed Demon or Tooth Fairy. These wannabe, bottom-feeder trans villains just piss me off.”

* * *

Zoe launched herself up onto the balance beam into a handstand position, did a series of twists to get herself halfway down it, then dropped to her feet with perfect grace onto the beam, took a few quick steps, and leapt into the air, twisting and somersaulting—finally sticking a perfect landing three feet from the end of the beam.

“Good work, Dawson!” Coach Hathaway called out. “We’ve got final championships next month that I plan for us to win, so you’d better have that A-game from now until mid-April.”

Zoe didn’t smile at the praise. For one thing, the coach wasn’t really being all that warm in her approach anyway—but more than that, what Zoe had just done wasn’t even difficult for her.

I could run at full speed on a tightrope and do cartwheels across it without breaking a sweat, Zoe mused ruefully. Competitions hold no joy because I’m a transhuman pitted against normal folks.

Not that she would let anyone know that, of course. She carefully held back doing what she was truly capable of, lest she get kicked off the team. NCAA rules were pretty clear on excluding any Acro transhuman from gymnastic competition; she would make sure to make a sloppy landing next time just for show.

I could have been on the U.S. Olympic team, she thought, recalling the recruiters from Team USA who had approached her years ago when she first got involved in gymnastics and dance. But I couldn’t do something that high-level with any sense of good conscience. Of course, using my skills to get scholarship money for college is basic survival, so no guilt there.

Less guilt, at least, she considered. Far less.

“Sure you don’t want my A-plus game instead, Coach?” Zoe shot back.

“Now that you mention it, Dawson, bring your A-plus-plus-hyperspace-level game to the finals, or you’re off the team.”

Zoe snorted. “I’m a senior, Coach, and the season will be over by then.”

“Then I’ll hijack your diploma and keep you from graduating,” the Coach teased, though with a completely stern and deadpan delivery.

As Zoe made her way off the mat, one of the other women on the team hip-checked her a little. “Prize bitch, aren’t you?” Gloria sneered. “Break a leg, Zoe. Really, I mean it. Please break a leg. Better yet, both of them.”

Zoe felt her hairs bristle, and forced down the metabolic shift of her morphing powers, muttering “Fuck you” instead of letting the change take over and slicing and dicing the teammate who’d never forgiven Zoe for being a better gymnast.

Or kissing her boyfriend a few months ago at that Christmas party either, for that matter.

* * *

The Head of Metabolics and Genomics looked at the man on the gurney and sighed. “Dr. Hansen,” he asked, “are you sure we want to dose him so heavily? Or the others, for that matter?”

“Yes, Jacob, I’m very sure. When I work in a secret government lab and the head of the National Security Agency tells me the White House wants a dozen really impressive transhuman conversions by Thanksgiving, I tend to take that kind of seriously.”

Pausing for a moment, Jacob looked at the chart at the end of the man’s gurney, even though he already knew the numbers by heart.

“Dr. Hansen…Jack…you know Earnhardt here is 36 years old. Manifestation of transhuman powers after age 25 correlates to far higher rates of side effects—particularly psychological changes. Especially when it’s not a natural, organic manifestation. You know that as well as I do. Two of the others are also well into their 30s.”

“And all of them, regardless of age, have the most promising set of biomarkers for induced transhuman capabilities, Jacob. That’s the work we’ve agreed to do here, and none of these people here enjoy any right of refusal right now.”

Dr. Jacob Weinbaum swallowed hard, nodded, and pushed the gurney into the next room, trying to comfort himself with the not-so-soothing thought: What could possibly go wrong, right?

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