The Issus coleoptratus is a rather unique insect species whose hind legs naturally evolved with a set of mechanical gears. This allows it to react within microseconds and jump incredible distances at breakneck speed. To translate this to a human, the legs would need to be implanted with high-tensile gears of their own, something Doctor Isaac was able to borrow from Crymson Tech’s robotics division. On top of that, his test subject’s skull and gray matter would need to be impact resistant in order to withstand the near-instantaneous acceleration brought on by the inhuman jumping speeds.
These were modifications Doctor Isaac could do in his sleep, a genetic manipulation cake-walk, but something still didn’t feel right. He glanced back at the news on his tablet, then shook his head. This was no time to grow a conscience.
◊ ◊ ◊
On the other side of town, Deimos and Siren were speeding home as fast as the ancient Civic could take them, which actually wasn’t all that fast. It was this hindered fastness that enabled Siren to fully come to terms with the reality of her last hour.
Siren had received a call from Terry during one of her classes and he filled her in on Hans’ press conference. Even though Siren wasn’t named directly, her coworkers had seen Deimos at enough school gatherings to be able to put two and two together. Thankfully, by that time Siren had already begun wiping her history out of the school’s database. When Deimos arrived soon after he was able to finish scrubbing Siren’s data by accessing the school’s network wirelessly from the parking lot.
The two didn’t talk much on their way home. It was a big life change and Siren needed the time to process everything. Even though she had gone through similar changes in the past, it didn’t make the pain of losing what she loved hurt any less. Teaching was her only connection to a normal life, to be able to raise children that she could never have, and losing something like that is a wound that may never heal.
The Civic coughed and shuddered up to the front of their dilapidated home. Deimos hopped out of the car and rushed to the door. He turned and noticed Siren was still in the car. Her head was buried in her hands. Deimos walked back and opened the passenger door, crouching to Siren’s level.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Siren said before Deimos had a chance to speak.
“What am I going to say?” Deimos asked sweetly.
Siren wiped away her tears and sniffed, “That this isn’t a time for emotions. We need to act first, react later.”
“That sounds like something I used to say,” Deimos chuckled, “but that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say I’m amazed at how strong you’ve been through all of this and how lucky I am to be a part of your life.”
Siren looked to Deimos and he offered her his hand. She accepted it and got out of the car, embracing him.
“Thank you,” Siren whispered.
“You’re welcome,” Deimos whispered back. After a brief moment he continued, “But we really should hurry. The cops could be here any minute. Or someone worse.”
“Right,” Siren said firmly and let go of Deimos. “Get Indie ready, I’ll grab whatever I can.”
Siren took off into the house and Deimos shouted after her, “Only the important stuff! Professor Paws, some photographs, and maybe that Macallan we’ve got saved in the pantry!”
Deimos nodded to himself, pleased with his choices. He opened the garage and began dragging out Indiana Drones. He was grateful he had the forethought to install bendable wings the night prior otherwise it would have been a much longer process.
Deimos looked around the garage for anything they might need. He saw a chest plate prototype Glenn had welded for him in preparation for facing off against Triceratop the day before. It had been too thick and cumbersome to hide under his clothes at the time, and Glenn ultimately had to make another one, but something compelled Deimos to bring this larger one. He grabbed it and put it on, covering it with an old sweater. It looked odd, but Deimos felt safer. If Triceratop was going to come at him with another uppercut, he wanted to be prepared.
Behind the chest plate was an old moving box. He opened it and immediately recognized it as one of the boxes from Terry’s storage container. In it was an assortment of specialized tools, a megaphone, a first aid kit, and for some reason two label makers.
Deimos shrugged and grabbed the whole box. As he tossed it into Indiana Drones he received a text from Glenn. It was an address for a café that Deimos assumed his henchmen were hoping to find Eve. He plugged the address into Indiana Drones’ GPS and saw it was in the heart of downtown Los Rebeldes.
He sighed audibly. There was no way those three would be able to maintain a cover in such a densely populated area. He knew deep down that they were going to need his help, like when a father instinctively knows his kids are about to do something stupid and hurt themselves.
Deimos ran inside and helped Siren grab the rest of what they could. They loaded up the boxes, Professor Paws, a few gadgets, and the Macallan 18, then took off toward Downtown in Indiana Drones. Deimos turned back only briefly to get one final look at their rundown home and archaic Civic.
I won’t miss you at all, Deimos thought.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had been two hours since their phone call with Deimos, which gave Terry, Glenn, and Harold barely enough time to drive downtown and order a round of half-priced frappés at a popular café. The idea was brought on when Harold was performing some investigative work, on his cell phone of all things, and discovered that one of Eve’s songs was titled “Frappé Monday.” It had been posted three months ago to her social media page. In the song, Eve rapped about how, “Those bitches would pay on Frappé Monday.” The henchmen agreed that Eve did not mean ‘pay’ in the sense of a monetary transaction, but that she intended to inflict physical harm on the ‘bitches’ referred to in the song.
There were a few other clues the henchmen were able to scrape together that lead them to that particular café. Eve had multiple public police reports of incidents occurring at the German café in Downtown Los Rebeldes called Bean Wüter. Also, on the last Monday of every month, the café sold its specialty vegan bratwurst frappé for only half price. The frappé was a huge hit among the foodies of Los Rebeldes for having the perfect combination of absurd ingredients and cultural insensitivity.
The henchmen knew the odds that Eve was rapping about that particular café were slim, even less so was her showing up on that day and at that time. Still, it was the best idea they had and the henchmen needed to kill some time. Terry planned on using the free Internet access in order to try and locate Eve’s home address. He had picked up some tricks over the years and thought he might be able to use his banking connections to lock her down. Terry knew it was a fireable offense, but if anyone figured out he was one of the men shown during Hans’ newscast, he would be fired anyway. Luckily for him, he worked from home so not many of his coworkers had ever seen him in person, which would likely buy him a couple of days.
The henchmen sat on the front patio of Bean Wüter wearing wide-brimmed hats and dark sunglasses. Harold was kicked back with a newspaper as Terry finished up an email on his phone. Glenn was the only one of the three who seemed concerned with their current predicament. He kept his head down until he heard someone walk by, in which case he would jump in his seat and stare at them over the rims of his glasses.
He was reasonably on edge. Nobody else in the group had a job that relied almost entirely on their face. In fact, Glenn’s face was already plastered on a number of benches throughout town due to his marginally successful car dealership.
“Dammit,” Glenn whispered nervously to Terry. “We can’t stay out like this. Someone is going to recognize us and Hans’ goon is going to publicly rip us apart. Then all the mindless civilians are going to be standing there clapping for him while he punts my head two blocks away from my ass.”
“Better than your head being punt
ed up your ass,” Terry said with a chuckle.
Glenn stared wide-eyed at Terry. He hadn’t even considered that as an option. Terry finished his email and put his phone back in his pocket.
“Relax, Glenn,” he coaxed. “Don’t be such a scared Stakeout Sally. Nobody is even looking at us. Our disguises are top-notch. We are killing two birds with one stone by waiting here.”
Glenn’s eyes darted as a young couple walked past.
“We don’t even know if she’s going to come down here today,” he whispered. “Hell, she might not even be in town!”
“It’s not like we have anything better to do while we wait for her address,” Terry said. “Besides, we’re all creatures of habit. Eve clearly has a connection to this place, and today happens to be an actual ‘Frappé Monday.’ The odds aren’t astronomical.”
Glenn rolled his eyes.
“Oh, so now you’re an expert on the teenage female mind?”
“No, but Eve is twenty-three, which is an age I am very familiar with,” Terry chuckled.
Terry held up his hand for a high five but Glenn rejected it. Terry turned hopefully to Harold, who also made no move to reciprocate the high five.
“Come on, Harold, you know what I’m talking about,” Terry said and nudged Harold’s arm.
Harold dropped the newspaper, revealing that he had been fast asleep the entire time.
“Goddammit, Harold, you sleepy old bastard! Wake up!” Glenn shouted and pushed Harold.
Harold jolted awake and looked around, confused. He saw Terry and Glenn staring at him. Realization of the situation quickly dawned on his face. He picked up the newspaper and returned to reading.
“Can you guys believe the Breakers lost again last night?” he asked nonchalantly.
Glenn raised his hand, ready to smack Harold, when he heard a group of people approaching. His eyes darted to the sidewalk and his mouth fell open. He pointed at them exactly in the way one should not point at a group of people while on a stakeout.
Terry and Harold turned to see a crew of two dozen fashionably dressed millennials strutting toward them. Their varied wardrobes were at the height of fashion, which happened to be whatever strange clothes they could find at the thrift shop. But it wasn’t their outfits that caught Glenn’s attention, it was the five-foot-six blonde bombshell leading the pack. He immediately recognized her as the same girl they were looking for—Eve.
Eve’s blonde pigtails bounced lively behind her as she strode confidently down the sidewalk toward the café. She wore a bright blue tank top and baggy pants embellished with a dizzying pattern that Harold thought looked familiar to a pair that an old girlfriend of his had owned back in 1985. Considering where Eve got them from, it was entirely possible that they were the same ones.
Eve stopped suddenly as another girl stepped out from a store in front of them. The two nearly collided when the other girl didn’t look up from her phone. Eve stared down the girl, who also happened to be wearing a bright blue tank top. She looked her up and down, scoffed, then continued walking. As Eve brushed past her, she snapped her fingers and six members of her posse made a formation around the clueless girl. Without warning, they began beating her senseless.
Eve strutted past the dumbstruck henchmen with the rest of her crew and they entered Bean Wüter. Terry motioned to Glenn and Harold, leading them into the café after Eve.
“Should we do something to help that girl?” Glenn asked.
Harold shrugged and rose out of his chair.
“Yeah, go ahead and call the cops,” he said sarcastically before entering the café.
Glenn looked at the girl, winced, then turned his back on her. When he entered the café, Terry and Harold were already seated at a small table in the nearest corner. Glenn shut the door quietly behind him, careful to not make a sound, then shuffled into a seat next to Harold.
An oversized blow-up bratwurst stood between them and the register, concealing the henchmen from view. The other patrons in the café were huddled against the back wall while two burly members of Eve’s crew stood watch over them with their arms crossed. Eve stood in front of the counter, eyeing the drink menu. The remainder of her crew positioned themselves around her in a semicircle barrier.
The barista, a hairy, scrawny twenty-year-old, was sporting a man bun that was courteously being covered by a hair net. He pressed flat against the espresso machine and eyed Eve nervously.
After several long, tense seconds, Eve sweetly said, “We’re going to need two caramel lattes, six vanilla bean frappés, and eight of today’s special.”
The barista was surprised by Eve’s calm tone and cautiously stepped forward to the register.
He entered the order and croaked, “O-okay. Your total will be forty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”
Eve laughed an insincere, condescending laugh. The barista’s eyes grew wide and he took a tentative step back. If the imposing crew’s show of force didn’t convince him, Eve’s horrifying laugh certainly did—he was now sure that this was the girl his manager had warned him about when he was hired.
Eve suddenly stopped laughing as a look of ferocious intensity crossed her face. The henchmen recognized the same look from her photo online.
“Yeah, sure,” Eve said. “Let me go ahead and fund your company’s continual destruction of rainforests to plant coffee beans and its constant raping of the Earth to fill it with plastic cups.”
The barista was confused. The words Eve was saying implied she didn’t want to pay for her order, but she had already said ‘sure’ so he continued checking her out.
“Okay, so forty-eight dollars-” the barista began again, only to be cut off by an imposing female member of Eve’s crew.
“Are you stupid?” the burly woman asked, leaning over the counter. Her muscles bulged out of a sleeveless jean jacket as she grabbed the barista’s collar. “You heard her, she ain’t supporting your shitty company.”
The barista tried to back away, but the woman was stronger and held him steady. His wide eyes glanced down at the woman’s fist clenched around his collar, then up to the woman who was controlling it. He decided to speak to the fist.
“That is a really big order,” the barista stammered to the fist. “I can’t give it to you for free. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to not get the drinks at all if you’re so opposed to the coffee industry?”
Eve patted her crewmember’s arm, who then let go of the barista. Eve leaned in close to him and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Did you just try and tell me what to do?” Eve asked.
The barista opened and closed his mouth twice. He couldn’t form any words to respond. Even if he could, they would more than likely be the wrong ones. Unfortunately for the barista, he was able to force out an, “Um,” which was all Eve needed to hear. She leapt over the counter and squared up to the bumbling barista who instinctively threw up his hands. Eve easily brushed them aside then delivered a spinning elbow directly into the man’s temple, slammed her palm into his jugular, and swept out his legs all in one flowing, graceful movement.
Eve’s posse began shoving the other patrons out of the café. Terry, Glenn, and Harold remained crouched in their seats unseen, hidden behind the blow-up bratwurst.
“She’s a decent fighter,” Harold whispered. “Quick to action. Deimos would like her.”
“I don’t know. She seems like a spoiled brat to me,” Glenn whispered back.
“Was that a bratwurst pun?” Terry asked.
“You know, I realized as I was saying it and-”
Suddenly, the barista flew through the blow-up bratwurst and landed on the henchmen’s table. He weakly lifted his hand toward Terry, who screamed and batted it away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harold whispered angrily to Terry.
The burly woman turned to the henchmen’s location.
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“Hey!” she shouted. “What are you three doing?”
Harold looked around, perplexed.
“Us?” he asked innocently. “Nothing really. Just talking about old men things.”
“Oh yeah? Like how your generation drained social security and destroyed the economy, leaving us with nothing?” the woman asked.
Harold stammered, “I uh… What?”
The burly woman turned to Eve and shouted, “Hey, Eve. We got ourselves a couple of smart-ass baby boomers over here.”
Eve hopped back over the counter and approached the henchmen’s table. Her crew followed in a tight formation directly behind her. She looked them over and noticed the barista still heaving on the table. She shoved him off then slammed her hands down.
“What the hell are you old geezers doing here?” Eve asked.
Terry meekly raised his voice, “We wanted some frappés and heard this place was the best. ‘Frappé Monday’, right?”
Eve curled her lip in disgust.
“Ew. Old people are listening to that?” She turned to her burly crewmember. “Delete ‘Frappé Monday’ from all my social media accounts.”
Terry dropped his head, utterly devastated. He had always been the youngest in his group. This dis was a cold slap of reality that he wasn’t prepared for.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he muttered.
He buried his head in his hands and Eve turned her attention back to them.
“So, are you three stalking me or what?”
Glenn shook his head vigorously.
“Whoa, stalking? No, no, of course not. We were only…”
Before Glenn could think of an excuse, the rest of Eve’s posse began filing into the café. They appeared to have finished their business with the girl outside and several even had fresh bloodstains on their shirt.
Eve’s crew now filled the entire café and soon had the men completely surrounded. Terry, Glenn, and Harold looked nervously to each of the menacing millennials, who were scowling down at them.
Villain (Book 1): Villain 1 Page 13
