I used to have a toy pistol that said, “BANG!”
But the gun I carry now does not play, does not joke, does not de-escalate. It deals in only finality. It comes into my hand. Numbness spreads through me. Everything narrows to a tight circle around the white dots of the Glock’s sights.
There is no cover in the hallway, only fifty feet of space between me and him.
His hand pauses at the doorknob, then swivels the barrel toward me.
I throw myself prone, sliding toward him barrel first, already taking aim.
He squeezes off four thunderous rounds over my head before I pull the trigger. His Kevlar vest takes the brunt, but my bullets still stagger him, then punch him against the wall. He sags floorward, and my aim tracks his unprotected legs, his pelvis. I stop shooting when the action locks open, ammunition spent.
He’s groaning, writhing, bleeding, staring, gasping. I stand over him, stomp the hand gripping the rifle, and kick it from his grasp.
Screams fill the hallway.
The shooter is a cliché: a young, white man with the hollow eyes of a world without joy. His world does not know the circus. I handcuff him. He will bleed out before the ambulance arrives.
Screams fight through the ringing in my ears, turning from terror to grief.
The shooter’s blood soaks my hands, my knees. My legs are jelly. It’s like I’m wearing my floppy shoes again.
At the end of the hallway behind me, teachers are screaming for help. The opposite of laughter, their screams suck the energy from my soul until I stagger.
Surrounded by rainbows, alphabet flash cards, and wailing children, Tisha Jackson’s blood-specked face stills into a cold, gray mask. The AR-15’s 5.56mm armor-piercing round passed through two walls, then through Tisha Jackson as she was reading Curious George.
Late that night, when the police finally let me go, when the teachers and staff are done hugging me and sobbing thanks for saving their lives, I return to my one-room, basement apartment on a dead-end street. I strip off my uniform. Sweat soaks the scarlet-and-lemon striped shirt I always wear underneath my disguise. My chartreuse-and-aquamarine, polka-dot pantaloons sag around my legs, stained with blood. I collapse onto the stool, bathed in the lights of my dressing mirror. Tears have left white streaks in my makeup.
I put Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci on the Victrola. Its scratchy tones comfort me, draw me back through the centuries.
My eyes are watery, bloodshot, and so, so tired.
I peel off my wig, place it on the head stand, and rub the sweat from my naked, bone-white pate.
Then I soak a handful of cotton balls with makeup remover and wipe away the rest of my disguise, my flesh-colored mask. My hands reek of cordite and blood.
My true face re-emerges—white skin, red-circled cheeks, black eyebrows, and a smiling mouth.
“‘But Doctor,’” I say, quoting the ancient joke as I meet my gaze in the mirror, “‘I’m Pagliacci.’”
And I weep for the world.
Travis Heermann is a novelist, freelancer, award-winning screenwriter, editor, poet, member of SFWA and HWA, and a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. His latest novel is Tokyo Monster Mash, book two of his Shinjuku Shadows Trilogy. Other novels include The Hammer Falls, and The Ronin Trilogy, plus short fiction published in Baen Books’ Straight Outta Deadwood, plus Apex Magazine, Tales to Terrify, and others. His freelance work includes contributions to the Firefly Roleplaying Game, Legend of Five Rings, EVE Online, and Battletech. He loves monsters of all sorts, especially those with a soft, creamy center.
A New Purpose
Rebecca M. Senese
The interior was dark but not completely. Enough light shone through the crack between the doors to show the slight imperfections in the wood. Instead of a smooth blending of the rings, it was jagged and somewhat off-center, like the wood had been cut at the wrong angle and no amount of finishing would fix that initial mistake.
The dim light glinted off the wood, revealing the varnish, so someone had tried their best to make it nice, but it didn’t take away the flaws, instead gave light to the slight sickening yellow that seemed to run through the wood. Perhaps the tree it had been taken from had been diseased.
Much like the mask itself.
That had to be why it was stuck in this cupboard. Left alone.
Forgotten.
It must have some fatal flaw.
Was it the stitching that crisscrossed along the edges, still glinting some silver, even in this dim light? The single eye hole that sliced across the front of the mask in a thin rectangle? Many overlooked the mask because of it, not realizing that when worn, a thin sheen closed over the hole, protecting the eyes and presenting the wearer with several visual options from zooming in to displaying all sorts of information about what the wearer was looking at, like distance and composition.
It was one of its features that the mask was particularly proud of, even though many didn’t like the single eye hole.
Perhaps it was the material itself, a sort of finely woven mesh, light and flexible. Many took it be fragile but the mask was anything but. It could stop bullets or laser blasts without so much as a nick in its polished surface. And it could change color to match whatever outfit the hero was wearing.
What other mask could do that?
Yet still it languished in this cupboard, forgotten, ignored. Too strange for most heroes to take a chance on, although some had in the past. How many heroes had the mask assisted through its long existence? It couldn’t remember. After a time, they all blurred together. Camo Man who dressed in greens and black. That had been an interesting color scheme to match. The mask had had fun with that one. The Siren Song who wore a mix of red, orange, and yellow. One of the flashier looks for the mask. It had felt self-conscious working with her, never quite happy with how it blended with her outfit. And so many others, so many colors, so many textures, so many adventures.
So many times saving the world.
The mask was just glad to be part of it.
Until now, when the last hero had retired, as they all eventually did and, instead of passing the mask along to the next hero, had sold it to the shop. Collectables.
For a while, the mask had been in a glass display case, close enough to the front of the shop that it could see into the street. Once it had spotted a mugging down the block and the urge to intervene had been almost overwhelming. But the mask was only a mask. It couldn’t do anything on its own. It could only watch helpless as the man in the dark grey hoodie ran off with the woman’s purse. It needed a hero, someone to wear it so it could assist people.
But no one opened the display case, no one bothered with the mask.
Eventually the proprietor, a tall, thin man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair who only ever wore white t-shirts and jeans (which didn’t give the mask much to work with for matching), moved the mask from the display case to this cupboard. Closing the door with a click after placing the mask on a shelf.
Now it waited. Wondering.
Were its hero days over?
Since it had come to Earth, brought so many years ago by aliens it could no longer remember, the mask had been passed from hero to hero. It had taken such pride in being a hero mask, doing everything it could to protect and help.
Was it now all over? Would no one take it out of this cupboard again? Sorrow made it sag in on itself. Maybe it would spend the rest of its days here, ignored, forgotten. Maybe it should just take on the hues of the cupboard. Then it really would be ignored forever.
A tinkling bell sounded through the wood, muffled. The main door of the shop opened. The light coming through the crack of the door brightened. Shuffling sounded beyond, then a click, and the cupboard door swung open.
The proprietor glanced in at the mask, lifting his nose as if to sniff it. He gave a brief nod before turning away. But he left the door open.
Hope blossomed in the mask. Maybe the proprietor was going to move it back to the display case, wher
e someone would pick it up and choose to take it. A new hero, just waiting to be born.
The mask could dream.
The shop spread out before it. A row of three glass display cases filled the center of the room. Shelves lined the walls, some made of glass, others wood like the cupboard the mask rested in. In the far right back corner, the proprietor had his cash register and a red stool where he mostly sat and read comic books. Rock music murmured from hidden speakers, too low to distinguish the thumping bass from one song to the next.
The bell above the door tinkled and several teenage boys entered, jostling each other, voices talking over each other. They headed over to the right wall that was full of comics. The proprietor gave them a gruff warning about buying before reading.
The bell rang again. A college-age couple holding hands entered and moved toward the miniatures on the left.
The bell rang again, and more people entered.
But no one came over to the cupboard. No one looked at the mask.
Did no one want to be a hero? Did they only want to read about them?
Or maybe something about the mask just wasn’t up to it anymore. That single rectangular eye slit, its flexible feel that people took for flimsiness. The mask didn’t measure up anymore.
It had no future, except watching people pass by.
It had never felt this despairing before, not even when the evil Tentacled Thrasher cornered Camo Man in the alley off Madison. Huge, red brick walls stretching up on either side. Concrete covering the ground. Nowhere to escape to, nowhere to hide. And the Tentacled Thrasher stepping forward, tentacles writhing, cutting up so much dust the mask had been forced to try multiple different lenses and views before it found one that helped Camo Man see the approaching menace.
And the fleeting glimpse of escape.
“Mama, what’s that?”
The squeal of a voice brought the mask back from its reminiscences. What? Where? Oh yes, the shop. It remembered now. It was sitting in the cupboard, alone. Not a part of any fight. No danger, no chance to save the world here.
Except for the tiny hand reaching for it.
Soft fingers grabbed hold of the edge of the mask and pulled. If it had wanted, the mask could have let the fingers slide over its fabric. A simple twist of its flexible threads and it would be free from the grasp.
But why bother? It wasn’t as if the child could tear it. The mask was made of materials beyond this world and nothing here could destroy it.
The mask had always thought that was a blessing, but these days, it was starting to think that maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. After all, what good had it done lately? Maybe if it could be taken apart, it could be woven into something new, something more useful.
The fingers tightened on the mask and pulled it down from the shelf.
The mask felt like it was floating on air, falling. It caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a blue dress, then it twisted and landed in a child’s palm.
A girl, with soft brown hair curling wildly around her head. Big brown eyes, dark brown skin. She wore a bright yellow top with little bows at the collar.
Yellow. Bows.
The mask could work with that.
Her brown eyes widened even more as she looked at the mask. For a moment, the mask was dismayed. Was its eye slit too small for those eyes? Then a smile blossomed on the girl’s face.
“Mama, so pretty!”
The mask felt a tiny burst of pride. It had shifted color to be closer to the yellow. It hadn’t added the bows though. That might have been a little too much.
“Yes, that’s nice, Teisha,” the woman said. Her tone was neutral, but the mask sensed some trepidation behind it. Did the mask worry her?
Of course, she was worried about her daughter becoming a hero. Understandable. The girl was so young, no more than ten, with long arms and legs that she still needed to grow into, but already the mask could see the muscle, the strength, in her. Not just in body, but in spirit. She was bursting with potential. Heroic potential.
The mask felt giddy. Was it finally happening? Had it found its next hero?
If it truly was this girl, they could be together for decades.
Perhaps forever.
Now it wished it had added the bows.
“Can I have it, mama?” Teisha asked. Her hands tightened on the mask. Her skin felt warm and soft as they twisted its fabric.
“Be careful, don’t tear it,” the woman said. Alarm filled her voice. Her hand came down, touching the girl’s fingers, loosening them.
“Can I help you?” The proprietor appeared, hands folded in front of him, his head tilted to one side like a bird.
“Oh sorry,” the woman said. “My daughter was just looking at the mask. Put it back now, honey.”
“Oh, it’s a nice one, isn’t it?” The proprietor leaned over, putting his hands on his knees as he bent at the waist. He smiled at the girl.
Teisha gave a shy smile back. Her chin ducked down, almost turtling into her neck. She raised her hands, lifting the mask toward the proprietor.
No, don’t hand it over! The mask felt frantic. What could it do? It wanted to twist away so the proprietor wouldn’t take it, but the mask had little ability to move itself. In a burst of effort, it sprouted tiny bows on the either side of the eye slit.
“Look how it matches your shirt,” the proprietor said. “I bet it would look so good on you.”
“I don’t think …” the woman said.
“Why don’t you try it on?” the proprietor said. “I bet those bows match yours.”
Teisha tilted the mask to look at it. “Bows,” she said. Her voice was breathless with wonder. The mask trembled with her excitement.
So close, so close now. It could be with a hero again.
“That’s enough.” The woman’s tone grew stronger, catching the mask’s attention. Her hand tightened on the girl’s fingers, drawing them off the mask.
“I’m sorry we don’t have the money for …”
“It’s half price,” the proprietor blurted. “Special clearance.”
“Mama?” Teisha asked.
“I’m sorry, that’s still too much,” the woman said.
“I tell you what I can do.” The proprietor stood up, leaning closer to the woman. He dropped his voice to a near whisper but still loud enough for the mask to hear.
“Twenty dollars, absolute bargain,” the proprietor said. “That’s less than my cost. I just want to clear the shelf.”
Teisha’s grip tightened on the mask. “Mama?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” the proprietor said. “It’s been here too long. Honestly, you’re the first people to look at it in months. I just want it gone.”
“Mama, please?” Teisha said. “Pleeeeaasse.”
The woman sighed.
“No tax,” the proprietor said.
“No tax, mama,” Teisha said.
The woman sighed again. “Then I’ll have to get your brother something,” she said. She tilted her head at the proprietor. “Will you throw in the latest issue of Wonder Kid?”
The proprietor shuddered. Then he threw his hands up. “Okay, sure. But I’ll have to charge you the tax then.”
“Deal,” the woman said.
Teisha squealed and hugged the mask to her chest.
The mask felt the warmth of her arms pressed against it, felt the excited thud of her heart. Home, it was finally going to have a home again with a new hero-to-be.
The mask almost trembled with joy.
Teisha’s room was in the top of the house, with walls that sloped along with the angle of the roof. Posters cluttered the wall on one side, opposite a book shelf that was cluttered with books. A single bed sat under a tiny window that overlooked the front of the house. A desk with an old, beige desktop computer sat against the opposite wall.
That was where Teisha did her homework and wrote her stories. The mask learned this as Teisha carried
it around her room, talking to herself and to it.
She ended up plopping down on the bed, lying on her stomach, the mask in front of her. Her voice grew louder and more excited as she talked about Tina Shadow and her adventures, saving the city.
Who was this Tina Shadow? Was that Teisha’s hero identity? The mask became more excited. Perhaps this girl was already a hero. It had heard of the occasional child hero but usually they had some kind of superpower. From what the mask had discerned, Teisha was just a regular girl, but the mask could be wrong.
Perhaps Teisha was more of a hero that it realized.
And she had chosen it.
The mask was humbled and excited.
Except she had still not put it on, had not shown it her costume. How was the mask to blend in if it didn’t know her costume? It needed time to adjust itself, to learn the type of support she needed. Did she prefer the eye slot be covered with mesh or clear? Did she need zoom-in capability? Would she be fighting villains at night and need infrared and night vision? Would she be working mostly in the day and need shade to protect from bright sunlight?
The mask needed to know these things, but most importantly it needed to match her costume.
Whatever that was.
But when she turned off the light to go to bed, leaving the mask on the nightstand beside her bed, it realized it wouldn’t see her costume tonight.
Tomorrow then. It was understandable that she would want to reveal it in the light of day.
The mask could wait.
But she didn’t reveal any costume the next day.
Or the day after that.
Oh, she still chatted to the mask, and giggled when it matched the color of her shirt. She even continued to talk about Tina Shadow, who the mask soon learned was not her hero identity but a character in a comic book.
The mask slowly came to realize that Teisha was not a hero after all.
She was just a girl.
A girl who had liked the mask.
Unmasked Page 18
