"Look, I could sit here all day and make excuses," Ed said. "The fact of the matter is I had no idea who I was supposed to even contact in case of a hero-level emergency. By the time I even thought of it, no one else was around to ask."
"One of many reasons why you were not actually sent on any missions yet."
"I know that tone. You wouldn't believe how many people I've heard it from. You made up your mind before you came in here and these questions are just an excuse to tell us how we screwed everything up. Yeah, everything went to shit. We ended up somewhere we would never have gone, and people got hurt, maybe even killed. I've made a lot of mistakes, I know, but for once, this was Not. My. Fault."
"And you think yelling at me will have a favorable effect on the outcome?"
"No," Ed said. "I just wasn't going to be punished without having said my piece."
"I see. Anything you would like to add, Mister Nightchase?"
"I'm good," Kevan said.
"We are not terminating the Junior Redemptioner program. There will be a revision of communication protocols and the added requirement that participants apply for a Class Four license instead of merely registering for a Red Card. Mister Wilson, you have been docked additional points for inappropriate language. You were warned about use of profanity many times. Mister Nightchase, your efforts to deal with Skullcracker were commendable, but he is a bit above your weight class. So to speak."
"I was all we had."
"Indeed."
"Is that it?" Ed asked.
"Someone will drop you off at the halfway house. After all, you two have school in the morning." Razordemon stood and left the room.
The TV in the Vanguard Hospital waiting room was tuned to PCN. Agnes Phelps was prattling on about the number of police cars she saw in Riverside even as she stood almost a block away from the housing project. Hephaestus sat amongst the beige decor next to a plastic ficus tree. His gnarled hands sat folded atop his knee as he watched the TV for lack of anything better to do.
"We have heard conflicting reports of anything from one to ten fatalities, but there has been no official statement from the MPD," Phelps said. "There was a small swarm of costumed heroes about the upper floors of that same tower a short while ago, but I do not know where they've gone. Coming a day after the massive shooting in Leyden-" A bottle-blonde with a pixie hair cut and a mannish build clicked off the television before sitting down. She'd come straight from the hallway to the set, and hadn't bothered to inquire if anyone was watching. Taking out a phone, she began playing a game. Hephaestus stood and hobbled over to the set, turning it back on.
"Do you mind?" the woman asked.
"Yes, I do mind you turning it off," Hephaestus said, hobbling back to his seat. Before he sat down, the set clicked off again. Hephaestus turned in place. "Do I have to explain waiting room etiquette to you, young lady?"
She scoffed at him. "Don't patronize me you old fossil. Your opinion hasn't been relevant since the last century."
"Such omniscience," Hephaestus said. "Tell me, what do you know about my 'relevance.'?"
"Nobody cares what an old patriarchal shitlord thinks. Okay? Just stuff it."
Hephaestus' laugh was a slow, dry cackle that made her skin crawl. "A fringe lunatic calling me irrelevant? I don't think you'll ever really figure out how pathetic you are." Hephaestus walked up to the set and clicked it back on. "If you don't mind, my poor old ears don't work as well as they used to, so I'm going to stay here." Hephaestus stood below the set, bodily blocking her from being able to turn it off again.
Continued argument was forestalled as another woman walked in. She had long brown curls that fell to her shoulders, bright red lipstick, and a skirt that was too short for her age. Hephaestus rolled his eyes.
"They wouldn't let me in to see the boy," the new arrival said. "They even threatened to throw me out of the hospital."
"Why the hell not?"
"They made up some bullshit about him not wanting to see me. What's that got to do with anything? I'm his mother. He doesn't get a say in the matter."
"What kind of mother calls her son 'the boy'?" Hephaestus asked. "I think I know why he doesn't want to see you if you can't even bother to use his name."
"Shut the fuck up, old man. This isn't your business."
"Maybe not, but my son never turned me away from his hospital room."
"Piss off already," the bottle-blonde said.
Hephaestus was going to continue to argue, but an orderly poked his head in the waiting room. "Mister Rickard, your grandson's awake."
"It seems you ladies will get your wish." Hephaestus followed the orderly through the hospital to a private room overlooking a secondary parking garage. Errol was bleary-eyed and pale, hooked into a mess of monitoring equipment. Hephaestus' eyes swept from readout to readout, taking in the state of his grandson's vitals. Errol noticed what he was doing.
"I feel poorly, sir," he said. "But they think I will recover."
"Think?" Hephaestus asked.
"Your grandson was exposed to a mix of unknown chemical compounds," a voice said from the doorway. Hephaestus turned to the white-coated figure standing there. "We're not sure what effect they're going to have, so the only option is to monitor him and keep him stable until they clear his system."
"Where did you run into chemicals that Vanguard's never seen?" Hephaestus asked.
"Riverside, sir. And before you ask, no one intended for us to end up there. We were supposed to go to Briar Park."
"That is quite literally the opposite side of the city from Riverside," Hephaestus said.
"I know, sir," Errol said.
"There was one abnormal compound we were able to identify in his blood work," the doctor said. "Something called 'Aphrodite's Kiss'."
"He was exposed to a large dose of it on Valentine's Day," Hephaestus said. "From what I am given to understand, it passes easily though cell membranes. Thus it takes a long time before it can be reliably metabolized by the liver. Weeks or months for the amount he was exposed to."
"Well, here's the thing," the doctor said. "The concentrations of it have been going up. We've taken a sweat swab for testing. If it turns up positive, we're going to have to move him to quarantine to avoid exposing the staff."
"Why would it be going up?" Hephaestus asked. "It's a synthetic pheromone not even manufactured by the human body."
"I don't know."
"What do you know?"
"That the police want to take his statement. They're on their way now. I let you see him before they got here because you were waiting on-site. You have until they get here to visit."
Hephaestus pulled up a chair beside Errol's bed as the doctor left. "What is it you ran into in Riverside?"
"I think it was the place they were cooking up that drug that induces powers. But, this guy who called himself Hangman had just murdered somebody. He didn't even stop disposing of the body, he just tried to kill me next."
"Sounds like a codena, albeit one I'm not familiar with," Hephaestus said.
"I couldn't get a good look at his face with his mask and goggles and all the smoke."
"Don't worry about that, Little Eros," Hephaestus said. "What I want you to do is focus on getting better."
Errol nodded. "I will, sir."
Epilogue
A chill breeze blew over the open pit at Westbrook, winter's last breath as spring rolled in. Errol stood at the edge of the quarry lake, looking out over the ochre water. He fiddled with the collar button of his button-down shirt. Behind him, the BHA drone Pekkanen stood with a clipboard. Next to him, Kwan held a stop watch.
"Why are we here?" Errol asked, his voice almost a mumble.
"You know exactly why we're here," Pekkanen said.
"Come on, Flynn, I did thi
s test," Ed said.
"The others didn't."
"Red uses a gadget, and Birdstrike is still recovering from getting shot," Ed said.
"Just fly up, snatch the tag from the drone and land as fast as you can," Kwan said.
Errol sighed and took a deep breath. A golden circle materialized behind his back, its spin almost unnoticeable save for the irregular nimbus of light dragged along its edge. Two feathery wings of white light unfurled from within the circle, spanning several times the length of his outstretched arms. Opening his eyes, Errol looked up, picking the tiny quad-copter out against the overcast sky.
"And go," Kwan said, clicking her stop watch.
With a downbeat, Errol kicked off the ground and hurtled skyward. Before he knew it, he was staring into the small camera mounted on the drone. He snatched the length of paper hanging from the landing strut and plunged back towards the Earth. With a crash, he landed in a crouch on the same spot he'd taken off from. Kwan showed Pekkanen the number and he wrote it down.
"There will be three more runs," Pekkanen said.
"Why?"
"A single run might not be representative," he said.
Kwan took the strip of paper from Errol. "Why are you so resentful this time around?" she asked.
"I used to be normal."
"Dude, you were never normal," Ed said. "By the way, what are you going to do with that amulet now that you don't need it?"
"Return it to my grandfather," Errol said.
"Come on, go get me another piece of paper," Kwan said, resetting her stopwatch. "Go," she clicked the timer on and Errol shot skyward.
"Why are the later manifestors always bitter?" Pekkanen asked. Errol crashed back into the ground with another slip of paper between his fingers. "Is there any pain upon landing like that?" Pekkanen asked.
"No," Errol said. Pekkanen made an annotation. "What, is that going to effect my insurance premiums?"
"Disincentives to recklessness can offset other variables. A lack of disincentives is not necessarily an added liability."
"So you mean yes," Ed said.
"Everything is a factor," Pekkanen said.
"We've got two more runs to go, so get ready," Kwan said. Errol handed over the paper and turned his attention back to the drone.
A beep from his pocket had Ed pulling out his Fund-issued phone. He read the text message as Errol leapt skyward again. "We can see Flynn from the parking lot. He looks pissed."
Ed typed back, "A little. He'll get over it."
A hammer blow caved in the steel door and a sweep of a shield sent two members of the posse flying. Gunfire rang off the black-and-gold armored figure as it strode into the dank chamber. Blank-faced and svelte, the power armor was barely scuffed by the assault rifle rounds hammering into it. It certainly wasn't slowed down. It waded through the fusillade with brazen contempt. Skullcracker's wrench rang against its shield. A hammer blow took out Rance's knee before a back swing across his jaw sent him sprawling.
The gang members staggered back in confusion.
"Who the fuck are you?" Rance asked, spitting blood.
"Ptah," a stern, resonant voice said from within the armor.
"What is a Ptah?" one of the Posse asked.
"The Demiurge of Memphis, god of craftsmen and architects," Ptah said.
"What? Tennessee?"
"Egypt. Don't speak again, you annoy me."
"But, Ptah is dead," Rance said.
"So was Skullcracker." Ptah pointed his hammer at Rance. "Where is the one they call 'Hangman' around here?"
"What?" Rance asked, dumbfounded. "You chase us down here to ask that?"
"Word is Full-Clip Freddy is dead, or so well-hidden he might as well be. You are the remaining lead."
"I don't know where he is."
"He was last reported working for your gang."
"He up and vanished when the tights raided Riverside. Along with his rats and the Lucid Blue. He's just gone. I don't know where to."
"Wait, you know this guy?" the posse member asked.
"A myth before even my time," Rance said. "Gimmick maker to the costumed crowd, and a stone-cold bastard to boot. Never caught, never identified."
"I'm glad somebody remembers me," Ptah said. "And I do believe your protestations of ignorance." He turned on his heel and began walking back out the door.
"Just like that, we're letting him go?"
"What part of 'bullet-proof asskicker' didn't register in your little brain?" Rance asked, rising to his feet to stare the speaker in the eyes. "We couldn't stop him coming in. How could we stop him leaving?"
"What he means to say is, I'm the one letting you go," Ptah said, striding out.
Seated in the bed of his truck, Hephaestus clicked off the microphone and sighed. He watched the video feeds from Ptah as the drone made its way back to him. "This is going to take a while," Hephaestus muttered.
Incense smoke swirled through the candlelight. Beyond the ring of red beeswax, darkness and shadows moved in patterns not wrought by the flickering light. The old, battered hardwood on which Gallows lay was blood-stained and saturated with wax and oils. The inked markings linking the candles around him were cryptic at best, and illegible from the angle he was at.
"Where am I?"
"You're in Ma Blood's house," an accented voice in the darkness said. "You'll be safe here."
"How did I get here? Why am I here?"
"Ma Blood brought you here because the poisons burned in your veins. Ma Blood will keep you alive."
"Who is Ma Blood?"
"I am," the voice said, leaning into the candlelight. Her dark features were streaked with ashes, and her hair was hidden behind a blue rag. She had blood red orbs for eyes, matching her narrow robes. Bony hands gripped a gnarled staff from which ampules and fetishes hung. It had been many decades since Ma Blood might have been attractive, with the ravages of age shriveling her body to an emaciated husk. Her long nails were painted the same vivid shade as her raiment. She squatted just outside the ring of candles, staring at Gallows.
"Why do you care?"
"You hold the future in your hand. Ma Blood does not want to see it lost."
Gallows raised his hand. Horror and disgust wracked him as he saw the way it shifted and flowed as if his flesh had been melted and not fully set.
"You need more treatment before you'll be good again. Ma Blood will look after you, and your friend."
"Who?"
With a shuffling sound, the albino mouse approached, walking upright. His beady red eyes glowed with an intellect they'd previously lacked, and he was almost as tall as a person now.
"You gave him mind, Ma Blood will give him voice."
Shadowdemon
Part 1
When compared to Sterling Towers and Dreadmere Plaza, 722 Walker wasn't a big part of the skyline in New Port Arthur. It is, however, notable as the building where my sister works. Her cubicle was in the fifteenth floor, and so were the hostage takers.
Walker was a diagonal street in a city that likes a grid. As a result, 722 was a triangular building of glass and steel. The police had blocked off street level, so I was below ground, making my way through a steam tunnel. No one thought much about the fourth street steam plant during the summer, nor how it provided heating for half of downtown come winter. The tunnel I was in provided utility workers access to the pipes for routine maintenance. Sure, if you couldn't pick locks, the myriad gates and bars breaking up the tunnel would slow you down, but subverting locks happened to be one of my specialties. These padlocks weren't so much picked as shimmed, since it was far faster than messing with the six tumblers inside. It was also faster than cutting them, with the added benefit that I wasn't doing any lasting damage.
Swinging the wr
ought iron gate open, I stepped into the pool of light from an old incandescent bulb. I was dressed in charcoal gray and black. The material was a Scyan fabric that clung to any contour of the body larger than a goosebump. The Scya are aliens who think of bodies as art - their own, human, other aliens, it didn't matter. For a more modest person wearing one of their suits, it made the choice of undergarments rather important. It was the defacto uniform of the Hero community. I stuck with it because it was a part of my image.
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