As I scoured the reams of documents that Frost had taken great care to conceal, for the first time I felt like I’d been taking for granted what the purpose of the Fortress actually was. Was it a sanctuary? A retreat? A sandbox where he could build whatever he wanted without interruption – regardless of how experimental or dangerous? Without question it was all of those things. Although I had a suspicion that it’s reason for existing was perhaps something else entirely; and somewhere, locked inside this unimaginable castle the size of a small city, was the key.
Chapter Eight
The following months dragged by. November turned to December, and two weeks prior to Christmas I could feel depression setting in. At first I thought it was seasonal affective disorder, which wasn’t uncommon during the winter months in regions with cold climates. I’d spend time in the dome, sun tanning under the glow of an artificial sun each day, but my symptoms only worsened. It wasn’t the cold nights and grey Canadian skies that were bumming me out – it was loneliness.
Peyton was ignoring my messages and Gavin was nowhere to be found. Taking time for myself was one thing, because I always had the option to make contact with others when the mood struck. Being isolated with the knowledge that I couldn’t contact my best friends, even if I wanted to, was completely foreign, and it was taking its toll.
A weekly holo-session with Gary, Elizabeth and the kids was my only real connection to the outside world. It was nice to hear their voices and chat about their days. I’d ask the most mundane questions, like if they’d had a chance to put up their Christmas tree yet, and they’d always respond with amazing enthusiasm and an alarming amount of detail. And during every session, I felt like I needed to thank Gary for saving my life back in Toronto. Without the lunging tackle that slowed down the Russian (buying Valentina enough time to launch him out the window) I might not be alive. “You are the most bad-ass computer programmer in Canada,” I once told him. He smiled, and said that he credits his fast reaction time to my sister: years of practice dodging dishes she launched at him during their all-out brawls. His response sent them both into fits of laughter; I don’t think they’d ever had an argument in nearly ten years of marriage, let alone a fight.
Although virtual chats staved off my depression, I needed real human interaction to brighten the days when I felt truly alone. The time I spent with Brynja helped a lot. We played games, watched movies, and she was the only person who seemed interested in chatting with me about comics. She didn’t know Stan Lee from Bruce Wayne before she arrived at the fortress, but she was a quick learner. In just a few short weeks of reading sessions and movie marathons Brynja was becoming an expert in geek culture, and before long she was making Star Wars references like a pro. One particularly cold evening I caught her referring to Alberta as ‘Hoth’, and I wanted to embrace her like a proud father.
It wasn’t long before she was taking her fandom to the next level without any further prompting or instruction on my part. Brynja began using the 3D printer to make cosplay outfits, dressing as her favorite Marvel and DC superheroes. On any given morning I could have breakfast with a blue-haired Harley Quinn or Wonder Woman, which always elicited a smile from passing staff. One evening we planned a session of Dungeons & Dragons, to which she turned up dressed like a warrior princess, complete with a sword, studded bra and leather loincloth. Her dedication grew to an obsession, rivaled only by my own.
When we weren’t pursuing our hobbies we researched. We scoured records of superhuman sightings and phenomena from across the globe, trying to find an instance – even something remotely comparable – to what had happened when she appeared out of thin air that day in the hospital. Hour after hour, day after day we came up blank.
Brynja’s powers had also faded since she had reappeared. She read Kenneth’s mind just moments after she manifested, but explained that since then she hadn’t been able to do it again. She used to read surface thoughts with ease: Brynja could pass by someone and ‘see’ what they were thinking, or hear their voice in her head as clear as her own. And now, nothing. Her other ability (the one she considered a curse) was being able to pass through objects like a ghost. Now, fully corporeal, she was able to walk and move and interact with objects, remaining completely solid.
Whether we were at work or play it was a great distraction; the time we spent strengthened our friendship. I didn’t learn much about Brynja’s history though, aside from the fact that she’d once played guitar in a Seattle-based rock band, and that she no longer spoke to anyone in her family. She liked to keep the past in the past, and focus completely on the future. It was admirable, and a character trait that I wish I possessed. While she could move on without looking back, I couldn’t stop beating myself up over pretty much everything: things I wish I’d said to Peyton while I had the chance; all the actions I should have taken once Arena Mode was over; and the things I’d done inside the Arena that I could never undo.
I even regretted killing Cameron Frost in the end. For months following Arena Mode I’d been haunted by visions of his dead body lying at my feet, wheezing his final painful breath into a shallow pool of his own blood. Deep down I knew that I shouldn’t blame myself for what’d happened. After all, that was the object of the game: it was me versus him, and he’d wanted me dead – there was no way around it. But in hindsight, part of me wishes I’d thought faster, and come up with an alternative to blasting him in the throat with my modified handgun. He was the first and only person I’d ever been directly responsible for killing with my own hands, and the images still lingered in my mind.
Brynja’s outlook on life was considerably more cheerful than my own. Although I was the one stuck with the now-infamous moniker ‘The God Slayer’, she was the one who’d actually done the slaying that day. Sure, it’d been my plan, and my distraction, but it was Brynja’s superhuman ability to phase through objects that had allowed her to drop an acid-filled bullet into Sergei Taktarov’s head. She didn’t regret what she’d done, or take pride in her actions. It was just that she never looked back.
“You cheated death,” she told me one night as we laid on a blanket and ate pizza in the dome, staring up at the silky, moonless sky. “Twice. You survived a tumor that doctors said would kill you, and won a fighting tournament that you had zero chance of winning.”
I had never really thought of it that way. The odds of surviving one of those events were astronomical – surviving both could be called a ‘miracle’ (if I believed in that type of superstitious nonsense.)
“You’re here,” she continued. “You’re alive. Whether it’s good luck, or beating the odds, or from a freakin’ magical spell – it doesn’t matter. This is a fresh start, and you don’t owe anyone anything.”
“There’s just so much that I wish I’d done differently. So much bullshit I feel responsible for. And with Kenneth in a coma...” I trailed off, staring up into the void.
“He could come out of it, you know.” Her voice was a soft, reassuring purr. “He could wake up one morning, put on one of his stupid t-shirts and call you up out of the blue. Stranger things have happened.”
I smiled weakly. “You’re starting to sound like Peyton.” I didn’t recall Brynja being this optimistic during our time together in The Arena. She’d been assertive and forceful, more like a drill sergeant motivating her troops. This new, bubblier version of her was definitely not unwelcome, though. It was exactly what I needed.
We propped ourselves up on our elbows and she leaned in close. “This is my second chance, too,” she said. “I came back from the dead, and now I’m with the only person on earth who’s as lucky as I am. I was a ghost, remember? Passing right through things. And now...” She reached out and touched my face, gently stroking my cheek with her thumb.
“Not quite as ghosty,” I noted.
“Maybe we can be,” she replied with a warm smile. “Just together this time. No one knows we’re here, and we have everything we need. It’s not so bad being a ghost under the right conditions
.” Her hand cupped my cheek, and our lips drew closer. “This is our time,” she whispered. “Let’s enjoy it.”
I stared at her for a beat, cocking an eyebrow before saying, “Do you realize how dirty your hands are right now?”
Brynja grimaced, pulling her hand away from my face. She frantically wiped her greasy fingers across her pant leg. “Ugh, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said apologetically, shaking my head, “It’s no big deal.”
Her lips stretched into an evil grin. “I was apologizing in advance...for this.” She rolled on top and pinned me down, knees pressed firmly into my chest. Before I could push her off she grabbed a slice of pizza and began smearing it across my face.
Brynja and I became inseparable, and the friendship continued to grow. She was bright and funny, and gave me a reason to wake up every morning. Before long I’d almost forgotten about the outside world – I even stopped watching simulcasts. The rest of the world had melted away, along with its conflict and complications; this is where I wanted to be, and I was happier than I’d been in a very long time.
But as the days wore on inside the isolated fortress, not everyone was in the same mood for bonding and togetherness.
Valentina locked herself inside of her room, surfacing only for the occasional snack, and to ask about her most recent paycheck. She could verify her account online, of course – as could everyone else on my payroll – although she insisted on a printed, signed statement every two weeks to add to her records. Aside from reading romance novels, bookkeeping seemed to be her only hobby. Our conversations were limited to the bi-weekly arguments about the bonuses she felt that she deserved for overtime pay, and they always ended with her storming off.
Mac’s biggest issue was boredom. I never wanted to go anywhere, so for lack of anything to do I’d send him on errands, which were nothing more than random trips across the globe with an assortment of items to purchase. I would ask him to fly to Italy just so he could pick up an authentic Roma pizza, or down to Australia so he could purchase me a hand-carved Aboriginal boomerang in some remote region of the Western Outback. It was meaningless busy work, but it kept him happy and occupied.
And once every few weeks I’d hand him a wad of cash and give him twenty-four hours to spend it, each time with the explicit instructions that, a) he could do whatever he wanted with the money, and b) I didn’t want to know what he did with it. There was a method to my madness when it came to the bonuses and vacation time I granted Mac: when he hung around the fortress, he routinely made not-so-subtle advances towards Brynja (‘Blue’) and Valentina (‘Red’), to which he was summarily shot down on each attempt. Crashing and burning never deterred him, which was both admirable and embarrassing to watch. And although Brynja laughed off Mac’s tired routine, I feared that if he persisted with Valentina, she would shoot him down for good – and not in the metaphorical sense. Getting him out of the fortress for some actual, physical contact with a woman (whether it required payment or not) was in his best interest, both mentally and physically.
For the most part the staff avoided me. They resented the fact that Frost had kept them locked away, hundreds of kilometers from civilization. They’d been working there for the better part of a year with no vacation time – a policy I’d kept in place without even realizing it. I didn’t blame them for being grumpy. I asked Mac to take a transport plane and drop them at home for the holidays, leaving the fortress with a minimal staff: Chandler, Valentina, a maintenance worker, a chef, and Judy, the nurse. They were all guaranteed a generous Christmas bonus and some additional time off when the rest of the staff returned, so everything was in order.
With a skeleton crew came a few inconveniences. As self-sufficient as Fortress 23 was, there was always a computer system that required an upgrade, or a mechanical device that needed a tweak. The elevator that served as the main access point to the dome was under repair, and wouldn’t be functioning until later that evening.
I’d wanted to surprise Brynja with a picnic for lunch, so I gathered some blankets and comic books, instead making my way up the spiralling metal staircase that opened to the center of the ecosystem. After stepping out onto the grass I heard footsteps clanging their way up the stairs at my back. It was Chandler, who was sweatier and more frazzled than usual.
“Mister sir, Moxon, I mean...hold on...” He leaned forward on his knees and breathed heavily – something Chandler was prone to doing after any form of physical activity.
“Hey buddy,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Can you make sure there are a few Dr. Peppers in the fridge? Brynja and I are going to have lunch up here in the dome. Maybe Marten can throw together some club sandwiches, too. The ones with those little—”
“No!” Chandler panted, waving me off with both hands. “You don’t understand, you have to see this. It’s a...you don’t know how bad the thing...the situation is. It’s bad. Very, very bad.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. I threw open the doors, sprinted down the stair case and raced into the main lounge, where the primary media hub was illuminated and glowing brightly in the dimmed room. The holo-screen was broadcasting a live simulcast of The Fringe – my former neighborhood – on the outskirts of New York City.
Half of it was gone.
Partial transcript from the CBC Evening Simulcast ‘Live from Toronto’
Hosted by George Sokratous, December 2041
Dennis Benoit, Member of Parliament (Liberal): Arena Mode opened a lot of eyes, for sure. I mean, we were all aware of superhumans before the event this past summer. We knew they existed, and that they lived among us. We didn’t know how many there were, or what type of powers they possessed, but for the most part we felt comfortable because they weren’t a problem.
George Sokratous: They were just like us, more or less. Except they dressed better.
Benoit, MP: You think...is it the spandex, maybe? Is that what you’re referring to?
Sokratous: it was a joke. Sarcasm.
Benoit, MP: Ah, I see. Right.
Sokratous: But seriously, they were blending in pretty seamlessly for the better part of a decade, up until now.
Benoit, MP: Right, right. I mean, the potential was always there for superhumans to pose a threat, although no more than any other threat.
Like any weapon; a handgun, for instance: it can be used to protect your home from an intruder, or, in the wrong hands, an unstable individual can use it to go on a shooting spree.
Sokratous: Are you calling superhumans ‘weapons’? That seems to be an analogy that a lot of politicians and pundits have been floating around since we saw their potential during Arena Mode.
Benoit, MP: No, no, no – not exactly.
I mean, yes, some of these people do have massive destructive power. We all saw Sergei Taktarov fight Dwayne Lewis during Arena Mode, and they took down half of Manhattan in the process. That was a controlled event in the context of a sport, and Cameron Frost’s estate paid for the cost of the damage, but still – it was an eye opener. And now this...
Sokratous: The event in New York.
Benoit, MP: Some people are calling this an isolated incident. And of course, it could be. No one is taking responsibility for this explosion, and no terrorist groups are being linked to the attack.
Sokratous: Although you’re not so sure.
Benoit, MP: It definitely seems like this is related to Matthew Moxon in some way. This could be Red Army, although I’m not going to speculate.
Sokratous: So in the wake of the tragic event in New York, which took over four thousand lives that we know of, what is the response here in Canada going to be?
Benoit, MP: The same as in America, the United Kingdom, Australia, Brazil, and every other country that has a reported superhuman population. We will likely be enacting the Emergencies Act. It’s not a popular decision, but it’s the only think that is going to keep the Canadian people safe.
Sokratous: So this is martial law?
Benoit, MP: No, no, no – we aren’t going to be trampling the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. But this measure is being reviewed by Parliament as we speak, and we’ll see if it’s the right course of action.
Sokratous: That’s what they said down south about the Patriot Act. “We won’t be trampling anyone’s freedoms.” Now I can’t get on a flight to Orlando without a rectal exam.
Benoit, MP: They gave you a...are you serious? Right there in the airport?
Sokratous: No. Again, that was sarcasm.
Benoit, MP: Ah. I see. Very amusing.
Sokratous: This does beg the question, though: how is Canada going to succeed in keeping its population safe from superhuman attacks, while at the same time ensuring that the government remains transparent, and doesn’t overstep its bounds?
Benoit, MP: I don’t really know where the boundaries are anymore, to be honest. After New York, the destructive power of these superhumans has exceeded everything that we predicted. Our worst-case scenarios just got significantly worse.
Chapter Nine
It was the event that the government had warned us about for nearly a decade: a catastrophic superhuman attack in a densely populated area.
Homeland Security had, of course, prepared for this type of eventuality, taking precautions for a threat that didn’t yet exist – at least in the wealthier areas of the country. Cerebral Dampening Units were the government’s most powerful weapon to combat an enemy that they didn’t fully understand. The basketball-sized metal spheres could disrupt the brainwaves of a superhuman within a one mile radius, temporarily nullifying their powers. You’d see them mounted atop buildings and stoplights, giving off their invisible, inaudible signal day and night. They were designed to make us feel safer while walking the streets, though up until that day few really feared a superhuman attack.
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