Vortex sort of chuckled, but it sounded more like a brave effort. “It’s my pleasure, miss. It’s what I do ...” He looked to his left as the police siren chirped yet again. “Sounds like the cops are almost here. And we have an audience, too.” He nodded his head to the side.
Kimberly followed his gesture, seeing a heavyset Asian man in a grey jumpsuit standing out on his porch. He was chattering into a cell phone, probably to 911.
“Now they come out,” she grumbled, bitter.
“Yeah,” Vortex commented, “most people dive for cover when a paranormal fight starts. Can’t really blame them.” He started shuffling toward the grey sedan, still idling in the intersection. “I need to get going now. The police will—”
“Wait!” she said, mindful of his injured right arm. “We should get you to a hospital.”
“Can’t do that,” he said as he kept moving.
“Please, Vortex. I ...” Kimberly didn’t know what to say, and so what came out next surprised her. “I’m sorry.”
The masked hero stopped, turning halfway to look back at her. “You’re ‘sorry’? For what?”
“I ... I thought some, uh, belittling things about the way you’re dressed when you first showed up. That was mean. You saved my life. So, I ... I’m sorry. And thank you again.”
Vortex looked at her for a moment before nodding his appreciation, then he glanced past her. She turned to see the police car rounding the corner two streets down and driving toward them, its lights flashing.
“Tell you what, miss,” Vortex said. “They’ll stop soon as they see the rogue, but that might not give me enough time. If you could maybe stall ’em, keep ’em distracted ‘til I get back to my car ... that’d be awesome.”
Kimberly Bryce nodded and said, “Thank you,” one more time. Then she hobbled toward the oncoming police car and waved her arms as big and wide as she could.
PCA
“Okay, Steve ... are you ready?”
“No. Just do it.”
“Okay ... three, two, one.” Snap!
Steve Davison bit down on his leather wallet until his jaws twinged, and squeezed the edge of the wooden work table he sat upon until his knuckles turned white, but he absolutely refused to give voice to his pain. He knew that if he did, his swearing would echo throughout the training center — the refuge where Vortex stayed in shape, trained with the weaponry of his mechanical eyes, and, when injured, where he withdrew to lick his wounds.
Fortunately, in this case, he found that once Ardette Blounts maneuvered the joint into its proper place, the throbbing pain was rapidly replaced by a heavy ache that was nonetheless an improvement over how he’d felt a minute ago.
“Oh, Jesus ...” Alan Russell, looking green around the gills, moaned as he ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. “I know it has to be done, I know, but God how I hate the sight of that ...”
Steve spat out the wallet. “I’ll take the sight if you take the feeling.”
Alan rewarded that remark with one of his patented half-grunts. “No, thank you. You’re the masochist here, not me.” Then he said to Ardette, “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for Jeremy to handle stuff like this?”
Ardette cracked and shook a chemical cold pack, wrapped it in a thin washcloth, and placed it against Steve’s bare shoulder. Given that Ardette had been taking first aid and other medical classes that catered to the layperson, Steve wasn’t surprised when her reply came out a little peevish. “Jeremy can’t help with the actual dislocation, only the aftermath. Speaking of, why don’t you make sure Steve’s uniform is out of sight and call him?”
Alan replied, a bit placative in response to her tone, “I already called him. He should be here soon.” He walked around to where they had tossed the Vortex uniform after helping Steve out of it, to tuck it inside its designated footlocker.
Ardette moved the cold pack to evaluate the discoloration around Steve’s shoulder, hissed through her teeth when she saw the back portion was almost as black as her own skin, and replaced the pack. “I really wish,” she commented, “that we’d been able to get that skeletal reinforcement in your uniform to work. It might’ve prevented this from happening, again.”
Steve started to shrug, but a spike of pain reminded him to keep his right shoulder still. “It wasn’t worth the hassle,” he assured her. “It restricted my movements, and it chafed like a son of a bitch. Present situation notwithstanding, I can live with the tradeoff.”
Steve had been speaking to Ardette, but it was Alan who grunted again. Steve knew well enough where his priorities lay: Anything that could help protect Steve through his insane adventures as Vortex should get top priority, raw skin be damned.
But any verbal comments Alan might have made were cut short by a knock on the closer set of outer doors. All three of them took a quick look around, spot-checking for anything that might scream Vortex trains here! to the world. Finding nothing, Steve nodded to Alan, who hurried over to escort Jeremy Walker inside.
“Hello, Mister Russell,” Steve heard Jeremy say when Alan opened the door. “Another MMA injury?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Come on in.”
As Alan held the door open, Jeremy Walker stepped into view. Steve waved to the young man with his good hand; Walker reciprocated and strode their way.
Walker was a former middle school teacher who lost his job after going paranormal; he could never prove that was why he was let go, so he hadn’t bothered with a lawsuit. A few weeks later, he was hired by Davison Electronics. Steve’s company already made an effort to provide work for paranormals who had fallen on hard times, but once it came out exactly what Walker’s new ability was, his case took on a higher priority: Jeremy Walker was a paranormal healer.
Now Walker worked on-call assisting with any employee injuries, and he was paid bonuses on the side for helping patch up Davison’s owner, who had an unfortunate passion for mixed martial arts (a viable enough excuse, once Alan and Ardette made sure everyone knew about Steve’s kick-boxing and gymnastics background).
“Would you have any problem performing these extra duties?” Alan had asked Walker during his interview. “I must disclose that Steve indulges this dangerous habit of his day and night, so you might be called in at some very odd hours.”
“Mister Russell,” Walker had answered, “I’m black, I’m gay, and now I’m paranormal — I’ve hit the minority trifecta. For guaranteed employment at the salary you’re offering, I’ll be at Mister Davison’s complete disposal.”
Walker took off his jacket as he reached Steve. “How are you doing this afternoon, Mister Davison?”
Steve smiled; he’d asked Walker to call him “Steve” before, but it clearly wasn’t soaking in. And if he thought anything of Steve’s sitting here in nothing but a pair of kick-boxing shorts, it didn’t show. “I’d be doing a lot better if I’d just kicked the guy instead of going for that headlock.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Walker replied as he tossed his jacket onto the table. “Mizz Blounts, you can take away the cold pack.”
When Ardette complied, Walker placed his hands upon Steve’s shoulder and closed his eyes. The pain relief was almost instantaneous, and Steve could feel the swelling diminish in seconds — not all the way, as Walker wasn’t that good yet, but it shrank by half.
Nothing in this world, Steve thought, feels as good as the absence of pain.
After perhaps ten seconds total, Walker opened his eyes and took his healing hands away. “Please remember to take it easy with the MMA for a few days,” he reminded Steve. “I’m getting better and better at this, but for now, I’m more of a ‘paramedic’ than a ‘parasurgeon,’ okay? How’s your neck feeling?”
Steve shrugged, pleased that he could now do so. “It always bothers me, but I’m seeing the chiropractor twice a week, and the massage therapy helps keep it loose.”
“Here ...” Walker closed his eyes again and placed a hand around the back of Steve’s muscular neck, giving a
healing zap to the year-old injury. Steve’s neck had never recovered from when a paranormal who could turn into a monstrous bear smacked him upside his head, but since he couldn’t own up to that, he had told Walker that the chronic discomfort was the result of really bad whiplash. Would it make a difference if he explained the real injury? Maybe.
For now, though, Walker’s touch knocked the familiar pinch down a few notches. “Thanks, that’s better.”
“Good,” Walker said. “Is that everything ...?” His eyes glanced down Steve’s torso, which bore scars and other signs of old wounds that couldn’t really be explained via mixed martial arts.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve told him. “Thanks for coming. Your compensation will be in your next direct deposit.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister Davison.” He collected his jacket and followed Alan back toward the door through which he had entered. Just before they moved out of range, Steve heard Walker comment to Alan, “Mister Davison really should take it easy, Mister Russell. He’s already got more scars than Christian Bale in The Dark Knight. What kind of rules do they follow at these fights ...?”
Then the door closed behind them, and Steve could only imagine the mutual Steve-should-take-better-care-of-himself fest Walker and Alan would share.
But Steve wasn’t the only one to note Alan’s unexpected absence, and Ardette decided to take advantage of it. “Tell me the truth, Steve: How are you doing, really? It’s just us, so no bullshit, please.”
Steve sighed as he gently rubbed his still-tender shoulder. “Being Vortex is getting harder,” he admitted. “I’ve only been at this for one year, Ardette, but the injuries are really stacking up on me, faster than Jeremy can keep up. I feel like I’m racing past my prime at an accelerated rate.”
“That’s not good,” she observed, “when you consider that you’re barely old enough to walk into a liquor store.” She folded her arms and leaned against the table beside him. “Alan worries about you, you know. I mean, really worries, not just ‘mother hen’ worries. Sometimes he has trouble sleeping, tossing and turning all night long ...”
Steve’s eyebrows shot up. This was the closest either she or Alan had ever come to openly admitting that they had a romantic relationship. It was on the tip of his tongue, as it had been many times before, to finally flat-out ask her about it, but, once again, he opted to keep his questions to himself and respect their privacy. After all, it wasn’t all that different from his relationship with the PCA’s Lieutenant Takayasu — Steve was almost certain that Michael knew he was Vortex ... and yet, thus far, they had avoided talking about it, directly (“plausible deniability” and all that). Sometimes it felt silly, playing the game, but once that line was crossed, they couldn’t go back.
“Alan still wishes you’d officially join the PCA,” Ardette was saying. “That’s what he wanted all along, you know, when he gave you the eyes. That way you’d have some consistent, dependable backup, instead of going the whole ‘lone superhero’ route.” She nudged him with her elbow. “And think how much easier today would’ve gone if you had a partner, hmm? Someone to watch your back?”
“I know ...”
Steve stopped rubbing his shoulder, then gestured past Ardette. She glanced over, spotted what he wanted, and passed him the bottle of lotion. He spurted a glob onto one hand and began applying it under his arm — the skeletal reinforcement might not have worked, but the uniform still chaffed when he wore it too long; such was the tradeoff for the protection of his micro-chainmail suit.
In a quiet voice, Steve said, “I know I won’t be able to do this forever, Ardette. But I still don’t feel like I’ve accomplished my number one goal, a goal I had in mind even before I helped take down McLane’s group ...”
Ardette closed her eyes in anger at the mention of the bastard who slaughtered Steve’s entire family.
“... to inspire new and old paranormals to turn hero, not rogue. I’m glad that some have tried, I am. And I’m sorry that the Magnet got himself killed in the attempt. But I had dreams of, I don’t know ... a bigger effort? A greater turnout? A true Class One stepping up to the plate in spectacular fashion?” He chuckled under his breath. “Hell, maybe I should change my uniform colors — go from black-and-gold to something vibrant, like blue-and-yellow, you know?” He flipped a thumb toward the door, after the departed Jeremy Walker. “Tone down the Christian Bale and put a little more Christopher Reeve in my approach. Maybe that would help. What do you think?”
Ardette considered her answer before saying, “I think ... that you are describing a very noble, very laudable goal, and I do not doubt for a second that you really mean it. But, Steve, I can’t help feeling that you’re also hiding behind it, that there’s something more you’re avoiding talking about. Am I wrong? If I’m wrong, just say so.”
Steve was quiet for a while, long enough for Ardette to decide she wasn’t going to get anything else. She was on the verge of patting his leg and stepping away from the table when he finally spoke up.
“I ... I sometimes think that maybe I’m sort of ‘addicted’ to being Vortex. Between running the company (with tons of help from you and Alan) and putting down dangerous rogues ...”
He fell silent again, but this time Ardette knew to wait.
After close to a minute, he continued in a voice heavy with emotion. “Vortex keeps me from thinking about my family. Mom and Dad, Jonathan, Dan, Aunt Carol, Uncle Del ... every one of them ... all dead, all murdered. Goddamn it, my brother was incinerated beyond recognition, so he’s still technically ‘missing’ — we didn’t even have a body to bury.”
A tear trickled down his left cheek; he wiped it away with an irritated jerk. It was an odd sight, Ardette thought — his crying without the slightest hint of bloodshot in his artificial eyes.
“Then, to top it all off,” Steve continued, “I had McLane within my grasp, I was hellbent on executing him ... and it turned out that I’d already accidentally turned him into a brain dead vegetable while I was fighting his stupid pawn?” He released a bitter guffaw. “I’m still processing that cruel twist of fate — I got my revenge without even knowing it. By the time I laid hands on him, it was already done. He was already gone, lights on but nobody home.” He glanced at her. “How screwed up is that?”
Ardette had been mostly unmoved by his “inspiring hero” explanation — admiring of his dream, but dubious of his inner motives — but this ... this private admission, a more detailed confession than he’d ever before offered ...
Placing a gentle hand on his knee, she said, “Steve, if you ever need to talk about this ...”
He chuckled as he wiped his cheek again. “I thought that’s what we’re doing.”
She smiled with him. “Okay, granted. But you’ve been holding on to this for a year now. You’re not alone, Steve. I’m here for you, and I don’t mean because I can pop your shoulder back into its socket.”
Steve laughed. “I know. Tell you what—”
But the nearest training center door opened again, revealing a demoralized Alan. The older man hustled over to them, while managing to look like he didn’t really want to do so.
Ardette glanced at Steve, but because of his implants, his wiping the tears away removed all signs that he had just been crying.
“Against my better judgement,” Alan said as he reached them, “I have some news to share with you, Steve. But if I didn’t know you’d chew my ass out later if I kept my mouth shut about it ...”
“Alan,” Steve said with equal parts humor and fatigue, “you look constipated when you get like this. Just spit it out.”
Ardette barely held back her laughter — Dead God, that’s so true! — which earned her a glare from Alan. He pressed on, “Another rogue is on the loose, tearing up a low-income apartment complex a few miles from here. The regular police are already on the scene, but they’re not having any luck. The PCA’s been notified, but ... I knew you’d want to know.”
Steve considered this; he also con
sidered his injuries. For a moment, it looked to Alan and Ardette as though he might actually let this one slide ...
Vortex hopped off the table. “Get my uniform.”
SHOCKWAVE AND TAKAYASU
“Pull up ... come on, you asshole, pull up ... if you hit that billboard, I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your ass ...”
Mark Westmore, known to the greater public as Shockwave of the PCA, continued his whispered rant, nagging and cajoling but usually berating. And the recipient never talked back, because the target of his harangue was himself.
Mark had been flying for a year now, a trick he’d figured out by shooting his kinetic shockwaves from his feet. But his flying was erratic back then, and he would guess he’d gotten maybe, oh ... ten percent better since. It drove him nuts! Other paranormals could fly without zig-zagging like a drunken fly, so why couldn’t he?
Flying isn’t your native ability, Michael Takayasu, his partner, had told him more than once. You’ve taken one paranormal gift and figured out a way to use it for something else entirely. That’s awesome and rare. So don’t be too hard on yourself.
Shockwave had his share of fans, and even the haters were just jealous of what he could do. So he’d cut himself slack for a while ... until some asshole at work forwarded him a link to a blog, wherein some dumbass geek compared his flying to that blond guy’s from the old TV series, The Greatest American Hero.
“The character on the show lost the instructions to his power suit,” the blogger commented. “That’s why Ralph Hinkley couldn’t fly straight. Does Shockwave have the same excuse, or does he just suck at it?”
After that, Mark was bound and determined to figure this flying shit out, and it irked him that he hadn’t made more progress.
The point illustrated itself when he careened so far to the left, he nearly lost his shoes. He couldn’t fire shockwaves through his feet without shredding his socks and knocking his shoes off, so when possible, he’d tie his sneakers’ laces together and sling them around his neck. He’d been left red-faced more than once having to fetch the dropped sneakers out of traffic or someone’s tree or ...
Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone Page 4
