DIRE : BORN

by Andrew Seiple

  “If you mean being a drug dealer, then yes.”

  He nodded. “You meet a lot of dumbasses in the trade. Folks who can't think more than a few hours ahead of shit. Course you meet some smart ones too, but they just don't want to think past the next high, cause they so smart they see it's just gonna get shitty again. But the thing of it is, it's all about desperation. People get desperate, they stop caring about shit like acting civ-i-lized, like trying to be brave when the lights are all off and there's strangers in the dark, and they got things they want and need but can't find a way to get. They do shit, they deal with the consequences later. Now, what do you think happens when you throw superpowers and magic and shit into this mix?”

  I shrugged. “No clue.”

  “Same thing, just weirder and harder to get a handle on. More chaos. Costumes are people too, lot of folks forget that. Though I doubt you gonna see someone like Crusader or Doc Quantum raiding a camping store for winter-weight bags. No, the real good ones are gonna be busy as shit keeping the dumbass villains like Hardware or Groundpounder from doin' shit when the city's off the grid and the cops are busy keeping the Lord of the Flies shit down.”

  “Lord of the Flies?”

  “It's a book. I got a copy if you want to borrow it.”

  “Sure.”

  He looked at me again, and his eyes narrowed. “I got a reason for bringing up costumes. Powers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You got them, don't you? Some kind of inventor bullshit?”

  I shook my head.

  He waved a hand in the air, sending the smoke from the barrel swirling away as he laughed. “No, don't bullshit me. You put together that harness thing in like an hour from a bag of scraps and a busted tv. That thing. Ain't never nohow in the world been tried before, I'm pretty damn sure. But you did it without even breaking a sweat or checking a book. That. My lady. Is powers.”

  I drummed my fingers against my thighs, scratching the denim as I frowned. There's a certain point where stubborn denial becomes stupidity, and I was approaching it. Not an appealing option. I lowered my voice before responding. “You may have a point,” I said. “The mask, and a few behavioral mannerisms seem to hint at Dire being a villain.” I scowled, raising a hand as he opened his mouth. “For the record, she is not. Villainy requires crime, and she's done nothing of that. That she remembers, at any rate.”

  He nodded. “I can see it, maybe. But it don't make much difference to me. You acting mostly like a hero anyway. Though, far as I can tell the difference ain't big. Hero, villain, the difference seems to be mainly how selfish they are.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is the difference really so slight? Dire hasn't known any... 'costumes'. Saw some last night, but didn't have time to observe them for long.”

  “Way I see it...” He leaned forward, grinned. He really did have better teeth than most of the other people here. “It's kayfabe. It's aaaaaallllll kayfabe. The fights, the fucking up of the scenery, the gadgets, the feuds and shit... yeah. No way all that's real.”

  “Kay Fabe?” I asked, confused. I didn't see the significance of the name. “Who is he? Or she?”

  He laughed. “Naw, naw. Kayfabe's not a who, it's a way of putting on a show. Look, uh, best way I can think... you ever watch pro wrassling?”

  “Probably not, no,” I responded.

  He tilted his head back and forth a bit, debating internally. Finally, he shrugged. “Got a tv and vcr in my tent. Up for watching some Smackbrawl?”

  “She has no idea what that is.”

  “Don't worry, I ain't hitting on you.”

  “Well of course you're not. You're talking with her.”

  “Shit. You sure you're for real?”

  “Well, yes. You're starting to make less and less sense, here. Are you tired?”

  “Nevermind. Look, come on, it's Slamburger versus F-Bomb. Title belt match. And it'll show kayfabe easier than I can explain it”

  I shrugged. Cold night, and I wasn't particularly tired. Might as well humor him, he'd been friendly enough so far.

  I followed him to a tent on the outskirts of camp. Heavy canvas, a bit better made then the others, and larger. Martin tapped at the flap, and someone inside drew it back.

  “Got a guest.”

  Someone craned their neck, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowed face. “Huh. Want me to go out for a walk?”

  “Naw, ain't like that man. You know where Smackbrawl 97 is?”

  “Maybe. Need a flashlight to find it.”

  “S'cool. Hey Dire lady, come in already so we can button down. Don't need no light or sound escaping.”

  I followed, and after the tent flap was pulled shut a flashlight clicked on. The man holding it was one of the faces I'd seen around camp, a fat man wearing a bathrobe and stained white clothes under it. He had a shapeless knit cap jammed over his balding scalp. He studied me for a second, and put the crowbar in his other hand down.

  Martin nodded. “Simms here watches my shit while I'm out, and I watch his back and share my shit with him. It works out.”

  I nodded. “Sensible. Someone like Tugs would not scruple to steal from you.”

  Simms scowled in the half-light. “Don't get me started on that little turd. Hey...”

  He looked me over, small eyes glittering. “You the one that took down Rick?”

  I nodded. “Not by choice, but he left her none.”

  Simms thought it over, looked down. “Damn fucking shame. Fuck Tugs. Just... Fuck that guy.”

  “No sense dwelling on spilt shitstains,” Martin said. “Time for some fuckin' classic entertainment.”

  He popped the tape into a VCR, fiddled with a remote. The television attached to the vcr hummed to life, and we watched in silence as a roaring crowd heralded two scantily-clad men entering into a ring, for some sort of ritualized combat.

  I watched, and as I did, more and more discrepancies started to arise.

  “He has an opportunity there to finish his opponent off. Why does he not take it?”

  “If he did that now, it'd be over too soon. He gots to play the crowd, give them their money's worth.”

  “Even if he loses because of it?”

  “Even so. Especially so. That shit makes for a good story.”

  “Story? They're throwing each other around, beating each other to a pulp, and that one's barely holding back a killing rage! How would a story enter into any of this?” I was aghast.

  Martin grinned. “Jus' keep watching.”

  I did so, and found myself actually getting upset. “Okay, that one that just showed up wasn't even in the match to start! He just ran up and started beating on the cute one with a chair. A chair! She doesn't know the rules of this sport, but she's fairly certain that's a violation of them!”

  “Yup.”

  “Why has the match not been stopped, and the cheaters disqualified?”

  “Because the cheaters are bad guys.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Jus' keep watching.”

  I did, and the fight became more and more ludicrous as time went on. Finally, he turned it off, and I turned on him.

  “How in the hell does any of this apply to heroes and villains?”

  “It doesn't. Not precisely. But sometimes it applies. Listen.” Martin pulled over a cushion, sat on it. “That guy who played by the rules, he was who you wanted to see win, yeah?”

  I blinked. “Well, yes. He played fair, he fought well; he clearly deserved to win.”

  “Right. He was the hero. And the horrible guy who cheated, and called in his friends, and broke the rules over and over again, what's that make him?”

  “The villain. But it makes no sense, that he would manage to do those things, succeed in doing those things.”

  “Uh-huh. So, did he beat the hero?”

  “You saw the outcome as well as she did. He failed, despite his tricks, despite stacking the odds in his favor. Which was good, otherwise Dire would have been strongly te
mpted to throw something through your television.”

  He grinned. “And if you felt that, how you think that crowd of drunk assholes watchin' the shit ringside felt?”

  I nodded. “Makes sense that they would be... worked up. Emotionally invested, as well. After all, they know the competitors better than Dire, and...” Pieces fit together. “Ah. It's fake. Entirely staged.” I felt... disappointment? Why? Seen through that lens, the whole spectacle was almost silly. And yet...

  “And that, is the miracle of kayfabe.” Martin smiled, and pulled out a can from a pile of stuff, popping it open and taking a full sip. He offered another can to Simms, who took it gratefully, then smiled at me. “You want a beer too?”

  “No, thank you. Still haven't answered her primary question. What is kayfabe?”

  “It's the power of telling a story. No, selling a story so well that people get invested, even though they know it's all bullshit. And that's what heroes and villains are all about. The ones that are smart, anyway. The stupid ones believe their own hype.”

  I considered him. “Go on.”

  “These guys? They come in two varieties, heels and faces. Villains and heroes, pretty much. And they don't always stay one or the other, they swap back'n forth if they think it'll make for an awesome story. Each of them has an image. They build it up, and when they go into that ring, it's not two people fighting. It's the images they sold the audience going to war, in a fucking huge battle that puts butts in seats. It's more than them, it's the hype, it's the bad guys cheating, it's the good guys winning despite the odd., It's some fake and a little real but it works and it stays awesome because they make you believe. Even when you know better, you believe because believing is more fun. That is why heroes and villains are the same deep down. All those fights no one gets really hurt in? People tossin' around fire and lightning and shit without causing huge death tolls? Heroes catching some villain on Thursday and him breaking out before the weekend? Yeah. No way all that shit is real. It's kayfabe.”

  I sat back, impressed as he ranted. Finally he wound down, and took a long pull of beer.

  “Let her get this straight,” I said, shifting to get my legs more comfortable. “You're talking about building a narrative, and controlling it so that people see the image that most appeals.”

  “More or less, yeah.” He grinned. “Ain't no different then selling anything else. Give people a dream and make it flashy enough, they'll shell out top dollar for pay-per-view. In dolby fucking surround sound.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “Hm. So where do, say, the Black Bloods fit into this sort of kayfabe? Into the cape scene?”

  His smile faded, disappeared. “Yeah, that's the problem. They don't. See, not everyone plays the game. There's rules that come up, with this costume shit. Stuff like don't kill other costumes, don't kill civvies, don't touch families. Shit the MRB promotes, tries to keep the field from getting too vicious, you know? But assholes like the Bloods, they don't play. They got shit lets them take on heroes or villains or anyone that messes with them, and they don't usually win, but it's never a clean loss. Someone always ends up dead or wrecked or shit. And they're smart enough to back off before they get too badly wrecked.”

  “So heroes can't stop them?” I frowned.

  He shook his head. “Heroes can win fights, but you go up against the Bloods, you gotta come ready to win a war. Last guy who tried that was a costume named Scrapper. Big ass suit of armor made out of junk, frickin' sonic blasters on his arms and shit like that. Didn't do him no good. He went out into the worst parts of their turf, and never came out. If he's lucky, he's dead.”

  I frowned. “So they're not... heels, by your definition of kayfabe.”

  “Shit, no. They ain't even in the audience”

  I sat back and thought about it. “She doesn't really have enough experience to tell whether that's a valid view of the heroic and villainous situation. If that's true, it sounds... fake.”

  He shrugged. “Naw. Not quite, anyways. Crusader? He saved the damn world at least three times I know. Aquatica? Bitch really does want to sink all the land up here down under the ocean. It's just... They play by rules. And they use kayfabe to make sure that if they lose, the story keeps going. That the stakes ain't always life or death.”

  I nodded.

  “You may have a point. Going to need to think on this.”

  He yawned. “S'all good. Well. If you ain't staying, best be going. I got heat thanks to you, so I'm gonna turn it on and enjoy that shit.”

  I nodded again, rose, and pulled the tent flap back to leave. But before I could, he spoke up again.

  “Hey, Dire?”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch yourself. Bloods got a long memory, and not everyone around here likes you.”

  I nodded one last time and left without a word.

  CHAPTER 5: The Mad and Merciless March of Time

  “I don't know what it was in the eighties. It was like someone had flipped a switch among the villainous psychos, and suddenly it was evil clown time. The Jester's Grin came out of nowhere to torment Nighthaunt, and jesus, it still hurts to remember that Mister Fun jackass. And don't even get me started on Great Clown Pagliacci... you ask me, all of this was a delayed reaction to John Wayne Gacy, a serial killer famous back in the seventies. He used to dress up as a clown, you know. He used to make boys laugh. Then he raped and killed them. I swear, I'm glad I got out of the business before this trend hit. A lot of the heroes who were stuck up against these psychos, they went mad or they went dark. Or both.”

  --Leaked part of a MRB interview recorded in 1995 with Pistonfist, retired hero formerly active in Pittsburgh.

  The next morning gave me the opportunity to charge my devices. Sparky's current was stable. So long as it was limited to the vicinity of the camp, there was more than enough to handle my gear. It felt better having a fully charged toolkit. Between the plasma cutter, the arc miniwelder, and the magnetic manipulator I could now work on advanced technology, if I had to. And I might have to, if Martin's warning about the Black Bloods was correct.

  Venturing outside, I tended to my toilet, and decided to go to the showerhouse. I found I wasn't the only one there, and avoided looking overlong at the others as I got into one of the active stalls, pulling the curtain closed behind me and putting the backpack and my clothes on a high shelf. The air was frigid but the water was steaming hot, and it refreshed me as I scrubbed away the grime. Someone had thoughtfully cleared away the trash and a night of running water had sluiced away the mud. I wasn't sure how long the water would stay active with the city's power off, but while it lasted it would be nice. I drank some of the water while I was there. It was rust-flavored but seemed potable.

  Drying as best I could, I reclothed and left, bundling up against the chill. It was still January, and the temperature was hovering near freezing, but in the early morning light it was tolerable. So long as you didn't stop moving, anyway.

  “That you Dire lady?” I looked over to the sickbay shack, to see Sparky easing himself into his wheelchair. I waited until he was seated to wave, so he could wave back without toppling. He had a large smile across his face, and he'd covered the collar I'd given him with a scarf. “You got time to help me out?”

  “Quite possibly,” I replied.

  “Good. I need you to help me check a place. It's called Funland, and it should be that way.”

  He pointed to the shut down amusement park to the north. I raised an eyebrow at him, then let it drop when I realized that his cataracts probably didn't let him read my face too well. “All right. May she ask why?”

  He eased back into the chair, pulling a blanket around him. “I'll tell ya on the way.”

  I nodded, moved around to grab the chair. Reached over to adjust his collar as I did so, cranking up the distribution range as we started to roll out. We'd be going out of the camp after all, so it wouldn't do to cut off the power unexpectedly. We went past the laundry shack, past the smattering of tents
where four or five children ran around giggling and scrambling away from us as we went. Past Martin's tent, the flap now open and Simms waving to us as we passed. Then it was up the beach a ways, past more old boats that were drowning in a carpet of rotting seaweed, with chunks of ice floating on a scrim of dark water. After about ten minutes we passed Martin, standing alone on the edge of the beach nearest the road, talking with someone in a car. He handed something through the window, and received something for his troubles, tucking it into a pocket. The car rolled back onto the street, joining what little traffic there was along the beachside road before accelerating and vanishing to the south. Martin glanced back at us, nodded, then tucked his hands in his pockets and waited again.

  “So,” Sparky chirped. “I need to thank you, young lady. This here yoke is working great. I can think straight again.”

  “You couldn't before?” I asked. Roy had said something about that, I recalled.

  “Oh no. I can feel the current, y'see. When I let my mind wander anymore it rises, and I can lose hours just feeling it go. Don't need to eat, don't need to sleep, it just kinda happens. Just can't think straight unless I dial it down. But this little gewgaw?” He flapped a hand at his neck. “The current's there, but it's gone before it can suck me in. Hell, I had a big dump last night, for the first time in forever. Didn't know how bad I was feeling until it was done and damn did I ever feel better after.”

  “Er, that's good, she supposes.” Seriously, what was one supposed to say to that sort of comment? Perhaps it was time to change the topic. “So where is Roy?”

  Sparky shifted in his chair. “He ain't doing so good. Coughed most of last night, and it kept him up. He's sleeping now, but it's ragged. Figure you're younger, cold air won't ruck your lungs up so bad.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough. So why are we going to Funland?”

  The gates were drawing closer, old chain link fences sagging against the sand, posts worked loose or sagging from the weight of age and the friction of winds off the bay. Beyond it boarded-up ticket booths advertised specials that were old before I had been born. Well, maybe, assuming I was the twenty-something I appeared to be. Couldn't be certain, there.