The cat carrier stops moving. The purse floats in midair. Mrs. Jankis leans forward with her arms out for balance, suspended. She blinks, you breathe. You bring your arms back and look at your hands. How in the hell…?
Everything falls.
The cat lets out an aggravated yowl as the carrier hits linoleum. Mrs. Jankis falls to the floor with her handbag on top of her. You move in to help, but she bats you away. In a mix of embarrassment and—what? fear? disbelief?—she claims her belongings and leaves in a huff.
Up in your apartment, you close and deadbolt the door. You can’t get over what just happened down there. You thought, wait, stop, don’t fall! and the world obeyed your commands.
Okay, what you need now is a test. Time to see if you can do it again. You look around your apartment, contemplating what you could move with your mind. But the junk mail is still in your hands, so why not start small?
You command the letters to rise, one by one. Miraculously, they do! Using only the power of your mind, you make the bills float into the air, mentally juggling them before you.
Then you make them rip themselves up and explode out like confetti. Done paying those! This is amazing. How about some fun?
• Obviously I need to feed myself floating potato chips while the house cleans itself!
• Time to celebrate! Go get a drink and toast to being superhuman.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The C-Word
Cancer. If there’s one thing that plagues this world, it’s “The Big C.” Most of the night you spend researching on the Internet but it’s hard to obtain any real data. After a few hours’ sleep, it’s time to make your way to the Mercury University library. The facility is open to the public, plus you can check on the explosion clean-up.
You arrive on campus and walk past the lab, blending in with the other gawkers who watch as a team collects debris from the explosion site. Each workman has impeccably manicured hair, dark sunglasses, and wears a full-body, white rain slicker. Since the ponchos are semi-translucent, you can see their business suits beneath. They’re oddly well-dressed for a cleanup crew. One workman looks up, so you duck your head and continue on your way.
The library has a delightful array of medical texts, and you spend the next few hours speed-reading as many volumes as you can before the process gets repetitive. After all, none of these scientists has cured cancer yet, so there’s a limit to what they can teach you. Their understanding of the multifaceted disease is extremely narrow, so you keep a notepad to record all the places in which their shortcomings become evident, all the errors they’ve made in their assumptions, and all the new techniques you’re chomping at the bit to try out. In order to do that last part, you’ll need laboratory access.
Since campus security assumes no sane person would break in for the sole purpose of running an experiment, you’re able to walk right in and set up shop. The chemistry department is understandably on lockdown after the explosion, but here in the biology department, the only secure area is the terrarium housing Jake the python.
You’re looking at cellular tissue under a powerful microscope, musing how the work that’s come before you is cute, in the way a child’s science diorama might melt your heart. You have the strangest inclination to pat these MDs and PhDs on the head and give them each a gold star for effort.
“Excuse me,” a woman says. You look up to see a blonde bombshell in her 20s, well-dressed and waiting by the doorway. Of course, you recognize television reporter Alison Argyle from the nightly news.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your work, Professor.” A warm flush fills your cheeks. “I’m investigating yesterday’s explosion. Did you know Dr. Julius Petri?”
“The inventor of the Petri dish?” you ask.
Now she blushes. The conversation seems so warm and natural, but it could also be the practiced technique an investigative journalist uses to disarm those she’s questioning.
“The police think it’s an alias. I don’t suppose the man running the experiment was on staff here?”
“No…I don’t believe so.”
She smiles and leans against the door jamb. “Any tips? It would make my job a helluva lot easier.”
Keep the anonymity, a voice inside tells you.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I can be of much help,” you reply. “There’s a crew packing up the rubble; have you spoken with them yet?”
She sighs. “Cold shoulder. My camera guy is getting some b-roll of them already, thanks.”
“Was—was anyone hurt in the accident?” you ask.
She eyes you carefully. “We don’t know yet, to be honest. There’s no sign of the scientist who ran the experiment or of the alleged test subjects involved.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m very busy…”
She throws her hands up in mock surrender and backs away. “Say no more. Thanks for your time.”
Once she’s gone, you look back down into the microscope. Eureka! The cancer has retreated and only healthy cells remain. You’ve cured cancer. In a day. Now to tell the world!
Keep the anonymity, your instincts say again.
Fine. So you’ll spend the next hour using back-door channels to submit your work to the Nobel committee and setting up anonymous bank accounts for your eventual prize money. You’ll still have to fund future endeavors, right?
* * *
After a celebratory dinner for one, you pop open a bottle of champagne back at the apartment. Golden liquid bubbles inside the flute at your fingertips and you wish very much you had someone to share your accomplishment with. But such is the price of greatness; it’s lonely at the top.
That’s when there’s a knock at your door.
Through the peephole, you see the same reporter from earlier today—Alison Argyle. Still feeling lonely (and a bit tipsy), you open the door.
“Professor?” she asks, taken aback.
“Can I help you?” you gulp.
“Well, I must say, I’m a bit hurt. Why didn’t you just say you were a part of the experiment?”
You stare into her deep blue eyes, unsure what to say. She holds up the waiver you filled yesterday. Name, address, signature. So much for anonymity.
“That…that isn’t me.”
“Are you sure? It’s your address. And you look just like the photo on your driver’s license, which I have here on my tablet if you want to see—”
“N-No, I mean, that’s me,” you stammer, interrupting her. “I just wasn’t part of any experiment. Someone…someone must have used my name, like an alias.”
Her eyes narrow. “And forged your signature?”
You nod.
“You’re not a Mercury University professor either. I checked. You’re—”
“I think you should leave now, I have nothing else to say.” And with that, you shut the door in her face.
“I’ve met the others! I’ve seen what they can do!” she shouts from the hallway. “I know of Nick’s Herculean strength and I’ve seen Catherine make things float just by saying a word!”
“I’m calling the cops! This is harassment!”
Your heart pounds and your head races. So the others have powers too. Different powers. But that means she doesn’t know what’s special about you! Until she learns you just cured cancer. Oh, who’re you trying to fool? She knows. Oh, God. Soon everyone will know.
Looks like it’s time to find a secret lair. Time to disappear. Time to obtain a fortress of solitude where you’ll be free to do your work.
Work like:
• Master the secrets of the space/time continuum! The unfinished Nuclear Reactor will suffice for your home base while you travel the multiverse.
• Create the world’s first self-aware AI! A neglected lighthouse is an apropos spot to forge your new beacon of intellectual partnership between man and machine.
• Plan a sustainable, terraformed Martian colony! A derelict subway station should provide ample space to build your rocket ships.
• Becomin
g a supervillain! Conventional wisdom says three can keep a secret—if two are dead. Hole up in the abandoned mercury mines and study your fellow superhumans.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Damsels
“Allow me to save you some trouble,” you say, your voice thick with menace. “There will be no story on those of us involved in the explosion. In fact, you’re going to forget you ever saw me, understand?”
She gives a sheepish grin and takes a step forward. “Listen, I totally understand. Most people don’t want to be on TV. And that’s okay, I get it. So we won’t do it on camera. I’ll quote you, but it’s not like you’re going to be stopped on the street. People want to know about the explosion, but they’ll forget your name just as fast as they hear it.”
Clearly, she’s not getting it. You spread your arms out wide, take a deep breath, and float off the floor. Channeling a demigod, you begin, “Hear me now, Alison Argyle! Go now and leave with your life. Never speak of this again. Do not take my warning as mere weakness. If you do not heed this command, there shall be consequences.”
If you could turn your eyes electric blue and bring ethereal wind through the hall, that would’ve been a nice cherry on top, but overall, not a bad performance. You keep eye contact with the reporter, waiting for her to flee in terror.
Instead, she pulls out her smartphone and starts filming you.
“Goddammit!” you cry. Back to the ground, you reach out and grab her phone by the power of mind. When it flies into your hand, you smash it onto the floor.
“Hey! That was expensive!”
Enough games. You telekinetically slam Ms. Argyle against the wall, pinning her there. She’s genuinely afraid now, but it’s short-lived. She looks over your shoulder and you turn just in time to see Catherine lunge at you, swinging out.
You leap back enough to dodge most of the blow, but even a little contact with her sends you careening though your apartment door. The attack leaves you stunned and breathless, and you release your hold on Alison Argyle, but you’re not done yet. You cough, rise to your feet, wipe blood from your lip and turn to face this new foe.
“I knew it,” Catherine cries. “I knew you were a villain!”
• Fly out the window.
• She wants a villain? SO BE IT! Take Alison Argyle as a hostage.
• It’s come to blows. Attack Catherine!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The Dark Lord (or Lady)
Villainy is a concept created by others. To be a villain is simply to be envied by those who lack the ambition to take what’s theirs. Fortune favors the fiendish. You have the power, and the courage, to do what’s right in your own eyes. And what other people think of you while you do it…simply doesn’t matter.
But you’ve got to look the part.
You walk up to a Halloween shop down the street and closely examine the Phantom of the Opera costume out front. The mannequin wears a tuxedo mixing the somberness of a vampire and the bravado of a pirate. A flowing black cape goes nearly to the ground. The outfit is nearly a complete visage of darkness, save for the white, iconic Phantom mask.
“Mask or no mask?” you muse aloud.
“We all wear masks, metaphorically speaking,” the shop clerk says. He’s a 20-something blend of punk rock and metal, with orange/bleached hair.
“No mask,” you say. “Masks are only worn by those who have something to fear.”
“Uh, no, I was quoting—never mind. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’ll take the costume.”
It’s true, you know. If you wanted to play hero—you’d need the mask. For those sworn to preserve peace and justice, their alter-egos are of the utmost importance. But for those like you, honest with themselves, there’s no need to compartmentalize your personality. There is only you, inside the costume or out. And if people call that villainy, so be it.
As you step out of the Halloween shop, you feel the world around you. In an incredible burst of power, you lift yourself and fly into the sky! The black cape whips at your back, encouraging you to action.
At a high altitude, you look upon the city—your city. Time to:
• Take revenge on society. For what? For my being born. I’m going to make the Grand Theft Auto games look like a children’s storybook.
• Where can a well-dressed sociopath have the most fun? The casino! I can fix the games or at the very least, swipe some chips from high-rollers.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Darting In
You down the rest of the drink, set the glass on the bar top, and push it to the bartender. He looks at you, knowing deep down he saw something strange, but doubting himself. You smile.
Trying not to be too obvious that you’re superhuman, you pull the darts from the board with your hands. A trio by the jukebox—two women and a man—settle in to watch you play. Pressure’s on. Okay, throw the dart, then use your mind to guide it home; that’s the challenge.
You throw and push. The dart flies forward, but your throw was off and in an attempt to correct its trajectory, you overcompensate and slam the dart into the wall, burying it three-quarters through the drywall.
“Whoa, easy there, killer,” the raven-haired woman says.
Her dirty-blonde companion laughs. The man smiles, but it’s an enjoyment at your expense.
Concentrate, you’ve got this. You take a deep breath and throw again, tossing it only lightly, then grab it in the air with your mind. The dart hovers as you guide it forward and eventually it presses into the bull’s-eye but, you realize too late, it moved unnaturally slowly.
“What the shit?” the guy says.
You throw another dart, faster this time, and guide it in just outside the bull’s-eye. Not bad. Trying to keep their suspicions at bay, you go again. This time, you’re able to push it right on target. The fifth and sixth throws hit the bull’s-eye too, so accurately that your final throw knocks the tail off your first bull’s-eye.
The trio looks at you with some awe.
“Not bad, huh? You guys wanna play?”
Before they can answer, a crash from behind draws your attention to the bar. There’s a couple deep in argument, and a broken pint glass on the floor. It’s the girl from the shuffleboard table and a man who must’ve arrived just after you.
“I said, ‘no!’” she shouts. “Leave me alone or I’m calling the cops.”
“C’mon,” the man says, just before clamping a strong hand on her bicep.
“Leave her alone,” you find yourself saying. The whole bar stops to look at you. “You—you heard what I said, and I suggest you go now if you don’t want any trouble.”
Despite the man’s imposing size and his dockworker’s strength, you’re feeling confident. He pushes the woman off to the side, then steps toward you. It’s obvious from his body language that the time for talk has passed.
His fist is the size of your head, but you duck in for an uppercut to his abdomen.
Here’s what would have happened before you got your powers: Your blow would land harmlessly against his barrel chest, while his own strike would connect to the side of your head. He would then proceed to beat you senselessly while everyone thinks, That’s why I don’t get involved. If you’re lucky, the bartender would tell him that’s enough and he would drag his woman away from the bar, leaving you bloodied on the floor.
Now here’s what actually happens: You use the same blend of physical and psychic movements you’ve just been practicing with the darts, except now you don’t hold back. Your fist connects with his ribcage, and your mind blasts him away, sending the hulking man over the bar into the shelf of alcohol. You just knocked him back fifteen feet, most likely shattering his ribs and possibly collapsing his lung.
“Are you okay?” you ask the woman.
She nods, terrified. Tears stream down her cheeks and over her trembling lips.
You look around the rest of the bar; all the patrons shrink away from your gaze. The bartender puts a shot on the co
unter for you and says, “On the house.”
Like a boss, you down the alcohol, give the bartender a knowing nod of thanks, and leave the bar. This is incredible. With these powers, you could do anything!
• No time for small potatoes. Off to the casino—I’m going to make a killing at roulette!
• I’m basically a Jedi; time to put on a robe and protect the innocent.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Dead or Alive
“No! Goddammit, I said not to run!” Nick calls after you. “You’re just making it worse on yourself. Fine! You leave me no choice.”
That last line sends a chill down your spine, especially when you realize that Nick’s shouts never quieted, even as you flew off the building as fast as you could. In midair, you turn around and…
He’s right behind you.
Those oversized boots? Jet-boots. Rocket flame comes from them and propels the wunderkind after you. He has his right fist extended, flying like Superman, and his left hand activates some kind of control panel on the beefy right forearm gauntlet.
The gauntlet hums with life, and the wrist section glows a white-hot blue. Then a pulse bursts out in a ring of energy, growing in size for the split second before it hits you. Your muscles seize, and you pass out just as you start to plummet towards the ground below.
You know how when someone shouts “You’ll never take me alive,” they’re almost always immediately killed after that, right?
THE END
The Death of ‘Supa-Gurl’
Despite the late night you spent helping Nick, you’re up early the next morning, soaring through the skies, looking for the real Catherine so you can warn her.
The Doomsday Device didn’t need your help, not in the least. Doomsday’s “Maximum Collateral Damage Provision” meant that the robot threw cars through building windows, ripped statues off their bases, killed innocent bystanders, and generally ravaged through Mercury City like a tornado—destroying everything in its path.
SUPERPOWERED: Are YOU a Superhero or Supervillain? (Click Your Poison Book 3) Page 9
