SUPERPOWERED: Are YOU a Superhero or Supervillain? (Click Your Poison Book 3)

by James Schannep

  You mentally grab him, and throw the pimp across two lanes of traffic and against the Halloween storefront. You leap into the air, flushed with adrenaline, and fly high above the city’s skyline. You zoom back down, boots poised for an epic stomp, and land atop the man, breaking his spine.

  For justice, of course.

  Hey, you can fly! Awesome.

  • Go find some more baddies to crush and damsels to save (successfully, this time).

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Matador

  “You picked the wrong skyscraper on the wrong day,” you say, trying to sound menacing.

  Catherine smiles, cracks her knuckles, and lunges at you.

  Staying close to the shattered window’s opening, you lift the glass from the floor, mentally claiming as many jagged pieces as you can. All in one motion, you command the projectiles to head to her, going for a dozen skewers of the torso.

  She picks up at a sprint just as the glass smashes into her, splintering into a thousand pieces. Her clothing rips, but you see no damage to the skin beneath. You dart away just as she jumps at you, her fingers barely missing the edges of your cape, and hurtles to the street thirty stories below.

  Glass-proof is cool, but flying is cooler. You watch as she smashes into the pavement, cracks snaking across the asphalt. One of these days, you’ll really have to stop killing the evil-doers you face, but it’s enough for now to protect the innocent at whatever cost.

  You rush forward into the building, searching for survivors.

  After several floors and two dozen offices of nothingness, you finally hit paydirt. When you blast open this door, you find half a dozen nine-to-fivers huddled around an a/c vent, taking in the precious fresh air.

  “Never fear, citizens, The Phantom is here!”

  They blink several times in shared disbelief, thinking you’re a hallucination. Then they all look past you as someone taps you on the shoulder.

  You turn back to see Catherine, dirty, covered in soot, clothes torn, but healthy and unharmed. Did she really just peel herself off the pavement and climb back up here?

  “You mess with the bull,” she says, “You’re gonna get gored.”

  She punches you with such ferocity that her fist comes out the back of your head.

  THE END

  Mercy Me

  “I’ll let you live, but if I ever see you again, you’ll find my patience limited. Stop this foolishness and never speak of superhumans again.”

  You release Agent Droakam and fly back out the window.

  What a nice overlord you’ll make! That actually felt good, letting those insignificant peons live. They’ll tell the others you conquer how fair and just you, their liege lord, are. And nothing bad ever happens when the villain lets their enemies live, right?

  Problem solved; head back to the casino and relax in your penthouse suite. You’ve been meaning to check out the Jacuzzi tub—what better opportunity?

  • Indeed! Time for the royal treatment. Posh and pampered, that’s me.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Might Makes Awesome

  Walking through the back wall of a bank proves about as difficult as walking through the ball-pit of a Chuck-E-Cheese. The concrete just sort of crumbles out of your way. The downtown Mercury Bank staff ducks and covers their heads as if experiencing an earthquake.

  Once they see it’s you rattling the walls—a person for whom concrete and steel yields the right of way—they simply stare. Slowly, they rise, slack-jawed and eyes like saucers. No one screams, no one runs for help. Not even the security guards move.

  Without a word, you move past the staff like they’re mannequins in a department store. Ah, there’s the vault up ahead—thick metal, with an intricate locking mechanism centered by a wheel.

  One brief tug and the wheel comes off in your hands. Gripping the handles on the sides, you wrench those off too. Hmmm, guess the pins keeping the door in place are much sturdier than these pieces.

  You reel back and put your weight behind a punch into the center of the vault door. POW! It feels like punching a pillow. The vault door dimples and folds as if it’s filled with down. A follow-up kick (WHAM!) and the door is forced back inside the vault.

  Inside is greater wealth than you could have possibly imagined, short of a swimming pool filled with cash, which you make a mental note to install in your new mansion. Today, you’re limited only by how much you can lug out, but since lifting moneybags feels like carrying birthday balloons, that means you’re limited by what you can fit in your arms.

  Carrying the cash like a stubborn I-don’t-need-a-cart-thanks customer at the grocery store, you make your way from the vault. The bank staff only stares. The only sounds are the growls of your stomach. You’d expected some kind of resistance, a firefight, even, but right now it appears there’s been a silent agreement that they’re all sharing a mass hallucination. Bob had a birthday, right? Who spiked Bob’s birthday cake?

  They probably won’t even activate the alarm until after you’re gone. As the first superhuman to make a public appearance, you had the element of surprise. Next time it won’t be so easy.

  • Go stash the cash and plan your next move.…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Mind over Matter

  Six figures step forward from deep within the cavernous recesses of your base. As they emerge from the shadows, you see that they wear lab coats, each one a different color, and the man in the white coat has an “Ex” emblazoned on his shirt.

  “The Experi-mentor!” you cry.

  The scientist takes a bow. “My creations—so we meet again. How magnificent you’ve become, even without my guidance. I really must applaud your taking care of the other two, who kept the public eye off myself, leaving me free to continue my research without police interference.

  “While I know you think of yourself as the pinnacle of mankind, you’re merely a resource. The signed release from the experiment clearly states any successful result would become property of the company, and thus I own a patent on the three of you. You’re my resource, and I’m giddy with anticipation of employing you!”

  Super-mind working on overtime, you’re already planning your next move. There are other gadgets and safeguards in your fortress waiting for activation. A dozen winning scenarios pop into your head.

  “If you think you can simply command me, you’re gravely mistaken,” you say.

  “Not I, perhaps, but allow me to introduce my colleagues. You see, when you used your own blood to cure cancer, you unwittingly gave me a key to reverse-engineering the experiment. Using your DNA, I created five other wonderful superpowers.”

  The Experi-mentor points to the other scientists, who are lined up by his side. The first is a woman in a black lab coat, a man in blue, another in green, a woman in red, and finally, a male scientist in a clear rain-slicker. In order, he introduces them as, “Doctors Necromancy, Hallucination, Reader, Mind-Control, and Timetravel.”

  Now you’re feeling nervous. That’s one hell of a lineup.

  “So you see, I already have everything I want. And what do you get the man who has everything? Why, you get on your knees.”

  The scientist in red, introduced as Dr. Mind-Control, steps forward and places the forefingers of her right hand against her temple. You’re suddenly filled with an overwhelming love for the Experi-mentor, and a desire to serve. You kneel, ready to do your master’s bidding.

  THE END

  Mission Extremely Possible

  The next morning you’re all suited up and ready to go when Agent Droakam arrives at the warehouse. The Camo-suit seemed to cinch down when you put it on, like it “knew” how to perfectly fit itself to your body. Since receiving your powers, you’ve trimmed down on fat and packed on the muscle, so a skin-tight outfit makes you look damned good. Like a Supersoldier.

  Droakam enters through the warehouse doors with a dolly-cart stacked high with donut boxes. A baker’s dozen of baker’s dozens. “Looking sharp!” he says. �
��Breakfast?”

  Your stomach growls in anticipation. Hell, this might be the best part of having superpowers—you can eat anything and look great. Without a word, you dig in. Nick comes from the recesses of the warehouse wearing the green Dinoskin suit. Obviously feeling less confident in his new getup, he holds his hands over himself like a fig leaf.

  “Morning, Kid Liberty,” Droakam says with a grin.

  “Hilarious. What’s the mission?”

  “Right to it, huh? Well, our first task is to take down Nelson Bloodnight, owner of the Planet Mercury Casino—the city’s major kingpin.”

  “Mmph—whe’re ohn iht,” you say through a mouth full of donut. After swallowing, you add, “Straight to the casino?”

  “Whoa, hold on. We don’t have any legally prudent reason to take Bloodnight just yet. We do, however, have one of his major partners in town. Number ten on the FBI’s most wanted list: Roger Aleister Kingsley. He’s made Bloodnight millions in international racketeering schemes, so if we bring him in, we think he’ll turn over on his boss. Kingsley is notorious for showing up just long enough for us to learn he’s here, but not long enough for us to grab him. We got lucky this time—an anonymous tip with the location of the target.”

  “Great, so what’s the plan?” Nick asks.

  “Bring him in. He carries mercenary-level private security wherever he goes, so be careful. I can bring up a full briefing on this computer….”

  “Don’t bother,” you say. “I’m a weapon, right? Point me at the target.”

  * * *

  Agent Droakam parks the SUV, then points at an older apartment complex, six stories high, that’s decayed over time. “Okay, you’re up. I’ll be here as soon as you bring him out.”

  You step out with Nick by your side, ready for action. The Americana camo-suit comes with a beret and you pull it taut over your brow. Very Jean-Claude Van Damme.

  “Nick, you might want to stand back and let me handle this.”

  “No way! You think I’m gonna let you get all the glory? I’ll fly up to the roof; we can flank ’em.”

  “Glory? What glory? No one knows we’re here.”

  “Which is why I called the local news station with an ‘anonymous tip’ of my own.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’d you say? ‘A pair of superheroes are about to debut; come on down and check it out!’” you laugh.

  Nick grins. “That’s why I called 911 as well. Time to make this look good!”

  Before you’re able to protest, Nick leaps into the air and soars up to the roof. Great. He’s gonna get himself killed, you think, and rush towards the front door. Slapping a flat palm against it, the door explodes inward, doing massive damage to the foyer area.

  A man lies bloodied on his back in the hallway; the door’s casualty. As you step inside, you see two more men with shaved heads and five o’clock shadows. They wear black suits, with submachine guns at the ready. As soon as you’re in, they send a hail of gunfire your way.

  The shots sting like being whipped with switches, but all that does is make you angry. Big mistake. Their weapons both click empty and you look down at your supersuit—completely unblemished.

  Footsteps pound the floors above as more security guards rush your way. You grab the two men as if they were rag dolls and drag them upstairs. When you see the crowd of guards coming your way, you fling the first man—he hits the crowd with a sickening crunch. Using the second man as a bludgeon, you beat the other guards senseless, not slowing down even as they shoot you.

  It’s a massacre. Hopefully Roger Aleister Kingsley isn’t hiding in plain sight among his men, because it won’t be easy to draw a confession from a bloody pulp. You easily make your way up the apartment building, clearing it out floor by floor. Soon, the whole complex is silent. Looks like you’ve incapacitated everyone…

  Until you make it to the top floor. A man in a silken scarlet robe steps forward. He’s a grim man in his upper 50s, stubble beard and hard features. Cold eyes stare back at you, filled with terror. Every fiber in his body resists the motion, yet he continues on his path, stilted, like a drunken marionette.

  “What the bloody hell is happening?” he asks in a thick, noble-blooded English accent.

  “You’re coming with us,” Nick says.

  The college student holds out his hands, the evident puppetmaster, and forces Kingsley to step down the stairs. “Guards all taken care of? Ah, listen to that!” You nod, then stop to listen. Sirens, just outside. Nick grins and says, “Let’s go greet our adoring public.”

  Droakam is there outside, ready to cuff Kingsley as soon as he steps outside. But so are two squad cars and a news van. “What just happened? Can you offer a statement?” It’s blonde reporter Alison Argyle.

  “No comment,” Droakam says.

  Nick floats into the air, then gestures to you and says, “This is WMD, and I am ’Murica. Together, we are the Freedom Fighters, superheroes here to defend the city against scum like Nelson Bloodnight.”

  “Goddamnit,” Agent Droakam grumbles. “Get back to HQ, now!”

  Nick lets out a hearty, “Freeeeeeedddooooommmm!!!!!!” as he flies up into the sky.

  The cameras focus on you. You sprint away, leaping with inhumanly long strides, only to arrive back at the warehouse a few minutes later just as an industrial van with HiT stenciled on the side pulls away. The van peels out down the dock, fishtailing on the damp roads.

  Nick lands next to you. “What the hell? Were they just inside?”

  That familiar rage boils up inside. “I’ll stay here and make sure nothing’s up….Go, follow them!”

  Nick darts back into the air. The warehouse is quiet and the air still. Nothing is broken, the crates are all here. Well, if one were missing, it’d be hard to tell, but the point is that this wasn’t a smash-and-grab job. If they took something, it must have been a specific target. But what was it? Your fists unclench, and the mission quickly turns from a search for who’s here to a search for what isn’t.

  Agent Droakam arrives just before Nick, and after you fill the agent in, Nick proceeds to do the same for you. He says, “They drove down to the docks. I stayed above the van, so I don’t think they know I followed them. Anyway, they took a cooler from the van, hopped in a speedboat, and met up with a mega-yacht anchored in the Bay.”

  “Did you get a good look at the yacht?” Droakam asks.

  “Yeah, more of a small cruise-liner than a personal boat. It’s a gigantic behemoth called The Son of Jupiter. We can trace the owner, right?”

  You both look at Agent Droakam and an expression you can’t quite read comes over his face. At length, he says. “They took a cooler? Are you certain?”

  The agent runs to a corner of the warehouse, checks something, then suddenly turns back. “They took the blood samples!”

  “Who owns the yacht?” you say, more a demand for information than a question.

  Droakam swallows. “…Nelson Bloodnight.”

  You start to leave, but Agent Droakam steps in your path, hands raised. “Wait! We don’t know what he wants. If he took your blood, he might be looking for a weakness.”

  “Which is why I’m going to stop him before he finds one. Step aside.”

  “Well,” Nick says. “If there’s going to be a war between us and them. Maybe we oughtta recruit one more soldier? You wanted a Lady Liberty in the Freedom Fighters, right? Maybe we should go have a talk with Catherine Woodall.”

  • “No. No more discussion, no grand plans. I’m going to finish this once and for all.” Head to the yacht!

  • “Fine, let’s go. What’s better than two supersoldiers, right?” Go recruit the woman from the experiment!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  More Valuable than Gold

  “You really don’t want to arrest us?” Nick asks, genuinely confused.

  With a smile, you say, “I really don’t. We have a golden opportunity here.”

  “You’re right,” Catherine says, lowering her hood so y
ou can see the passion in her eyes. “I have a son. What kind of example am I setting for Danny? We have the opportunity to leave the world a better place.”

  “But…what about all this cash?” Nick says.

  “Ideals are one thing people tend to value over money,” Baxter replies.

  “Thanks for the after-school special,” Nick says dryly.

  “Nick, we’re talking celebrity endorsements, more money than you can count, fame. You’ll have groupies! Wouldn’t you rather be loved than feared?” you say, doing your best to appeal to the college male.

  “Whatever. I’m in,” he says.

  * * *

  “You have a fucking batcave?” Nick says when you arrive at the lighthouse sanctuary.

  “I suppose we have the start of one,” you chuckle.

  “We have the fucking bats,” Baxter adds helpfully.

  “And with my department’s funding, you’ll have the equipment,” someone says. You turn back to see a man in a black suit. He continues, “Agent Brendan Droakam, FBI Supersoldier Division. I’d like to be your Alfred. Or, more like Morgan Freeman’s character, the one who provided all the technology. What was that guy’s name?”

  “Did you follow us?” Catherine asks.

  “Actually we’ve been waiting.”

  “We?” you ask.

  That’s when reporter Alison Argyle steps forward from the shadows, stunning as ever. “I wanted to thank you,” she says. “Agent Droakam assumed I knew how to find you, and he provided the boat to get us here.”

  “And how did you know?”

  She flashes that winning smile. “You made it easy, ‘Professor.’ All your deliveries to this island were a big red flag. And when I saw the address as ‘Lebon Rd’—a palindrome for ‘Dr. Nobel,’ I put two and two together.”

  “My programming indicates there is nothing sexier than an intelligent woman,” Baxter says.