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

by James Schannep

  The quarterback brings a fist up, but Nick’s hand extends and the young man instead grasps at the invisible noose around his neck. The frat-boy claws his own skin, suffocating from the telekinetic grip.

  The last guy—the one behind Nick—goes for a knock-out punch, but you put a hand on his shoulder and twist him around. “Don’t,” you say calmly. The goliath football player punches you instead, breaking his hand on your jaw. The blow doesn’t even move you an inch. Cool, you think as the guy stumbles backward.

  “The name’s Dorian Black,” Nick says. “And I suggest you tell your friends just how unhealthy it can be to spread lies about people.”

  The rest of the bar watches in silent awe as you get up to leave. The bartender says, “Hey, you gotta pay your bill.”

  “They’ve got it covered,” you say, just before you walk out the door.

  Nick cools off in the night air, and the rush of the fight slowly fades. After a period of reflection, Nick says, “I’m cool with us versus the world, but let’s get disguises. I don’t want to break my mom’s heart.”

  What a nice guy.

  • “Sounds good. But let’s sleep it off first, yeah?” Let Nick sober up before beginning your big day as supervillains.

  • “Nah, masks make me itchy, but I say you go for it. Seems like you’ve got a score to settle and I’ve got bigger plans.” Time to split up.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  World Police

  You ride in the Agent’s SUV, presumably to some sort of secret headquarters.

  “Obviously we’ll have to get you a different look,” Droakam says, sizing you up. “But, lucky for us, you haven’t made much of a splash in public yet.”

  “Will the marketing and fashion division handle the costume?”

  He laughs, somewhat nervously. “Unfortunately, no such division exists—yet. The Supersoldier Program has languished a bit over the years. It didn’t really pan out in the ’50s, and by the time the Cold War hit, Uncle Sam had bigger fish to fry and pulled funding. As of right now, I’m the only agent assigned to the unit, but once my superiors get a load of you….”

  He lets the sentence go unfinished, the obvious conclusion being: You’re his golden ticket. Letting the thought sink in, you look out the window and watch as buildings give way to warehouses and the road becomes a pier. Agent Droakam pulls up to one such warehouse deep in the shipping district.

  “There were two others in the experiment,” you say.

  “I know, but let’s take it one step at a time, yeah? Here we are,” he says, before hopping out.

  When he unlocks the main door and slides it open, you’re still half-hoping it’s all a façade, that there’ll be a technical marvel with a full staff of scientists hidden inside. Instead, you’re greeted with a warehouse that appears to be the inspiration for the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  “Every major advance we’ve made in soldiering technology in the last seventy-five years is in here,” Droakam says, his voice filled with awe, despite the warehouse being filled with bat guano. “Exciting stuff, huh? Quite a few gems tucked away in these crates, especially those deemed too dangerous or expensive for practical use. And a few Geneva Convention no-no’s….”

  You simply stare at the stacks upon stacks of crates.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Droakam says. “What do you say we do some training, see what you can do?”

  • “No training. I’m ready. Let’s impress your boss so we can get this place back to full operation!”

  • “Sounds good. Want me to juggle some of these crates?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  A World Untainted By Man

  After inputting your parameters into the staff, the jewel at the top glows to life and projects a seam upon the middle of your lab. The seam shimmers, like a mirage in the desert, then expands as a purple starlight gate opens before you.

  Hesitating, you stare at the gate. Well, it’s now or never.

  There’s no physical sensation as you carry your staff across the threshold and into a new world, but you can instantly feel the difference of environment. What was a nuclear reactor on your world is a verdant forest in this new one. It’s a warm, sunny day, and the only sounds are a trickling creek and the hum of insect life.

  “Eureka!” You shout with glee.

  Squawks from the trees rebuke you, but you can’t help but smile. You’ve just traveled to another universe! Hahaha, this is amazing!

  You walk along the creek, which shortly leads to your very own pond, ripe for Waldenesque reflection. A loud bass-filled thud sounds from somewhere in the distance and you perk up. Signs of civilization? It’s impossible to calculate how far away the object is without knowing its size or, likewise, to calculate the size without knowing the distance. Whatever it is, it’s big.

  Another thud, this time rippling the surface of the pond. Maybe the people here are operating the source of clean energy they’ve discovered? THUD. It’s getting louder. THUD. And growing in frequency. THUD. Now the trees of the forest sway. THUD. Whatever the source—THUD— it’s headed toward you. THUD!

  The forest canopy parts and an enormous reptilian head pushes through. Dinner-plate eyes stare at you from fifteen feet in the air. Nostrils flare and the leathery skin on the beast’s face tightens to reveal a frightening collection of teeth packed into jaws as wide as the grill on a semi-truck.

  The Tyrannosaurus Rex snarls.

  • Don’t move! She can’t see me if I don’t move.

  • Open a portal home—NOW!!!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Wrath at K-HAN

  K-HAN, Action News, Mercury City’s Leading Voice in News! records from an uptown studio on the twenty-eighth floor of the Kobayashi Building. When you push through the revolving doors, the desk guard stands up—immediately on edge. Does he recognize you from this morning’s heist? Or is your newfound confident, imposing posture enough to spell trouble?

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” you say. The guard pulls out his handgun, so you dash forward and slam him against the wall. As he falls limply to the floor, you add, “That counts as stupid.”

  By the time the elevator takes you up to the 28th floor, security is already there to greet you. You pull the “Emergency Stop” to freeze the elevator just as the first guard fires his Taser. The metal darts intended to hook into your flesh and allow the flow of electricity simply plink off your diamond-like skin.

  You rush forward, grab the guard by the shirt, and throw him through a plate-glass window. The rest of the security staff stumbles back as you walk up to the reception desk, where a terrified young girl cowers.

  “I’m here to see Alison Argyle,” you say, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. The receptionist simply whimpers.

  The crack of a gunshot rips through the silent fear and something like a bee sting hits you in the forehead. You pull the flattened bullet from your skin, then look to the would-be hero—a reporter with a concealed carry license. He stands with his revolver outstretched, his legs in a half-squat, just like he’s practiced at the gun range. Smoke curls from the barrel.

  You lean over the receptionist’s desk, where you find a three-hole punch, a candy bowl, and a picture of the receptionist, smiling with her parents. In a quick, athletic move, you claim the three-hole punch and fling it at the gunman—perfectly connecting with the man’s forehead.

  The newsroom erupts with panicked screams.

  “That’s enough!” a woman cries out. Reporter Alison Argyle steps forward. “You’re the one from the robbery?”

  “I’m here to do an interview.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Don’t ask who I am, ask what I am,” you say, the words flowing from a dark place deep within. “I am a Roman god in the flesh, a fitting ruler of a city named after one, don’t you think?”

  “It’s actually named for the old mining operations,” she says, her voice inviting challenge.

  “Not anymor
e.” Didn’t she just see you shake off a bullet? “Set up the cameras, now.”

  One of the staffers timidly says, “It takes the better part of an hour to set up, do a sound check, get you into make-up, and—”

  “THAT WASN’T A REQUEST!” you boom through superhuman lungs.

  “I—we can’t do it,” the man babbles.

  “We’ll do it live.” Alison says, though no one seems convinced. “We’ll do it live, fuck it, we’ll do it live! I’ll write it, let’s go, people.”

  * * *

  “This is reporter Alison Argyle, K-HAN Action News, reporting live and under duress in an exclusive interview with the mysterious new criminal terrorizing our fair city.” You smile at the camera. She continues, “You’ve shown yourself strong enough to break through walls with ease, tough enough to resist gunfire, and morally corrupt enough to steal whatever you’d like. But do you have any weaknesses? Why don’t we start there?”

  “Besides your winning smile, Alison?” you say with charm. “No, I’m afraid not, but I must object to being called ‘morally corrupt.’ Is it morally corrupt to brush ants off your picnic blanket? When you are superior to human beings, you’re superior to their morality as well. Who are you to lecture a god? If you were like me, a Roman—”

  That’s when the building’s power goes out and the generators flip on, bathing the studio in the dim red glow of the emergency lights.

  “What the—” you start, but the shouts of the SWAT team silence your protests. Mercury City PD’s anti-terrorism unit comes from the stairwell, rifles aimed right at you, offering shouts for you to get face-down on the floor. Alison complies, you do not.

  You step forward and the men open fire. The gunshots hurt like a sonofabitch, and your clothing fragments under the hail of bullets, but all they’re really accomplishing is pissing you off.

  In a few inhuman strides, you close the gap and meet the police officers head-on. They’re just as surprised as you are that you can bound so quickly, and you backhand the lead SWAT member–sending him flying down the hallway with a sickening crunch. The rest of the team retreats and opens up canisters of tear gas.

  Somehow it’s this tear gas—a chemical—that finally effects you. The bullets all ping off harmlessly, but now your eyes and lungs burn ferociously and tears and mucous flow freely.

  • Chase the cops down. They’ll pay for their blasphemous tear gassing!

  • Get out! Ahhh, it burns! Get some fresh air right now! Gahhh!!!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Wrong Answer

  You can actually hear the man’s teeth grinding under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

  “Fuck off.”

  The door slams shut and the dead-bolt scratches into place. Woops. You turn back to Agent Droakam for support, but all you get is a repeated gesture: he’s telling you to force your way in.

  Either that, or he’s imitating Ryu from Street Fighter, but you’re pretty certain it’s the former.

  No other option here, time to hadouken your way in:

  • Blast the door open, take them by force.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  You’re Doing It Wrong

  “No need,” the machine responds. “It is evident in your programming.”

  “What do you mean?” you ask.

  The robot turns toward you, its hands raised at your throat.

  “I know you are curious why the accident gave you intellectual supremacy over the rest of your species. I can dissect you to learn the answer.”

  “Wait, no!” you shout.

  You duck away from the robot’s grasp, back into the lighthouse. A frown appears on its face and the arms drop to its side. In a frantic sprint, you go down the spiral staircase, each step echoing inside the decayed building.

  When you make it down to the landing, the machine slams against the floor, the leap denting and cracking the foundation. The robot rises before you and you step backwards, pinned against the wall.

  It raises its hands, palms forward. “I am sorry; this was my first attempt at humor. Did I do it wrong?”

  You pause. “W-what?”

  “My searches of your Internet show an alarming belief that computer technology would be prone to violence. I wanted to offer friendly companionship through a joke.”

  After explaining to the robot exactly how wrong the joke was (and after changing your pants), you confirm that your goal was to have an intellectual companion.

  • If you are to have a friend, that friend should have a name…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Your Whole Life Ahead

  You awaken with fresh zeal, an electric energy, excited about the road before you. Just to prove it wasn’t all a dream, you float out of bed, legs crossed like a stoic genie summoned for breakfast.

  Out in the living room, you tell the TV to flip on and check out the morning news. There on screen is blonde eye-candy reporter, Alison Argyle, sitting at her news desk and speaking directly into the camera.

  “…police still have no suspects in regard to the explosion yesterday that decimated Mercury University campus. No bodies were found on-scene, so it’s unclear if it was an attack or an accident. They are, however, looking into the whereabouts of Dr. Julius Petri—the name given by the man who rented the lab space. The Mayor’s office warns that this is most likely an alias and therefore gives suspicion of foul play.”

  You flip off the TV by activating the remote with your telekinesis, then look out your window.

  • Are you kidding me? I’m never leaving the house again. Time for the floating of the cheesy puffs into m’mouf!

  • I’m basically a Jedi; time to put on a robe and protect the innocent.

  • Why not have more fun? As long as I don’t draw attention to myself, no one will know I have superpowers.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  You’ve Probably Never Heard of Me….

  The hipster of superheroes, you go indie. It’s shockingly difficult to convince people that you’re a superhero and not, you know, a lunatic. It doesn’t help that you follow up your good deeds with demands of food or payment. Crime may not pay, but neither does heroism, and ravenous hunger leaves you no choice.

  Even the footage from your daring skyscraper rescue is turned against you. Apparently your leap into a fourth-story window and general mayhem inside the building overshadowed the fact that you saved people—and the very fact of the fire itself. It doesn’t take long before people start to speculate you caused the fire.

  Your predilection towards breaking criminals in half doesn’t buy you many friends and your efforts toward becoming the world’s first superhero end up convincing the world that you’re its first supervillain.

  Which doesn’t make it much of a surprise when Nick and Catherine team up to “bring you to justice.” Good luck, though, right? If anything, they’re an inconvenience.

  Until Catherine shoots you with a ray gun of her own devising. You expect it to harmlessly bounce off, like the hailstorm of bullets Mercury PD offer every time you meet, but the energy beam she fires saps your strength. You fall to the ground.

  “What did you do to me?” you cry, though you know. You can feel it; your powers are gone.

  “Made you mortal,” she says. “Enjoy prison.”

  THE END

  You’ve Seen Too Many Movies

  Bait the trap. The agent’s been following Nick and Catherine around without backup, which can only mean one thing: He’s not officially supposed to be doing it. So you send them out, with your drones flying surveillance, and get him to tail one of them back to the mine.

  If done right, Agent Droakam will think he’s being Mr. Super-spy and he’ll follow the scent of honey right into the beehive. Get them to drop some line about “the secret plan” and he’ll get himself captured in order to learn it; then, while you’re dangling him over a pit of sharks with lasers on their heads, you’ll spill your guts just before he escapes, right?

  Wrong—you’re far too smart fo
r that.

  “So you must be the third test-subject,” the agent says when they bring him in. “Secret base built out of an abandoned mine, very supervillain-chic. Plan on conquering the world?”

  “Did you really get yourself captured in hopes of learning our plan?” you say, shaking your head. You take out a handgun—one of the firearms acquired in the bank heist—and chamber a round.

  “What’s the gun for?” Catherine asks.

  “What do you think? You don’t let the ‘hero’ into your lair and let him live. Villainy 101.”

  “Before you kill me, will you at least let me know what this is all about?”

  BANG! Right between the eyes.

  “No.”

  “Jesus! You just killed a federal agent!” Nick shouts.

  Catherine drops down to see if he’s really dead. Yep, sure is.

  “Relax. He was an enemy combatant; he knew the risks. It’s not like I go around tying women to train tracks. He had to go, and you both know it.”

  Catherine gasps. She pulls the downed agent’s shirt open. “Oh, shit! He’s wearing a wire.”

  You drop down and yank the wire off, separating it from the battery.

  “Nick, get ready for the SWAT team!” Over at the monitors, you check live feed from the drones. Nothing. There’s no one outside. “Where the hell is everyone?”

  Then it clicks. The newsfeed said they were going to ask for military support, right? This Droakam is a federal agent. He’s not working with the local police. You turn the drones skyward. A tiny aircraft, high in the heavens, floats along like a batplane. How did your radar not pick it up?